• My grandpa's dementia made conversations unpredictable and confusing.
• I learned to accept his reality instead of correcting him.
• That approach helped us stay connected in a new way.

"What's your favorite color, grandpa?"

"Oh, I don't, I don't know about that. When I was a boy, I drove the Queen of England around Zimbabwe and she…" My grandpa trailed off, getting lost in thought, confusion clouding his face mid-sentence.

"The Queen of England, hey? Sjoe, that's a fancy gig. What was the Queen like?"

"The Queen? I don't know, I never met her." Distress started to line his features. His forehead crinkled in worry as he tried to remember our conversation and where he was.

Toward the end of my grandpa's life, that's how most of our conversations would go. I'd ask a question; it would rarely get answered, but there would always be a fantastical response. Half-rooted in truth (my grandpa did briefly live in Zimbabwe when he was a boy), and half make-believe (but he was not driving the Queen of England around).

My mom struggled with his dementia

My mom had a hard time with his responses. These lapses between reality and fantasy left her feeling lost. She could no longer have a meaningful conversation with her dad. The person she knew her entire life would show up in fragments, in short bursts, before disappearing behind the mental fog. I don't blame her. It's frustrating to want to have a normal conversation with your parent, who is still alive, but no longer mentally with us.

While my mom was grieving in real time, I had a different response. Maybe it was all my years of hanging out with stoners, but talking to my grandpa felt like that. The conversation had no bounds. It could go anywhere. It was random. Unexpected. Fun. I never knew what would happen next.

Sometimes, I'd ask him if he would like a cup of tea. He would reply, "Yes," and everything would be normal. Other times, my benign questions would offend his sensibilities, spark a tangent on an unrelated topic, or elicit a perfectly timed comedic response.

I found a new way to banter with my grandpa

As bizarre as it may sound, I loved having these nonsensical conversations. I would ask my grandpa questions about his childhood in Croatia, and sit back and see where it went. I didn't mind the unrelated topics that would pop up mid-answer. Honestly, it sometimes felt like playing Mad Libs, with no rules or structure to our conversations.

As someone who struggles with small talk, the constant stream-of-consciousness from my grandpa (real or not) was a breath of fresh air. Our conversations were never boring or predictable. There was no "How are you?", "How is work going?" or "What are you up to these days?" Instead, the conversation went everywhere but the well-trodden path.

I felt guilty for enjoying our conversations

It was hard for my mom to watch the shenanigans between my grandpa and me. I remember her saying to me once, "You're so good with him. How do you talk with him like that?" That was the first time I noticed we were having such different experiences with my grandpa's dementia, and the guilt hit me hard.

Was I a bad person for enjoying my grandpa's dementia-riddled conversations? Should I have been trying to keep him on track? Was I making the situation worse? I didn't think so. My grandpa seemed happy during our chats. Yes, I would sometimes catch heat out of nowhere, but for the most part, he was relaxed and happy.

I had been doing the right thing

I later found out there's a name for what I was doing: it's called validation therapy. It's a person-centered approach developed by Naomi Feil that focuses on accepting the person's reality rather than trying to bring them back to yours.

It's hard to know how people with dementia experience the world. Was there a version of him that was aware of what was happening? Or did he only ever live in that one moment with the Queen, the tea, or whatever story his mind landed on that day?

I'll always remember the strange, funny, rambling rhythm we found together as his mind changed. As sad as it was to lose the man my mom and I knew, I found a version of him I would never have met otherwise.