My grandfather passed away last night after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and a variety of other ailments. He was 84, and very nearly made it to 85–his birthday was just 22 days away.

For the past year and a half or so, he’s been living in a nursing home, after spending the prior five years living with me. After my grandmother died last year, it became impossible to take care of him on my own, since he couldn’t be left alone, so after a brief stint a really terrible place, I got him placed in the Menlo Park Veteran’s Home in Edison, NJ. That place was a godsend, and I’m very thankful he was able to spend the rest of his days there, with those good people taking care of him.

His death was not a shock; a few weeks ago, the doctors had talked to me about his quality of life (or lack thereof), and discussed his advanced directive options. Over the past several months, he’d deteriorated considerably. I used to be able to visit him and he’d know me, and could talk a bit, and boy did he look forward to going outside with me so he could have a cigarette. But a couple months ago, at some point, it was like a switch going off–there didn’t seem to be any medical event that the doctors could point to as the cause, but just like that, my grandfather–the man I knew growing up–seemed to be completely gone, and in his place was a man who looked just like him (albeit much thinner) but had none of the other qualities that made him who he was.

Because I was prepared for this eventuality, his death was easier to take. I had lost him bit by bit, until eventually, there was nothing left to lose.