The Barricade I Found at Dawn
It was early morning, like many others. The house was quiet, filled only with the familiar creaks of waking wood and the hum of the refrigerator.
I walked toward her bedroom with her morning pills—a routine trip, simple and predictable, like every day before.
But that morning wasn’t like the others.
I opened the door and froze.
She was sitting upright in bed, already awake. The blanket was twisted into a strange mound, heaped tightly with all the pillows stacked and stuffed around her. It looked like she’d spent the entire night building something—a barricade, a shield, a fortification.
“Mom… what’s going on?”
She didn’t look at me. Her eyes were fixed on the far corner of the room, where the wallpaper had bubbled slightly over the years—just a small imperfection we’d always meant to fix.
Her voice was low and urgent when she spoke:
“Shhh… stay down.”
“There’s a Hole in the Wall”
I took a step closer. “Are you okay?”
She motioned sharply for silence, her hand trembling but her expression deadly serious.
“There’s a hole in the wall,” she whispered, pointing. “Right there. They’re outside. Russian soldiers. I saw their shadows. We need to stay quiet… they mustn’t hear us.”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.
My heart ached and twisted at the same time. I looked toward the wall—there was no hole. No light. No sound. Nothing.
But to her, it was a breach. An opening into danger. And she was back somewhere far away—not in her warm bed in 2023 Romania, but in a war zone from another time.
“Mom… there’s no one there. You’re safe. Look, it’s just the wall. You’re home.”
She didn’t even blink. “They’re out there. I heard them all night. Marching. Talking in Russian. They’re waiting for someone to come out.”
The War She Never Lived (But Somehow Remembered)
My mother was born in 1948—just after World War II ended, during the 12 years when Romania was under Soviet occupation.
She never talked much about her childhood. Not in great detail, anyway.
But I knew fragments:
- Her father—my grandfather—had fought in the war
- Her mother had lived through bombings, fear, hunger
- Soviet soldiers had occupied their village
- There were whispers, rules, silent fears
Stories Passed Down Like Scars
Maybe my mother never experienced the war directly. But she’d absorbed it secondhand—through her parents’ silences, through hushed warnings, through the collective trauma of a generation.
“Don’t talk too loud,” her father used to say. “The soldiers might be listening.”
Children weren’t allowed outside at night. The soldiers, people whispered, would take things. Take people.
These weren’t just stories. They were survival instructions passed from parent to child.
And now, decades later, dementia had pulled those instructions from the depths of her mind and made them present, immediate, terrifying.
The Night She Spent Guarding Us
Looking at the barricade she’d built, I realized: she’d been awake all night.
The pillows. The twisted blanket. The defensive positioning.
She hadn’t been sleeping. She’d been on guard.
Protecting herself. Protecting me. Protecting us from soldiers who existed only in her fractured mind.
“Did you have a bad dream, Mama?”
Her voice sharpened. “It wasn’t a dream. They’ve come back. Just like before. We have to stay here… and don’t turn on any lights. If they know we’re in here, they’ll come for us.”
I sat beside her on the bed, gently moving the blanket down, rearranging the pillows one by one—careful not to break the invisible structure she’d built to protect herself.
“Mama, nobody’s coming. You’re not alone. You’re safe now. No soldiers, no guns. Just me.”
The Ghosts Romania Carried
For a while, we sat in silence.
Eventually, her breathing slowed. Her shoulders dropped a little. But she kept glancing toward the wall, like something might reappear if she looked away.
“Do you remember stories about the Russians, Mama? From when you were little?”
She nodded faintly. “My father used to say, ‘Don’t talk too loud, the soldiers might be listening.’ We weren’t allowed to go outside at night. The soldiers… they used to take things.”
I’d never heard her speak like that before.
Maybe it was the disease. Maybe her mind was searching for meaning, piecing together memories with fear.
Or maybe—just maybe—it was something deeper. A living memory passed down like a scar. A trauma relived even if she hadn’t lived it herself.
Generational Trauma Doesn’t Need Direct Experience
I’d read about this—how trauma can echo through generations.
Children of Holocaust survivors carry fear they didn’t witness.
Grandchildren of war victims inherit anxieties they can’t name.
And now, dementia was excavating those inherited fears and making them present.
The Soviet occupation had ended decades before I was born. But in Mom’s mind, it was happening now. The soldiers were outside. The danger was real.
What I Did (And Didn’t Do)
I didn’t argue with her about the soldiers.
I didn’t pull the wallpaper off to prove there was no hole.
I didn’t try to logic her out of a fear that had roots deeper than reason.
Instead, I sat with her.
“I’m here, Mama. If anyone tries to come in, I’ll protect you. But right now, we’re safe. Just you and me.”
Slowly—so slowly—the tension began to ease from her body.
She looked at me, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw recognition. Not just of my face, but of safety.
“You’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay.”
Later That Day: Light and Music
After hours of sitting together in that tense half-darkness, I carefully rearranged the pillows properly and opened the curtains—just a little. Enough light to soften the shadows, but not enough to upset her.
I made her tea and played some old music—1950s Romanian songs she loved. The kind her mother probably sang while cleaning or cooking.
Songs from a time before the war felt so immediate. Songs that might have been playing when life felt safer.
That night, she didn’t mention the hole again.
But I didn’t forget it.
When Dementia Resurrects Old Trauma
After that morning, I started recognizing a pattern.
Mom’s hallucinations weren’t random. Many had roots in her past:
The Invisible Family
The people “living in our house” might have echoed memories of Soviet soldiers billeting in homes, taking space, taking resources.
The Stolen Belongings
The woman “stealing her clothes” could connect to stories of soldiers confiscating property, taking what they wanted.
