In preparation for today, I told my daughter that I would be making a speech about Deda and asked her advice on if there was anything I should say. She said, “Wow, that’s hard.” And she wasn’t wrong. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Nothing seems appropriate, and the words don’t come easy. My dad left a void in our lives that will be hard to fill, and the shock of it all is still settling in.

There are so many memories and emotions—how can I pick just a few? How can I possibly reduce 68 years of life into a few minutes? It feels like an impossible task. And I kept thinking: Why is this so hard? I should have a million things to say about my dad. But still, nothing seemed quite right.

That reminded me of a conversation I had with my son after he learned about his grandfather's passing. We were talking about loss, and I said, “I know this is your first real experience with it.” He replied, “Well… there was Maggie.” Maggie was our dog who passed away a couple of years ... Read moreago. But then he added, “But this is so different.” He’s right. This is different. So different.

It’s different not only because he was my dad, or because of the tragic and unexpected way he passed. It’s different because of the kind of person he was. And judging by all the messages, the phone calls, the people who are here today or reaching out from afar—just as heartbroken as we are—I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.

This isn’t just a loss for my family. This is a loss that goes far beyond our circle of nine. This is a loss for a whole community of people whose lives he touched—people he brought together, mentored, helped, inspired.

My dad was the embodiment of the American Dream. We came to America in December of 1990 with two suitcases each and not much else. But my dad was never one to sit still. He and my mom worked incredibly hard to build a life here for us. Even with his broken English, his work ethic spoke volumes. He worked so hard that, after just a few short years—and before the housing market took off—he was able to buy a house in Newton. He wanted to provide our family with stability and make sure that my sister and I had access to the best educational opportunities.

He was a successful mechanical engineer. One of his early jobs was designing machines that printed CDs—our house was always full of boxes of unlabeled ones to sort through. Later, he worked for Keurig. And if you knew him during that time, there’s a good chance you owned a Keurig machine—whether you asked for one or not. That was just him: proud, generous, and always sharing the things he helped create.

And instead of retiring at 68—in March—he started a brand-new job. He was designing machines that manufacture insulin pods for diabetics. At an age when most people are slowing down, he was still chasing new challenges and doing meaningful work that helped others. That was my dad—never idle, always moving forward.
He loved my mom with deep, unwavering respect and affection. Their relationship was something truly special—full of love, humor, and quiet strength. Even though he sat at the head of the table, he knew who really ran the show.

He was committed. He was faithful and supportive. He was loyal. I’m actually a little surprised there are no representatives here from Toyota, Verizon, and BJ’s here today. He spoiled us. He knew how to fix it all—and if he didn’t, he’d figure it out. He was endlessly generous with his time and money. Always available to give the kids a ride to one of their many activities when we couldn’t make it work, even when it meant going out of his way.

He was caring and always thinking two steps ahead. I still remember when I told him I was pregnant with my son. His reaction? “You’re going to need a new car.” I loved my little Yaris—it had great mileage—but at that moment, I knew: this was no longer my decision, I would be getting a new car because he deemed this one not safe enough, and he probably already had a certain Toyota model in mind. And honestly, of course, he wasn’t wrong.

He wasn’t always patient with actions—if you were ever involved in his theater group, I’m sure you can relate—but he was patient with love. He gave people time and space to grow, to express themselves, to find their place. Even if things got chaotic or frustrating, he kept showing up. He believed in the people he worked with—just as he believed in us.

But he also had this sweet, youthful impatience—like a little kid bursting with a secret he just couldn’t wait to share. One birthday, many years ago, I got a pager. But before I even unwrapped it, I already knew what it was because not only had I been in the car when my dad went into the store to buy it, but he was so excited that he immediately showed it to me—only to take it back so that I could open it on my birthday and act surprised.

Theater was his love. Back in Baku, he was a director, and even after moving here, he found a way to keep that passion alive. He started his own theater group in America, using it as a way to build community, tell stories, and stay true to himself. Theater wasn’t just his outlet—it became a way for all of us to connect. Dina has been acting in his shows pretty much the whole time. I used to sell tickets until I was old enough to be involved in several productions myself. And my mom always ran the door. It was a family affair, and through it, we were bonded together even more tightly.
He loved his family fiercely and absolutely adored his grandkids—he was their biggest fan. At the beginning of April, he got to see his granddaughter perform in her very first stage production. Afterward, she said, “Deda was so embarrassing”—and secretly, I had to agree. But the joy radiating from him was undeniable. He was so proud to see his granddaughter carrying on the family’s love of theater. So alive in that moment—clapping and bopping along to the music. It’s one of those small but perfect memories I’ll hold onto forever.

He was witty, funny, sometimes sarcastic, always entertaining. He always had a magic trick, a joke, or an anecdote up his sleeve.
Naps were his answer to everything. Back when we were planning my bat mitzvah—discussing plans and costs and overwhelmed by it all—my dad announced he was going to take a nap, as if that would solve everything. And it has become a family joke ever since. But boy, did he snore like a freight train. I still have no idea how my mom has put up with it all these years. Things will never be the same without Deda’s snore shaking the walls—it was part of the soundtrack of our time together. And as loud as it was, it’s one of the things I already miss most.

