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The Way Back Game

If someone in your life is suffering from Alzheimer’s or dementia, you don’t have to struggle to make them live in the present day. Use this game instead, and discover the joy that will rise above your sorrow.

When my aunt was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she was several states away. It wasn’t until she was well into it that she was moved to the state I was living in and I once again got to see her on a regular basis. It was quickly apparent, though, that it was too late for us to have anything close to the already less-than-perfect relationship we once had.

I grieved and did what a lot of people do, on every visit I tried to get her to recognize me, to bring her back to the present, to get her to comprehend where and when she was. It caused us both to grieve even more, her in deep confusion and me over the last chance to connect with her.

There was a lot of stress for both of us and shouting (on her part). She fought everything around her in every way she could.

For me, the pain was unbearable. It was a lot like seeing a once-great race horse struggle to stand in the quicksand of age and fail to even get off its knees. The confusion in her eyes and her attempts to cover it up were heart wrenching.

Then one day I accidentally discovered that there still was a way for us to connect and to share a whole new world.

When I would arrive for a visit with her, I could easily tell when she didn’t recognize me. Those were the hardest visits, but the game I created helped me swallow my pain as I watched her fade.

We ended up naming it the Way Back Game.

It started with me asking how she was, then I would tell her that we were going to play the Way Back Game and go waaaay back, to as far back as she could remember.

“Oh, boy, “ she would say every time, and, after a slight pause, “How far are we going?” I’d smile because she sounded like a timid child boarding a train. “Well, how far back can we go? Can we go back to when you used to train horses?” And she would happily go on the trip with me and we would go back in time to a place she could easily remember.

What was amazing was how it would lead to all kinds of wonderful stops along the way, as well as the discovery of some very old, hidden secrets that should have been shared long ago.

Our game helped her feel at ease because I wasn’t making her be “now”, she didn’t have to struggle to remember the present or even who I was. She could go to any time she wanted and live there for a little while, usually we traveled to when she was young and strong.

While it helped her, it helped me, too. I knew only small scraps of her history. I had to guess and try to use a scrap of what I knew as her ticket for the Way Back train. I learned so much about her, her history. So many things I didn’t know. Her story would come to life in the air around us, as her body was slowly giving up.

One morning the phone rang and it was a nurse at the nursing home telling me that my aunt had “expired.” I remember not understanding because all I could think of was that she was not a library book that was overdue.

After she died, the Way Back Game is what I ended up missing most, not the present-day her who could no longer walk, who had strong flashes of anger and rage, who cried because she wanted to go home or to have a pet dog.

She died several years ago and to this day, I miss our Way Back Game. It was a way to connect and learn and to find a treasure in the middle of all of the pain and loss. In those moments, she found her greatness again and her eyes would come alive with the snap of defiance that she once had carried so proudly.

Even though she would often not know me when we played the game, I could recognize her and that meant the world to me and eased the heartbreak of being lost to her.

I share this with the hope that there is someone else who would like to play the Way Back Game and learn that there can still be joy and lessons to be shared. The train is waiting, all you have to do is climb aboard.

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Copyright 2017 A. Barnes | All Rights Reserved.

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A Hamster, a Gravesite, and a Secret

It all started solemly enough.

Cinders, a wonderful, large black hamster was much beloved by the children of the house. He had a long hammy life and had one day passed quietly, much as he had lived, except for the times his wheel banged on the side of his cage all night long.

It was DECIDED by the youngest children, as only they can DECIDE such things, that there would be a burial, and the funeral procession was planned.

A hole was dug at the base of a tree so his body would provide food for the tree.

Lovingly wrapped in a tissue and placed gently in his grave, Cinders was sprinkled with flowers and words, and dirt was replaced in the hole. A rock was placed on top to further mark his grave.

It was about three days later that the kids’ dad arrived to pick them up. They decided to tell daddy all about the passing of dear Cinders and to take him out to the grave so he also could pay his respects.

For some reason, I was walking far ahead of them and got to the gravesite first. To my great dismay, what was there was no longer the tidy grave we had left.

The grave had been dug up and Cinders was absolutely, completely missing. If I had not been so sure he was dead when we buried him, I would have sworn he had dug his way out and walked off to find a home where people wouldn’t put dirt and rocks on him.

Since the grave was behind the garage, no one else had yet seen, and I knew the youngest children would be devastated to find out Cinders had been removed from his grave by the ever-enterprising outdoor cats.

By then the oldest kids had arrived at the grave, they had trouble comprehending at first what had happened. Then they, too, realized we had to do SOMETHING before the youngest ones arrived.

I sprinted to their dad, who was making rather quick progress to the gravesite, and I whispered, “Delay!” It took several attempts before he finally understood that he was to plant his feet and not move. Luckily, he and the youngest children were by a flower garden so a discussion about flowers began as I tried to casually sprint back to the gravesite.

With the help of the older kids, we kept lookout for any wayward kids who might leave the ever-so-fascinating discussion of flowers, scootched dirt wildly back into the grave and re-located the rock (at this point I’m thinking that cat must have been very determined to get that hamster), and tried to locate whatever remained of the body.

We finished fixing the grave just as the others approached, apparently forgetting the “don’t move” request.

“See, Daddy? We buried Cinders right here, didn’t we, Mommy?”

I started to sweat, the kids knew that I didn’t lie to them, but they were too young to understand or forgive the edibleness of Cinders to the cats.

“Uh, yes, yes we did, we buried Cinders right there.”

“See, Daddy? See how we fixed it for him? That’s where Cinders is, right, Mommy?”

I attributed the drip of sweat running down my spine to the hot summmer day as the older kids casually walked the area, still looking for the body or any parts that might remain.

“That is right where we put him,” I said, watching the older kids out of the corner of my eye. “That’s absolutely where we left him.”

The youngest children nodded their heads sagely. I was off the hook, and the older kids were sworn to secrecy.

It was years later when we finally told the youngest ones the whole story of how Cinders had fed a cat instead of a tree.

After the initial surprise wore off, they agreed with the way it was handled and understood they were protected from further heartbreak, but they were amazed so much had happened behind the scenes that day.

We never did find any part of Cinders, and I am forever grateful for that!

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Copyright 2017 A. Barnes | All Rights Reserved.