I’ve loved being in the car since before I can remember. Videos of me as a baby present a little girl giggling in a car seat, wriggling away from attempts to remove her, scrunching up her face when she is unbuckled. I think that even then, before I was fully cognizant, before I could speak or walk, before I knew what it even meant, driving signified the beginning of something wonderful. Being in the car meant I was going to stay with my great-grandparents during the weekdays while my parents worked, or that they were coming to stay with me. It meant warm spring days with the windows open, or cold winter ones with the heater turned to optimal nap temperatures. It meant being rocked to sleep by the rumble of the wheels, with my great-grandma singing a lullaby and my great-grandpa humming along. 

When I was a year old, my parents and I moved to be closer to them. Our connection grew as I did. My great-grandfather drove me to and from school, and to my extracurricular activities, and I spent afternoons in their apartment watching Russian cartoons. 

When I began preschool, the only language I knew, because I had spent so much time around my great-grandparents, was Russian. I was so frightened by my inability to communicate with those around me that I would go so far as to make myself throw up so that Deda wouldn’t leave me. For a few months, he spent his days at Temple Beth Shalom, watching 3-year-old me struggle to understand the English everyone was speaking. Although I don’t remember much of that time, I can distinctly recall him sitting on a step and smiling as I stumbled around and attempted to make friends. 

Once every week, he would drive me to a nearby Dunkin Donuts after lessons and get each of us a chocolate glazed doughnut with sprinkles. In soft Russian, he would tell me that he was proud of me. That I was doing such a good job, and that my English was getting better each day. He would smile, his slightly crooked bottom tooth peeking out at me, wipe a sprinkle off my cheek, and all was right with the world. 

On the way home, he immersed me in his stories. The ways in which war had taken his father and his childhood away from him… the bitter seven-kilometer trek each day in the winter months to plant potato skins so his family didn’t starve… his struggle to continue his education, and his love of reading… I was enveloped in his history, wrapped up like a warm hug, and I had no desire to be anywhere else. 

By Kindergarten, though, I was comfortable enough with the language and the people around me that I could survive a few hours without him. As the years went on, my English grew stronger while my Russian faded, and my connection with my great-grandparents changed. My parents would drive me almost every day instead of my great-grandpa, would spend time with me after school, and I usually only got to see my Baba and Deda every Friday for our weekly family dinners.

On his way to one such meal early last year, my great-grandfather inadvertently caused a minor car collision. This incident reminded my entire family that despite our long-held belief that he is unbreakable, my Deda has lived a long 90 years, and is not as strong as he used to be. Two more accidents within the span of a few months brought with them the realization that he will never again drive me to go get doughnuts after school just because. I won’t get to make more memories sitting next to him while he navigates the highway by my house, and I won’t hear about his past as we turn into his apartment complex. 

Taking away his car would solve the problem instantly. It would also leave him trapped in his apartment for days on end, reliant on my parents to get him everything he needed and to take him everywhere he wanted to go.  As a man who values independence above all else, even the idea of being without a means of transportation makes my Deda feel as anxious as I did in those first preschool days. We can not find a solution to the problem without amplifying his heart condition, which would be just as perilous as allowing him to remain on the road. Although we know driving isn’t a viable option, neither is taking away his autonomy and his spirit right along with it.

I always used to watch him as he maneuvered the car— his surgeon’s hands steadily turning the wheel, his eyes constantly aware, his easy smile, and the twinkle that was ever-present in his eyes. Deda had been the one to teach my mother to drive, and before her, my grandma. His talent moved its way down the generations, gifting each of them his patience, care, and ability.

Even though he can’t be the one to instruct me, I think that with practice, I can take his role. Eventually, I can be the one to take us for sugary snacks every once in a while, the one who picks him up every Friday for dinner, the one who pulls in and out of his apartment complex. I’ll admit— my Russian cartoon days are far behind me. But the warm feeling from that time remains, as strong now as it was then. And it doesn’t matter who is driving the car, as long as we are together, safe, and with a destination ahead.