One of the disadvantages of getting older is letting go of the things you have always cherished.

For me, the worst part has been watching my grandparents slip away.

When I was young, I loved visiting my paternal grandparents — they were the fun ones.

She always brought out her jewelry collection whenever I visited (she had good taste for an adult) and he always had some sort of chocolate confection waiting for me. After all, what is the advantage of having grandchildren if you can’t make them hyperactive before sending them home to their parents?

My grandparents and I had the perfect relationship. She would ask me if I wanted some candy. Politely, I would say no. She would ask me if I wanted some chocolate. Politely, I would say no. She would ask me if I wanted a rap in the mouth. Politely, I would say no. It was wonderful.

Smoking took its toll on my grandmother during my senior year of high school. She developed a cancerous tumor on her esophagus, pinching it off. The doctors had to lower a metal instrument down her esophagus to reopen it, a procedure she despised.

I went to visit her on occasion, and witnessed her body shrinking to little more than flesh and bones.

And then I was called to see her in late December. The prognosis wasn’t good and my parents thought I should go to her bedside before it was too late.

I remember almost fainting when I looked into her room. There was my grandmother, little more than a skeleton, gasping for air. Her body was contorted and pale.

It wasn’t the grandmother I knew.

She died the next day, just a few days before Christmas.

She never got to see me graduate from high school. She never got to be there when I became the first of her family to graduate from college. It is something I have always regretted and been a little more than bitter about.

Then my grandfather became ill.

We think he had signs of Alzheimer’s disease prior to my grandmother’s death, but she took responsibility for him so they weren’t obvious. Once she was gone, though, we knew something was wrong.

At first my parents were able to take care of my grandfather. They visited him regularly and took care of his bills. But soon he became too sick to be left alone, so we placed him in a nursing home.

I never visited my grandfather once he moved into the nursing home.

My father told me there would be no point. My grandfather couldn’t recognize his own children — he sometimes thought his daughter was my late grandmother — and my father thought a visit would be more traumatic for me than it would be helpful for my grandfather.

I remembered what it was like seeing my grandmother the day before she died. The picture of her last day has run through my head whenever I think about her. I can’t remember her without remembering how she died.

I wanted to be able to remember my grandfather as he was, not as he became. I was never ashamed of him. He had no choice in becoming sick. It was just something that happened. But I knew who he was at heart, and I knew how he would like to be remembered.

So I took my father’s advice and stayed away, relying on his reports when he visited the nursing home. It helped to know that my grandfather was happy and content.

As far as he knew, nothing had changed. That was all that mattered to me.

My grandfather died last month. We knew the end was coming, so it was not much of a surprise. I was prepared to deal with it, or so I thought.

It was an open casket funeral. No one warned me.

There was my grandfather, looking peaceful but so much older. Whatever life once filled his body was gone. It was just the shell of the person I once knew, and it had about the same effect as seeing my grandmother before her death.

The funeral was a military funeral. My grandfather served in Guam during World War II. I had known he had been in the military, but no one ever talked about it much.

Everyone cried as the American Legion gave my grandfather a 21 gun salute and folded in traditional fashion the flag that had draped his casket. Then they gave my father the flag.

It was the first time I have ever seen my father cry.

Yet while everyone else was sobbing, I couldn’t help thinking that my grandfather would have thought the ceremony rocked. That’s just the way he was.

My parents and I went to the luncheon afterward. My grandfather had about 13 brothers and sisters, some of whom were in attendance.

I looked over at one of his brothers, who happened to look exactly like him. It was reassuring to be able to look at another person, full of life and colorful, and to know that is how my grandfather was for as long as I knew him.

I still wonder if I made the right decision by not visiting him when his condition became worse. My father insists it would not have made any difference, but I was one of his favorite grandchildren.

I sometimes think that maybe I could have made a difference. Maybe he would have remembered me. I’ll never know.

Whatever happens, though, I know I have the best memories of my grandfather. I also have a neatly folded flag that will make sure those memories stay close.

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Theresa Wilson is a graduate student in political science at ISU and a law student at Drake University.