“Look! The Tree Is Growing Everything!”
Our old apple tree stood guard in the garden, its gnarled branches stretching toward the sky like ancient fingers. It had been there for decades—a constant in our changing world, marking seasons with its blossoms and fruit.
But for my mother, it became something far more extraordinary.
We often lay together in her bed, a shared sanctuary where the world outside offered both comfort and the seeds of her ever-shifting perceptions. Through the window, the apple tree was always visible—familiar, constant, safe.
Until the day it became magical.
“Look!” she exclaimed, her voice full of childlike amazement. “Peaches! And… are those carrots growing in the tree?”
I followed her gaze to the branches heavy with ripening apples. Just apples. Green and red, slowly turning in the summer sun.
But in her eyes? An impossible abundance.
Her gaze swept across the leaves, discovering new wonders with each moment:
- Tomatoes nestled beside pears
- Bright red strawberries dangling among the green foliage
- Carrots somehow defying gravity and botany
- Peaches growing where only apples should be
“It’s a magic tree,” she said, a gentle smile playing on her lips. “It grows everything.”
Not All Hallucinations Are Horror
For months, my mother’s hallucinations had been sources of fear:
- The whispers in the attic that convinced her strangers lived there
- The mice swarming on her favorite blanket
- The invisible family stealing her belongings
- The woman with the van, dismantling our house
- The holes in the ceiling and water flooding the floor
Each one brought anxiety, confusion, distress.
But the magic tree? That brought wonder.
The Difference Was Everything
With frightening hallucinations, I’d learned to:
- Remove triggers (hide the polka-dot blanket)
- Redirect attention (offer tea, change rooms)
- Provide reassurance (gather the rugs, show her the closet)
- Accept I couldn’t make them disappear
But with joyful hallucinations like the magic tree, I learned something different: sometimes the kindest thing you can do is let them keep their wonder.
The Family in the Tree
Before the tree became magical with impossible fruit, it had other residents.
Mom began seeing a family taking refuge in its branches. Often, in her perception, they were naked—exposed to the elements—and her heart ached for them.
“Look,” she’d whisper, her voice filled with concern as rain lashed against the window. “They’re out there in the cold. Why don’t they come inside?”
I’d follow her gaze, seeing only rain-soaked leaves and swaying branches.
“There’s no one there, Mom. Just the tree.”
But her reality was unshaken. She saw them clearly—a mother, a father, their children, clinging to branches for shelter.
The Day the Child Fell
One day, her breath caught, and a deep silence settled in the room.
“Oh no,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on a particular spot in the tree. “The little one… fell.”
She remained silent for a long time afterward, her face etched with a sadness so palpable it felt like a funeral was taking place.
I didn’t try to contradict her. The fall of the invisible child was real to her, and my words would have been meaningless in the face of her grief.
I just sat with her in that sadness. Bearing witness to a tragedy only she could see.
But the Next Day…
The child was back in the tree.
Mom watched with a mix of relief and new understanding.
“The woman,” she explained to me, her voice hushed with strange wonder, “makes them out of rags. That’s why they can walk through walls now.”
Her hallucinations were evolving, taking on fantastical elements. The boundaries of reality blurred further, and she navigated this new landscape with quiet acceptance.
The rag doll family became permanent residents in her version of our garden.
When Spring Turned to Summer: The Impossible Harvest
As the seasons changed, the apple tree began to bear fruit. Small green apples appeared among the leaves, slowly ripening in the summer sun.
But in Mom’s eyes, the tree was offering so much more.
The First Discovery
“Peaches!” she said one afternoon, pointing excitedly. “Look at those beautiful peaches!”
I saw apples. She saw peaches—golden, fuzzy, perfect.
Then: “And carrots! In a tree! How is that possible?”
Her amazement was genuine. She wasn’t confused or distressed by the impossibility. She was delighted by it.
The Growing Bounty
Over the following weeks, the list of miraculous produce grew:
- Strawberries – bright red, dangling like Christmas ornaments
- Tomatoes – nestled in the crooks of branches
- Pears – growing alongside the “peaches”
- Cucumbers – somehow vine-less in the tree
- Grapes – in impossible clusters
Sometimes she’d catalog them for me, pointing to each one:
“There’s a strawberry. And look—two more tomatoes appeared since this morning. The tree is very generous.”
Her face would light up with each new discovery, like a child finding Easter eggs.
The Medical Explanation: Why Pleasant Hallucinations Happen
After witnessing the joy the magic tree brought her, I researched why some dementia hallucinations are pleasant while others are terrifying.
What Neurologists Say
Lewy Body Hallucinations (common in Parkinson’s dementia) are typically visual and can be:
- Neutral: Little people building, patterns moving
- Frightening: Intruders, threats, dangerous situations
- Pleasant: Beautiful scenes, comforting presences, wondrous impossibilities
The brain damage doesn’t discriminate—it creates what it creates based on:
1. Emotional State When she was anxious, hallucinations tended to be threatening. When she was calm and content, they could be beautiful.
2. Environmental Triggers The tree was familiar, safe, visible from her bed where she felt secure. Unfamiliar patterns (like the blanket) triggered fear.
3. Memory Associations The apple tree had positive associations—shade, fruit, beauty, seasons changing. These positive memories may have influenced the nature of her hallucinations.
4. Time of Day Pleasant hallucinations often happened during peaceful afternoon moments. Frightening ones intensified in evenings (“sundowning”).
The Paradox
The same disease that made her terrified of invisible thieves also gave her a tree that grew magical fruit.
The same damaged neurons that created phantom intruders also created impossible beauty.
Dementia doesn’t just destroy. Sometimes, in its strange way, it creates.
