So yesterday B. and I started a little writer’s group with a friend of his, something that is going to grow as we invite others.

I entered into this with much trepidation, as I don’t really consider myself a Serious Writer – more a blogger, a dabbler, someone who writes bullshit on the internet for a small audience of sick people with nothing better to do than read my stupid meanderings. (I kid. You know I love you all more than my luggage.) I used to attempt to write Serious Shit while in college and thereafter, but this sort of fell by the wayside as I grew old and ignorant and started to lose my mind due to overmedication.

We met at a coffee shop, and much to my chagrin I had to read my shit out loud, which is something that I truly loathe. I am not a good reader. I get nervous as hell, I read too fast, and my hands shake. Even though it was just B., with whom I am supremely comfortable and who has read some of my crap anyway, and one other person, I was a wreck.

I managed to muddle through it, and the other girl gave me some really nice feedback and even said that she thought it was publishable, which surprised me.

Hopefully this will be a very good thing and will lean me toward being an actual Serious Writer, and who knows, maybe I will get off of my fat behind and try to publish some stuff one of these days.

Afterwards, I went to B.’s for a family dinner, which was a trip. I haven’t seen his family in almost twenty years, so it was pretty odd to be tossed back into the mix. They were warm and welcoming and sweet, though, and it felt great to be there.

B.’s grandfather lives there, and he’s deep in the throes of Alzheimer’s disease. Watching him took me back.

My mother’s mother started to develop Alzheimer’s when I was about twenty. For a while, I quit my job in order to take care of her.

My grandma was one hell of a woman. She sewed, quilted, and crocheted for the entire family. She could make a thousand pierogi by hand at Christmastime, flipping them nonchalantly while sipping a beer as the kids ran through her tiny kitchen. She walked to church every Sunday until she was well into her seventies. Every weekend, she watched Soul Train. She rode every ride at Disney World, including Space Mountain, completely ignoring the warning signs: IF YOU HAVE A PACEMAKER OR HEART PROBLEMS, DO NOT RIDE THIS RIDE. (She previously had a quadruple bypass.)

My grandmother moved in with us when she started to become forgetful and neglected to take her diabetes medication, and she became a strange woman. She would wake up in the middle of the night, take everything out of the kitchen cabinets, and put all of the cups and plates in the middle of the kitchen floor. She talked to people that weren’t there. She would begin to crochet strips of afghans, stop, and start more. We have a bag somewhere of afghan strips that no one has had the heart to throw out.

Taking care of Grandma was a labor of love, but it wasn’t always easy. Giving her insulin shots was like wrestling a bear. My previously mild-mannered and sweet grandmother became combative and angry when faced with the needle or even the blood sugar monitor. I frequently got punched.

Sometimes I had to laugh, rubbing my sore arms. Sometimes it was all I could do.

Last night, B.’s grandpa stared at the cat and said, “I have to get my shoes.”

“What shoes?” said B.’s stepdad.

“Right there,” said Grandpa, pointing at the cat.

Alzheimer’s is sad and scary and makes you fear for your future, but sometimes you have to laugh.

Happy Monday.

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