My grandfather died 25 years ago this week. I was 13, he was 62. So I definitely remember him; sadly my memories of his poor health for the last two or so years of his life crowd out everything else. He had a stroke, lost a leg to a blood clot, was able to mostly live at home, but was in and out of hospitals until he passed away.
He and my grandmother (who died five years later) smoked a lot, which is oddly comforting, as in my mind it fully explains why they died so young. I need that, because my dad is turning 60 in a few weeks. He doesn't smoke and thankfully he seems to be in good health. I can no more imagine him sick and wheelchair-bound than I can imagine him sprouting wings and flying to the moon.
Yet I don't dare ask about how my grandfather seemed when he turned 60; I don't think I want to know.
I'll be seeing my parents tomorrow, and I'm thankful for that.