My life is basically poop

I don't say this in a self-pitying way. I say this in a much more literal way than I ever imagined possible.

Allow me to explain.

Five years ago, my maternal grandmother, a then-84-year-old Japanese immigrant with only just passable command of English, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. I assume she'd had it for some time without being diagnosed, but she had what we'll generously call an "episode"--she forgot how doorknobs worked and demanded to know why we were going to hit her with a hammer, and I'm sure you don't need to be told that no one was going to hit her with anything, let alone a hammer--and thus our family's long journey into the poop-strewn hellscape that is this disease began.