Zibby Mag

By Barri Leiner Grant

My dad was one of the original Mad Men. He worked for almost three decades at Sudler & Hennessey, a pioneering pharmaceutical advertising agency. He spearheaded creative teams, collaborated with the world’s top doctors, and helped bring groundbreaking drugs to market, including one of the first drugs used to treat breast cancer.

Our “Ad Dad” retired early and moved to be closer to his first granddaughter. He soon became “Grampsy” and ordered vanity plates for his signature silver Beetle—both instant town favorites. But small hints at memory loss soon showed up. He forgot how to use or misplaced his cellphone. He had a vast collection of napkins and Post-its with lists of the names of his kids and grandkids. “I don’t remember” became a frequent answer to our queries.

During his neurological evaluation, the neurologist prompted him to recite the alphabet backwards, name the Vice President, and list his kids’ names and ages. This made him frustrated and sullen and left us with the sad realization that he needed help. The doctor confirmed that Dad was suffering from Mild Cognitive Impairment. As we knew from the death of his mother, this could be the beginning stages of dementia.

It stole Dad as we knew him, slowly and without warning. But he was good at deflecting. He shortened our calls, making easy generalizations about the weather before quickly hanging up with his signature “love you more.” He began to buy and consume sweets in epic proportion, which we would later learn was a sign of dementia. We had to contact the local deli and let them know that four donuts were no longer allowed to accompany his New York Post.

We put a care team in place. “The ladies”, as he called them, gave him meds and meals and provided part-time companionship. Finally we made the decision to move him from his home to an assisted living facility with an option for memory care. Content. Comfortable. Kind. Easy. This is how they describe him at “The Club”.

This disease is a crafty robber. It is a thief of time and hands us a future none of us planned.

All four of us siblings have mourned deeply for our father. But there is something magical and comforting in his still knowing we are family, even if he can’t always place our names. The signature almond-shaped Leiner eyes that disappear when he smiles and twinkle when he laughs are alive with knowing.

One of the greatest lessons we have learned in this living grief is to love what is left. We no longer ask, “do you remember,” but instead find opportunities to tell him stories of the Neil we know and knew and love more than the whole wide world. (He has shortened this acronym to ILYMTTWWW in his notes to us.)

When I meet someone who has a parent with memory loss, I share our storytelling idea. I also recommend a memoir by Rabbi Steve Leder called The Beauty of What Remains. We’ve learned to love the living. And enjoy the little things. It won’t be this way forever, but for now, we love what is before us. The best part of all is when we part ways, we get a kiss and a “love you more.” This is only doled out to family, and that is how we know he still knows “his people”. His sense of humor and quick wit are intact, too. Extra belly laughs come with his jokes, and they are more meaningful than ever.

This disease is a crafty robber. It is a thief of time and hands us a future none of us planned. On many days I honor my grief and the loss of the Dad I knew and needed in ways no longer accessible. But now I take in the lessons he teaches us in the wonder and beauty of small pleasures and living in the present. These are lessons he no longer realizes he can impart, but they’ll stay with me forever.

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Barri Leiner Grant is a Certified Grief Coach and Grief Educator. Barri combined her background as a yoga and meditation teacher with her personal mission to heal and help the bereaved with the founding of The Memory Circle, a place to gather, remember, and celebrate those we’ve lost and love.