Chapter 5 - The Pathway to Healing
The following Monday, I took an indefinite leave of absence from my shifts at the hospital. My supervisor, understanding the gravity of the situation, approved it without hesitation. Financially, it was a massive risk, but my children’s sanity was worth more than any paycheck.
We began seeing Dr. Clara Evans, a child psychologist specializing in acute trauma. Her office didn't look like a clinic; it was filled with beanbag chairs, soft lighting, and shelves of toys, paints, and sandboxes.
During our first session, Dr. Evans sat on the floor with Maisy while I held Theo in my lap.
"Maisy," Dr. Evans said, sliding a tray of miniature figures toward her. "Can you show me what the woods feel like inside your head?"
Maisy stared at the figures for a long time. She picked up a plastic tiger, a tiny baby doll, and a large, gray monster figurine. She placed the baby doll inside a small toy car, then placed the tiger—which I realized represented herself—on top of the car, facing the monster.
"The tiger has to stay awake," Maisy whispered, her voice barely audible. "If the tiger sleeps, the monster comes out of the trees."
"Is the monster angry at the tiger?" Dr. Evans asked gently.
"No," Maisy said, a tear rolling down her nose. "The monster is just lost. It doesn't know where its home is. And it’s trying to take the baby to the wrong home."
Hearing my daughter accurately articulate my father’s dementia broke my heart, but it also showed a profound level of emotional intelligence. She didn't hate her grandfather; she was terrified of his confusion.
"What if we build a fence around the monster?" Dr. Evans suggested, handing Maisy some wooden blocks. "A fence made of doctors and medicine, so the monster can't wander into the woods anymore. And then the tiger can just be a little tiger again."
Maisy took the blocks. Very slowly, with meticulous care, she built a wall around the gray figurine. When she finished, she let out a long, shaky breath—the first deep breath I had seen her take in weeks.
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While the children worked with Dr. Evans, I focused on securing a safe environment for my parents. With the help of a social worker, we transitioned my father into a specialized memory care facility located just ten minutes from my house. It was a beautiful place, secure and peaceful, with staff trained to handle the complex behavioral shifts of vascular dementia. My mother moved into a small assisted-living apartment on the same campus, allowing her to be near him without the crushing burden of being his sole caretaker.
The pieces of our fractured life were being moved into place, but the emotional landscape was still fragile, waiting for the foundation to set.
