I just got off the phone with my grandma. Today would've been my grandpa's 89th birthday but he passed away a year and a half ago. They were married for 67 years and the fact that he's gone and she's all alone in a nursing home seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

There was a time about 4 years ago - before they moved to the nursing home - that Grandma was in the hospital and I went to stay with Grandpa for the weekend. We'd never spent so much time alone together before - just the two of us. We had a blast! Grandpa regaled me with stories, I cooked him anything he wanted (corn on the cob, English muffin pizzas), and we spent a healthy amount of time matching the carefully filled out and filed information cards with the numerous antiques in the house as we readied for the annual flea market and antique sale. He was extremely thorough and each card noted what the item was, where and when he'd purchased it, how much he'd paid, and what he was hoping to get in resale. Grandpa was impressed that he only had to show me once how to work the filing system, which meant that instead of double-checking my alphabetizing skills, he could tell me stories about toys he had had when he was a kid, dating my grandma, WWII, how much he loved my dad, etc. Sometimes he'd get frustrated when his arthritic fingers wouldn't allow him to show me how to play with an old toy or peel a peach. He'd say, annoyed, "I'm 85 years old. How much longer am I supposed to live?" At first I was taken aback by this comment but by the third or fourth time, I said, "At least through the weekend, Grandpa." I couldn't imagine anything worse than him dying on my watch.

Soon after that weekend, Grandma and Grandpa moved to a nursing home near my uncle in North Carolina. They made the transition from their big house on the hill to sharing a single room. Getting old had never seemed so unfair to me than at that point, but everyone knew - including them - that they could not care for themselves any longer. After Grandpa died, I realized that THIS was the worst part of getting old. At least they'd still had each other when they moved. Now, it's just Grandma. And every night she tells Grandpa goodnight and turns out the light in the way they did together for over half a century - pretending to blow it out as she turns it off. It's devastatingly sad. And I'm terrified that it's a glimpse into my own future.

Grandma told me on the phone the other day, "Don't get old, kid - it stinks!" Oh Grandma, how I wish I could avoid it! My mortality has never been more real to me than since I had Belly and The Bug. Sometimes it feels like, if I'm not careful, I could blink and I'll be almost 88-years-old like Grandma. I just hope Dude is still around to hold my hand and turn out the light with me.