I awoke feeling sad about my appointment to explore having some teeth pulled. I love my teeth and don’t want to separate from them, but these thoughts were soon pushed aside by thoughts about another loss I’m even less ready for. My youngest granddaughter decided to complete her senior year of high school in Salt Lake City, where she will be better able to immerse herself in martial arts and take AP classes at a real university. Her host family is waiting, and her farewell party was scheduled for the following evening.

Dentally, things could be worse. The surgeon who will remove two teeth will also screw studs into what’s left of my jawbone, fill around them with pig tissue and, in half a year, I should be chewing like a teenager. Replacing a grandchild is a different matter. I know this because my three older ones have already flown away. I rarely see them now, and when I do, we share only that visit and our pasts. We update each other about our current lives, but alas, those lives are now barely joined.

That’s not to say grandchildren don’t care anymore. During the COVID-19 summer of 2020, when their great-grandmother was dying, Darian, my oldest grandchild (she was already 31), flew across the country and stayed six weeks, helping “GG” die where she wanted to die, in her own home. Dare cared. But I’ve seen almost nothing of her since then. She has her own life to live, and it has little space for people who run half as fast as she hops on one leg with her eyes closed. Ditto for Veronica, Cole and, now, Sara Gray. I don’t like it, but I understand. I was a grandchild once, and ready to fly.

Adele, my maternal grandmother, lived with us until my 15th birthday. She was already in her late sixties when she arrived in the USA, seeking refuge from Austria’s Nazis. She learned little English, and I often translated for her, particularly when we watched television together. During my childhood, I felt closer to her than anyone else. Adele loved long walks, but when I was somewhere past 14, she suffered a mild stroke that kept her home for several months. As those months passed, though, she recovered enough to slowly walk a block or two with my mother holding one of her arms and me the other. We started taking her out once or twice a day. 

I was happy that Grandma was recovering, but I resented the added responsibility. I wanted to socialize with friends, read comic books, play basketball, anything other than help an old lady make the most of what was left of her life. But I kept these feelings to myself and did my duty. On the morning of my 15th birthday, before I left for school, Mom and I took Grandma for one of those walks. Later that day, she went to the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, and died.

I was sad. I cried a lot. I missed her for a long time. And I felt relieved. I was 15, ready to fly and had little room in my life for people who could only run half as fast as . . . I felt guilty about feeling relieved and told no one about it until my thirties. I thought I was a bad person for feeling that way, and to be honest, I still think that. I know it’s not true. I know that it’s deeds we are righteously judged by, not thoughts or feelings. Judaism taught me that. Modern psychology teaches it, and so does ordinary wisdom. But I still wonder whether a better 15-year-old would have appreciated having a grandma to help instead of thinking about himself. 

And now, with Sara Gray soaring to new heights of self-discovery, I have the same problem. I’m unready for life without her. Honestly, I’d be happy if, in a few weeks, she decided she was too lonely and returned home. She would probably feel like a failure about her first great, independent adventure; but so what? Never mind about what she wants or what’s best for her. I could comfort her. I could help her understand the value of what she learned from the experience. I could be grandpa again. And just as I did at 15, I feel guilty about those selfish feelings. If her experiment fails, I’ll feel genuinely sad for her. But I’ll be happy to have her nearby again, dropping in for occasional spontaneous visits for just a little while longer. 

I’m confident about adjusting to having a few teeth replaced, but how do we replace people we love? 

Mature Content is a monthly feature from Age-Friendly Carbondale.