In recent years, my dad started a new tradition—each April, he would take the grandkids on a special trip abroad. It became something they looked forward to all year: a way for him to share the world with them and create memories that would last a lifetime. Our first trip was to Barcelona and Madrid. Last year, we visited Milan and Rome. And to make up for the kids’ disappointment that we couldn’t fit in the water city, this year’s trip was to Florence and Venice.

2025 started out rough for my family with my son injuring his knee and being told he’d need surgery. My dad was immediately concerned—about the injury itself, but also about whether it would affect our annual trip. The doctors assured us that my son would recover in time, and once my dad heard that, he went right back to planning. We even received the trip confirmation email the day after the surgery. That was him—always thinking ahead, always making sure everyone was okay, and always looking forward to the next adventure together.

This year, we started our trip in Florence and were able to make it through the first part as planned. We arrived in Venice, and that Wednesday evening had one last dinner together as a family of ten. It was a beautiful night—full of laughter, good food, and that familiar joy of simply being together. None of us could have imagined it would be our last with him.

The next day, everything started to fall apart. He began to feel unwell and was rushed to the hospital. The last time we saw him awake, he was being wheeled through on a stretcher. He looked at us, smiled, and said, “Everything is fine.” Even in the most uncertain moment, he was trying to protect us from worry.

Unfortunately, he suffered heart-related complications and had to undergo emergency bypass surgery. He passed away a few days later.
And somehow, in a way that only he could, he managed to turn even his final moments into something poetic. He waited until the family was safely on their way back home before taking his final bow—like a true director, closing the curtain on a life filled with purpose, creativity, and love.

People keep asking us what we need. And the truth is, what we need—no one can give us. We need him back. But since we can’t have that, what we can do is keep his memory alive.

We can tell stories. We can share pictures. We can go to the theater. We can joke. We can laugh. We can follow our own dreams—just as he followed his.

There’s no way to sum up a life like his in a few minutes. I’ve rewritten this even this morning, trying to make sure I did him justice. And still, I feel like it’s not enough. How could it be? He was too big, too brilliant, too loved to ever be captured completely in words.

But if you take anything away from today, I hope it’s this: my dad lived a full, rich life. He loved deeply, worked hard, gave generously, and brought people together wherever he went. He left behind a legacy of family, community, and passion.

And even though this is unbelievably hard—so different from any loss we’ve experienced before—I know he would want us to keep going. To live with love, with laughter, and with strength, just like he did.

I love you, Daddy, and miss you so much. We all do. And we always will. Read less

In preparation for today, I told my daughter that I would be making a speech about Deda and asked her advice on if there was anything I should say. She said, “Wow, that’s hard.” And she wasn’t wrong. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Nothing seems appropriate, and the words don’t come easy. My dad left a void in our lives that will be hard to fill, and the shock of it all is still settling in.

There are so many memories and emotions—how can I pick just a few? How can I possibly reduce... Read more 68 years of life into a few minutes? It feels like an impossible task. And I kept thinking: Why is this so hard? I should have a million things to say about my dad. But still, nothing seemed quite right.

That reminded me of a conversation I had with my son after he learned about his grandfather's passing. We were talking about loss, and I said, “I know this is your first real experience with it.” He replied, “Well… there was Maggie.” Maggie was our dog who passed away a couple of years ago. But then he added, “But this is so different.” He’s right. This is different. So different.

It’s different not only because he was my dad, or because of the tragic and unexpected way he passed. It’s different because of the kind of person he was. And judging by all the messages, the phone calls, the people who are here today or reaching out from afar—just as heartbroken as we are—I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.

This isn’t just a loss for my family. This is a loss that goes far beyond our circle of nine. This is a loss for a whole community of people whose lives he touched—people he brought together, mentored, helped, inspired.

My dad was the embodiment of the American Dream. We came to America in December of 1990 with two suitcases each and not much else. But my dad was never one to sit still. He and my mom worked incredibly hard to build a life here for us. Even with his broken English, his work ethic spoke volumes. He worked so hard that, after just a few short years—and before the housing market took off—he was able to buy a house in Newton. He wanted to provide our family with stability and make sure that my sister and I had access to the best educational opportunities.

He was a successful mechanical engineer. One of his early jobs was designing machines that printed CDs—our house was always full of boxes of unlabeled ones to sort through. Later, he worked for Keurig. And if you knew him during that time, there’s a good chance you owned a Keurig machine—whether you asked for one or not. That was just him: proud, generous, and always sharing the things he helped create.

And instead of retiring at 68—in March—he started a brand-new job. He was designing machines that manufacture insulin pods for diabetics. At an age when most people are slowing down, he was still chasing new challenges and doing meaningful work that helped others. That was my dad—never idle, always moving forward.
He loved my mom with deep, unwavering respect and affection. Their relationship was something truly special—full of love, humor, and quiet strength. Even though he sat at the head of the table, he knew who really ran the show.

