Last week, my 93-year-old grandfather passed away.
It came as shock because I could never imagine him dying. My grandfather always seemed invincible, even after he started using a cane to get around. He was always well-dressed, put together and articulate, and usually the smartest one in the room.
He was hospitalized a week prior to his death, “for testing,” the doctor advised. But the truth was that his health had been declining for some time. After all, the human body can only be expected to work for so long, and 93 years is a long time. His heart was done.
My grandfather was remarkable, and his was a life well lived. At his funeral, we all spoke about his extraordinary accomplishments and how deeply he loved his work and his family. Ninety-three years on this earth is a lot, and yet, it was still not enough.
When I think about my grandfather, there is much that I am grateful for: how much I learned from him, that he met my husband and daughter, how he and my grandmother were able to celebrate their 70th anniversary together. I list these many positive things in my head, but they don’t erase the fact that I will miss him deeply. I already do.