Conflated

Things become conflated in Grandpa’s mind. Sometimes it isn’t so much that he isn’t cognizant, but rather that is consciousness of thoughts, events, and facts become so mixed together that is, as it were, communicating from a different reality. Sometimes this confusion and conflation is simply being asked if he wants a cup of coffee which he is then served and drinks. Two hours later someone else asks Grandpa if he wants a cup of coffee and he says, “Yeah, that other guy said he was going to get me one” . . . which is true, but Grandpa has forgotten that the previous cup of coffee was brought and served and drunk.

However, other times the conflating of different events and thoughts becomes more intricate and involved, leading to . . . unique conversations. It’s not as if conversation can’t take place, but it takes place in a different way. It is a conversation of subtle nuance because so much of a coherent conversation depends on the interpretive ability of the people conversing with Grandpa. Just a little while ago I had an interesting conversation with Grandpa. I can’t capture exactly how every word in the exchange went, which means some of the other-worldiness of the conversation is lost, but this is my best attempt at replication.

On Saturdays Grandma goes out with Daryl–it’s a chance for Grandma to get out of the house for some mother-daughter shopping. This conversation started out with Grandma and Grandpa talking about what Grandma had done today. Grandma conclude her description of what she had done by saying that Daryl would pick up a card for her because she had run out of energy and Julie would have her baby any time now, and Grandma wanted to make sure she got a card.

“Oh,” Grandpa said. “Was the baby crying this morning?”

“No,” Grandma said (probably thinking he is off his rocker).

“Oh,” Grandpa said. “I thought probably I imagined it, but the screaming sounded so realistic.”

At observer might think at this point that Grandpa imagined things, but I was with him all day and I knew what had become conflated. “That was the TV, Grandpa,” I said. “There was a cowboy movie on this morning,” I told Grandma. “And there was a baby crying in it.”

Grandpa was silent a minute, thinking. “That was the one with the guy with a rifle,” Grandpa said.

“Right,” I said. He had apparently been following the movie well enough to pick up that the distinctive feature of the hero was that he only used a sniper cowboy rifle instead of a six-shooter.

Grandpa was silent a little longer. “Well,” he said, looking at Grandma, “You going to shoot a path for me?”

Grandma looked at him, and then looked at me. “I’m turning that one over to you,” she said.

“She wants you to explain it,” Grandpa offered.

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“Well, are you going to do it?” he said.

“I can’t shoot a rifle in town limits,” I said. “And I’m not quite sure what you’re using the metaphor for. You want to go somewhere? I’ll take you if you want to go someplace.”

“You want to drop in on someone?” Grandma said. “You want to see Helen and Hugh?” Then she looked at me and started laughing.

“No,” Grandpa said. “Someone should tell them we don’t need them to come around anymore.”

“I don’t think they’d appreciate that,” Grandma said and started laughing some more. (She thought he was serious, and there may have been some true thought behind what Grandpa said, but I thought it was equally possible that Grandpa sensed Grandma was making fun of him and so dead-panned back his own joke.)

The conversation moved on, Grandma talking about the weather and me saying I hoped Arlan got home before the rain turned to freezing rain.

A little later Grandpa looked at Grandma and said, “So are you going to shoot a path for me?”

“I passed that on to him,” she said, pointing at me.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, Grandpa,” I said. “You just need to tell me where you want to go.”

“Well . . . you got the vehicle? You’re not afraid to go?”

“I’m not afraid. Maybe you could come up with a place I’d be afraid to go.”

“Well . . . I don’t want to be a cripple,” Grandpa said. “I wish I could go someplace where–”

“He wants you to shoot a path to where he won’t be a cripple anymore,” Grandma said.

“Oh, come on, Ma,” Grandpa said.

“I was just using your metaphor, honey,” she said.

Somehow then the conversation got on to living someplace else and I asked him if he wanted to move. (My grandmother was the one who wanted to move to their present house–Grandpa always hated the place.) After talking about the subject in general terms for a bit he said that if it came up he would have to seek and think about it. Then he wanted to know if he was making my life miserable (and by implication I wanted to move to get away from him). “No, no,” I assured him. “You’re not making my life miserable. I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

And that was pretty much the end of our winding conversation.