I Became An Adult When My Grandpa Passed Away

Do you remember the exact moment you became an adult? Perhaps it’s the day you graduated college, or the first time you paid your rent, or the day you got married. Maybe it’s the day you closed on a home, or had a kid, or the first day you went to work doing something you actually loved. For me, that moment came on the flight back to New York after burying my grandfather.

The man was, and probably always will be, my closest friend and ally. Without warning, he knew to call the day my ex-husband and I separated for the first time. He called the day I was laid off. He called when my absentee father appeared out of thin air to make me feel like shit. He felt it. Even when I said everything was fine. He always knew.

He was not a saint, nor did he ever pretend to be. He started smoking at the age of 11, and drinking shortly thereafter. He wasn’t proud of it, but adamantly refused to quit. By the time he had his fifth heart attack, Grandpa was on a ton of medication that just slowed the inevitable. When he suffered a stroke in 2010, no one was surprised. I told him I would like to fly home to see him, and he said “Please don’t. It will feel like you are burying me.” Just a week later, he passed away in the home he shared with my grandmother for more than half a century. Just like that. He was gone.

We buried him two days later. Mom, Grandma and me. Side by side at his grave. Three generations of women remained. The only constant man in our lives was gone.

In lieu of a eulogy, we asked friends to read some of his poetry out loud. He wrote about being grateful for the small things in life. The joy of living in Crimea, the experience of being a cruise-ship captain and seeing the world, the luck in meeting and marrying the most beautiful dancer he had ever seen. If he could, he’d probably write a poem about the romance of having died in her arms.

After a week of orchestrating funeral logistics, I got on a plane and finally allowed it to hit me. Grandpa and I would no longer have our secret Skype talks, our hide-outs in the building hallway, our shitty cigarettes shared over inside jokes. The one constant voice of reason was gone. There was no more life advice to glean from him. I had all that he could give, and it needed to be saved. Frantically, I wrote down all I could remember on an airplane napkin, and began to sob. This was it. I was on my own. I was an adult. He could no longer save me.

I leave you with the typed up version of my scribble. I leave you with my memory of his voice. Always patient, calm and reasonable. Always there.

Be loyal to those who love you. Have hobbies. Walk. Travel. Do something good for others. Remember that it’s not all about you. Befriend strangers. Be hospitable. Don’t overcomplicate your life. Marry a man who knows what it means to be a man. If you are going to have kids, have them early — your loved ones would have wanted to meet them. Don’t be fueled by money as it is not important. Remember to be thankful for the love others have bestowed on you. Your demons are your own. You do not have to change your vices for the sake of others. You should only change them for yourself, and only if you want to. Be honest. Protect your good name. Write. Write all the time. Write, even if you think you aren’t any good at it.

Sorry it took me so long, Grandpa. I miss you.

Artur Tikhonov

1935–2010