According to the VA there are just fewer than 2 million WWII veterans still alive. Every day, 850 of those will die. A week and a half ago, my grandfather was one of them. He was 87 years old.

I have never been really close to my grandparents. We lived in different states and I saw them a few times a year. To many, his death might be another statistic. Another veteran gone. To us — his many family and friends — he is a husband, father, grandfather, son, brother, cousin, friend. A wonderful man who loved chatting. Who did what was necessary, whether that was fighting for his country or taking over a family farm after his father’s death. Who worked hard to provide for his family and because he just liked a job well done. I can never remember him being anything but a kind, old man who cursed occasionally, but never raised his voice and had a mile-wide mischievous streak.

It broke my heart to see Alzheimer’s take him away and turn him into a man who asked the same question 10 times in half an hour. To see him try to leave his house at night to “go home.” To realize that he only knew who a handful of people were at the end. No one should be able to have their mind robbed. No one should have to see their lifelong love lose his memory.

And finally it caught up to him. He died peacefully by the side of the woman he loved for nearly 70 years.

I heard my grandma praying, praying and sobbing, the night after he died. I cannot imagine what it must be like to not have him there. To be with someone for three times longer than you were without him and then to have him just… not there. It breaks my heart. When she looked at him for the last time before they closed his coffin, she looked bewildered. She looked lost. One of the sharpest, most together women I know looked lost.

A man I love died. He was not special in any celebrity sense. He was special in the sense that every kind and wonderful person is special. And he deserves to be remembered.