Fact checked by Ros Lederman
My youngest son just turned 4, so, of course, I’m thinking about dying.
In my brief experience as a living person, I’ve learned that the quickest way to feel old is to look at how old everyone else around you is. It’s a strange exercise because it’s a kind of time-bending. My sons are 8 and 4, which feels ancient. But my father turned 76 in June, and my grandmother turned 90 in September. I don’t think of either of them as old.
My dad agrees. “I don’t even know how I got here,” he says, quoting the old Andy Rooney joke: “Life is like a roll of toilet paper; the closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes.”
Dad wonders where the time went to do the things he wanted to do when he was younger.
“I didn’t have the time at the time,” he says. “Now that I have the time to do things, I don’t have the time to do them.” He means he wanted to get his pilot’s license. But having young kids and losing a law partner in a plane crash six months after I was born put those plans on hold. Now, because of his age and because he has type 2 diabetes, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t pass the physical.
My grandmother shares Dad’s sentiment about aging. “I’m surprised by it because my parents died in their early 70s,” she says. “I never thought I’d live long because my parents and siblings didn’t.”
When it comes to longevity, Gramma has a little more comfort with the time she has left than Dad does. Perhaps because she’s lived longer.
“Being 90 isn’t nearly as much fun as my 40s were. But I’m more content. I’m glad I don’t have to hustle to make a living. And I’m blessed to have my kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids close by,” she says.
Neither Dad nor Gramma thinks about dying. But they do think about how things will be when they’re gone.
“I look at the time I have left as a chance to get things in order,” Dad says. “It’s my last chance to help my kids because no matter how old you get, you’re always a parent worrying about your children. I worry about the fact that the world — the world I was a part of — will go on without me. How? I don’t know. But it will. And I have to accept that.”
Gramma says the world will do just fine without her. “The people who loved me will remember me with love. And those who didn’t love me, who cares? I don’t care.”
If all things go well, I’m somewhere in midlife. I watch my children — to whom time is not an issue — do and learn new things every day, developing capabilities at a weed’s pace. On the other side are Dad and Gramma. Sure, they’re doing and learning new things because they ain’t dead yet. But are they developing new capabilities? If we count learning to operate an iPad, yes. But at the point they’re at, when they have more life behind them than ahead, capabilities start to fall off.
Dad may not be a pilot, but he remains an avid boater. He also still helps me with home repair projects. And Gramma? She lives alone — and loves it. She still drives fast and boogies down. “I have Alexa put on ’60s music, and I dance in my living room. I just have to be careful not to fall,” she says.
They’re lucky. And I’m lucky because my boys and I still have them. Dad and Gramma are a good lesson for me — especially when I get stuck with that midlife ennui — not to spend precious minutes thinking about when the minutes will be gone, but to do as many things as possible. Because as the years disappear behind you, one thing is certain: Less can be more.
Originally published in the Fall 2026/Winter 2027 print issue.
David Himmel is a Peter Lisagor Award winner and the former editor-in-chief of Chicago Health. He lives in Old Irving Park.