Why I Stopped Correcting the Magic Tree
Early in her dementia, I’d correct every hallucination:
- “Those are just apples, Mom.”
- “There aren’t any peaches.”
- “Trees don’t grow carrots.”
But with the magic tree, I learned to stay quiet.
What I Realized
1. Correcting served no purpose She’d forget my correction in minutes and rediscover the “peaches” with fresh wonder.
2. The joy was real Even if the peaches weren’t, her delight was genuine. Why take that away?
3. It wasn’t hurting anyone Unlike hallucinations that caused her to hide belongings or panic about intruders, this one was harmless.
4. It gave her something beautiful In a life increasingly filled with confusion and fear, the magic tree was a gift.
5. It gave me something too Watching her marvel at impossible fruit reminded me that even broken brains can create beauty.
The Magic Tree Became Our Shared Wonder
Once I stopped correcting her, something beautiful happened.
I started playing along.
Our Conversations
Mom: “Look at that strawberry! It’s so red!”
Me: “It is beautiful. The tree is very generous this year.”
Mom: “Do you think the carrots will be ready soon?”
Me: “Maybe in a few more days. We’ll have to keep watching.”
These exchanges became a strange kind of poetry—a shared reality where impossible things grew in our garden and we both believed in them, if only for those moments.
What It Taught Me
Entering her reality, rather than fighting it, created connection.
When I validated the magic tree, her face would light up. She’d squeeze my hand, grateful to have someone who could see what she saw—even though I couldn’t really see it at all.
Sometimes love means seeing through someone else’s eyes, even when those eyes see impossibilities.
The Most Beautiful Hallucination: Wonders Beyond the Window
The magic tree wasn’t alone in bringing her wonder.
Sometimes, looking out the same window, she’d see other marvels:
The Golden Light
“Everything is glowing,” she’d say softly, watching the garden. “It’s so beautiful.”
Maybe it was the evening sun hitting the leaves just right. Maybe it was her brain creating something entirely new.
Either way, it brought her peace.
The Singing Birds
She’d tilt her head, listening to birdsong I couldn’t hear.
“They’re singing so beautifully today,” she’d whisper.
Perhaps real birds. Perhaps phantom ones. Perhaps a memory of birds from decades ago.
Did it matter? She was content.
The Snow in Summer
One warm July afternoon: “Look at the snow. So white and soft.”
There was no snow. But in her mind’s eye, winter had come to our summer garden.
“Isn’t it peaceful?” she asked.
“Yes, Mama,” I said. “Very peaceful.”
What Positive Hallucinations Teach Caregivers
If your loved one experiences joyful hallucinations, here’s what I learned:
✅ DO:
Let them keep the joy Don’t correct pleasant hallucinations. They’re harming no one and bringing comfort.
Participate when you can Ask about what they see. Show interest. Enter their wonder.
Use them as calm anchors When agitation strikes, redirect to pleasant hallucinations: “Should we look at the tree together?”
Take photos of the “trigger” I photographed the apple tree. Sometimes showing her the photo when she was agitated would remind her of the magic and calm her.
Be grateful Not all hallucinations are terrifying. When you get beautiful ones, treasure them.
❌ DON’T:
Insist on “reality” “Those are just apples” serves no purpose and takes away her joy.
Worry it means they’re getting “worse” Hallucinations evolve. Some get more elaborate. That’s not always bad.
Feel guilty for “going along with it” You’re not lying to them. You’re meeting them in their reality with kindness.
The Tree Still Grows Magic (In Her Eyes)
Even now, months later, Mom still sees impossible fruit in our apple tree.
The inventory changes with her mood:
- Peaceful days: peaches, strawberries, gentle abundance
- Anxious days: the fruit might be “stolen” or “ruined”
- Calm evenings: the tree glows golden
But more often than not, when I ask her what she sees through the window, her face softens.
“The magic tree,” she says simply. “Growing everything we need.”
And you know what? In a strange way, she’s right.
That tree gives us:
- Conversation
- Wonder
- Shared moments
- Peace in chaos
- Beauty in brokenness
- A reminder that even damaged minds can create miracles
Maybe that’s magic enough.
For Caregivers: Look for the Magic Trees
In the exhausting, heartbreaking journey of dementia caregiving, there will be many dark moments.
Hallucinations that terrify. Behaviors that frustrate. Losses that crush you.
But sometimes—not always, but sometimes—there will be magic trees.
Moments where the disease creates something beautiful instead of something broken.
Hallucinations that bring joy instead of fear.
Impossibilities that make them smile instead of cry.
When those moments come, don’t correct them. Don’t explain them away. Don’t worry about what they mean medically.
Just sit beside your loved one.
Look at the tree together.
And see the carrots growing beside the peaches.
Because in a world where so much is being taken, any beauty—real or imagined—is worth preserving.
The Last Thing She Said About the Tree
Yesterday, Mom looked out the window at our old apple tree.
She was quiet for a long time. Then:
“It grows everything we need, you know. Not just fruit. Hope too. The tree grows hope.”
I don’t know if she really said that, or if that’s how I heard it through my own exhaustion and grief.
But either way, it’s true.
The magic tree, real or imagined, grows hope.
And sometimes, that’s the only harvest that matters.
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Does your loved one experience joyful hallucinations? What beauty has dementia unexpectedly created? Share in the comments.
Resources
- Parkinson’s Foundation: Information on hallucinations in PD
- Lewy Body Dementia Association: Understanding visual hallucinations
- Dementia caregiver forums: Connect with others navigating this journey
Cristian cares for his mother with Stage 4 Parkinson’s disease and dementia in Romania. Their apple tree still grows apples. But in her eyes, it grows peaches, carrots, strawberries, tomatoes, and hope. Follow their journey at HopesForMom.com.