The Threat to the House
Her fear that someone would “take the house” might stem from collective memories of displacement, of people losing homes to occupying forces.
The Hole in the Wall
A literal breach—an opening where danger could enter. A fear passed down from a time when walls didn’t keep you safe.
Dementia doesn’t just create new fears. It resurrects old ones.
The Science: Trauma, Memory, and Dementia
Research shows that traumatic memories are stored differently in the brain:
Why Trauma Resurfaces in Dementia
1. Emotional Memory Outlasts Factual Memory The amygdala (emotional center) degrades slower than the hippocampus (factual memory). So feelings from trauma remain even when context disappears.
2. Old Memories Surface as Recent Ones Fade As dementia progresses, recent memories disappear first. Older memories—especially emotional ones—become more prominent.
3. Loss of Context Trauma memories lose their “this happened long ago” context. They feel present, immediate, happening now.
4. Hypervigilance Returns The brain’s threat-detection system, once activated by trauma, can reactivate even decades later when dementia removes inhibitory controls.
5. Generational Trauma Is Real Even secondhand trauma (stories heard, fears absorbed) can be stored and later retrieved as if personally experienced.
For Caregivers: When Dementia Meets Trauma
If your loved one is experiencing trauma-related hallucinations or fears:
✅ DO:
Learn their history Ask family members about wars, displacement, violence, loss they or their parents experienced. Understanding the source helps you respond with compassion.
Create safety cues Soft lighting, familiar music, gentle touch—environmental cues that signal “you’re safe now.”
Avoid triggers Loud noises, aggressive tones, sudden movements might trigger trauma responses.
Validate without reinforcing “I can see you’re scared. I’m here. You’re safe.” Don’t argue about whether the threat is real.
Use grounding techniques “Feel the blanket. It’s soft. You’re in your bed. I’m holding your hand.”
Consider professional help Therapists trained in trauma and dementia can offer specific strategies.
❌ DON’T:
Dismiss their fear as “just dementia” The fear is real, even if the threat isn’t.
Force them to face the “trigger” If a corner of the room terrifies them, don’t make them look at it to “prove” nothing’s there.
Use restraints or confinement This can worsen trauma responses.
Assume it will pass quickly Trauma-based hallucinations can be persistent and intense.
The Pillow Barricade Stayed (For a While)
For several days after the Russian soldiers incident, I left some of the pillows arranged near her.
Not in the full barricade formation—but enough that she could see them, touch them, feel she had some protection if needed.
It seemed to help.
Gradually, over the course of a week or two, I’d remove one pillow. Then another. Until her bed looked normal again.
But I never fixed that bubble in the wallpaper.
Some battles aren’t worth fighting. If that small imperfection triggered her fear, removing it felt more important than aesthetics.
So it remains—a tiny flaw in the wall that once held Russian soldiers in a mind traveling through time.
What This Taught Me About My Mother
I’d always known Mom as strong, resilient, practical.
But that morning—seeing her build a barricade against phantom soldiers—I saw something else:
She carried stories that weren’t her own. Fears inherited from parents who survived horrors I’d never know. A vigilance passed down through generations.
And dementia had unlocked those inherited memories, making them fresh and present.
It made me realize: we’re all carrying more than we know.
Stories from grandparents. Traumas from wars we never fought. Fears from generations past.
Usually, they stay dormant. But dementia—cruel as it is—can bring them to the surface.
The Morning After
The next day, when I brought her morning pills, she was sleeping peacefully.
No barricade. No urgency. No soldiers.
Just an old woman resting in her bed.
I sat beside her for a moment, watching her breathe.
Who was she dreaming of? Which version of the past was she visiting?
When she woke, she looked at me and smiled.
“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?”
No memory of the soldiers. No mention of the hole.
The war, for that moment, had ended.
For Caregivers: The Wars That Never End
If your loved one is fighting battles from the past, please know:
You can’t fix what happened decades ago.
You can’t erase trauma they witnessed or inherited.
You can’t logic them out of fears rooted in survival.
But you can be present.
You can sit with them in their fear.
You can create safety in the present, even if you can’t change the past.
You can bear witness to the wars they’re still fighting, long after history says they ended.
Because for people with dementia and trauma, some wars never truly end.
They just move from the battlefield to the bedroom.
From history to hallucination.
From then to now.
And all we can do is stay beside them, hold their hand, and whisper:
“The war is over. You’re safe now. I’m here.”
Even if they don’t believe us.
Even if tomorrow they build another barricade.
We stay.
The Barricade I’ll Never Forget
That morning—finding my mother surrounded by pillows, watching a hole that didn’t exist, guarding against soldiers from a war she never fought—changed something in me.
I stopped seeing her hallucinations as “just symptoms.”
I started seeing them as windows into a life I’d never fully understood.
Every fear she expressed had a story.
Every hallucination had roots.
And my job wasn’t to prune those roots or tear them out.
My job was to sit in the garden with her, even when the flowers she saw were ghosts.
Continue Reading
📖 Read the complete story: Whispers From the Attic on Amazon
This chapter—the Russian soldiers, the inherited trauma, the barricade built against ghosts—is part of our ongoing journey with Parkinson’s dementia.
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Has your loved one experienced trauma-related hallucinations? How do you provide safety when the past becomes present? Share in the comments.
Resources for Trauma and Dementia
- National Center for PTSD: Resources on trauma in older adults
- Alzheimer’s Association: Understanding behavioral symptoms
- Trauma-informed dementia care specialists: Ask your doctor for referrals
Cristian cares for his mother with Stage 4 Parkinson’s disease and dementia in Romania. The Russian soldiers haven’t returned. But he keeps the pillow barricade nearby, just in case. Because sometimes love means preparing for wars that ended decades ago. Follow their journey at HopesForMom.com.