He was committed. He was faithful and supportive. He was loyal. I’m actually a little surprised there are no representatives here from Toyota, Verizon, and BJ’s here today. He spoiled us. He knew how to fix it all—and if he didn’t, he’d figure it out. He was endlessly generous with his time and money. Always available to give the kids a ride to one of their many activities when we couldn’t make it work, even when it meant going out of his way.

He was caring and always thinking two steps ahead. I still remember when I told him I was pregnant with my son. His reaction? “You’re going to need a new car.” I loved my little Yaris—it had great mileage—but at that moment, I knew: this was no longer my decision, I would be getting a new car because he deemed this one not safe enough, and he probably already had a certain Toyota model in mind. And honestly, of course, he wasn’t wrong.

He wasn’t always patient with actions—if you were ever involved in his theater group, I’m sure you can relate—but he was patient with love. He gave people time and space to grow, to express themselves, to find their place. Even if things got chaotic or frustrating, he kept showing up. He believed in the people he worked with—just as he believed in us.

But he also had this sweet, youthful impatience—like a little kid bursting with a secret he just couldn’t wait to share. One birthday, many years ago, I got a pager. But before I even unwrapped it, I already knew what it was because not only had I been in the car when my dad went into the store to buy it, but he was so excited that he immediately showed it to me—only to take it back so that I could open it on my birthday and act surprised.

Theater was his love. Back in Baku, he was a director, and even after moving here, he found a way to keep that passion alive. He started his own theater group in America, using it as a way to build community, tell stories, and stay true to himself. Theater wasn’t just his outlet—it became a way for all of us to connect. Dina has been acting in his shows pretty much the whole time. I used to sell tickets until I was old enough to be involved in several productions myself. And my mom always ran the door. It was a family affair, and through it, we were bonded together even more tightly.
He loved his family fiercely and absolutely adored his grandkids—he was their biggest fan. At the beginning of April, he got to see his granddaughter perform in her very first stage production. Afterward, she said, “Deda was so embarrassing”—and secretly, I had to agree. But the joy radiating from him was undeniable. He was so proud to see his granddaughter carrying on the family’s love of theater. So alive in that moment—clapping and bopping along to the music. It’s one of those small but perfect memories I’ll hold onto forever.

He was witty, funny, sometimes sarcastic, always entertaining. He always had a magic trick, a joke, or an anecdote up his sleeve.
Naps were his answer to everything. Back when we were planning my bat mitzvah—discussing plans and costs and overwhelmed by it all—my dad announced he was going to take a nap, as if that would solve everything. And it has become a family joke ever since. But boy, did he snore like a freight train. I still have no idea how my mom has put up with it all these years. Things will never be the same without Deda’s snore shaking the walls—it was part of the soundtrack of our time together. And as loud as it was, it’s one of the things I already miss most.

In recent years, my dad started a new tradition—each April, he would take the grandkids on a special trip abroad. It became something they looked forward to all year: a way for him to share the world with them and create memories that would last a lifetime. Our first trip was to Barcelona and Madrid. Last year, we visited Milan and Rome. And to make up for the kids’ disappointment that we couldn’t fit in the water city, this year’s trip was to Florence and Venice.

2025 started out rough for my family with my son injuring his knee and being told he’d need surgery. My dad was immediately concerned—about the injury itself, but also about whether it would affect our annual trip. The doctors assured us that my son would recover in time, and once my dad heard that, he went right back to planning. We even received the trip confirmation email the day after the surgery. That was him—always thinking ahead, always making sure everyone was okay, and always looking forward to the next adventure together.

This year, we started our trip in Florence and were able to make it through the first part as planned. We arrived in Venice, and that Wednesday evening had one last dinner together as a family of ten. It was a beautiful night—full of laughter, good food, and that familiar joy of simply being together. None of us could have imagined it would be our last with him.

The next day, everything started to fall apart. He began to feel unwell and was rushed to the hospital. The last time we saw him awake, he was being wheeled through on a stretcher. He looked at us, smiled, and said, “Everything is fine.” Even in the most uncertain moment, he was trying to protect us from worry.

Unfortunately, he suffered heart-related complications and had to undergo emergency bypass surgery. He passed away a few days later.
And somehow, in a way that only he could, he managed to turn even his final moments into something poetic. He waited until the family was safely on their way back home before taking his final bow—like a true director, closing the curtain on a life filled with purpose, creativity, and love.

People keep asking us what we need. And the truth is, what we need—no one can give us. We need him back. But since we can’t have that, what we can do is keep his memory alive.

We can tell stories. We can share pictures. We can go to the theater. We can joke. We can laugh. We can follow our own dreams—just as he followed his.

There’s no way to sum up a life like his in a few minutes. I’ve rewritten this even this morning, trying to make sure I did him justice. And still, I feel like it’s not enough. How could it be? He was too big, too brilliant, too loved to ever be captured completely in words.

But if you take anything away from today, I hope it’s this: my dad lived a full, rich life. He loved deeply, worked hard, gave generously, and brought people together wherever he went. He left behind a legacy of family, community, and passion.

And even though this is unbelievably hard—so different from any loss we’ve experienced before—I know he would want us to keep going. To live with love, with laughter, and with strength, just like he did.

I love you, Daddy, and miss you so much. We all do. And we always will. Read less