I don’t want to write about you in the past tense. That will never add up. A world without Neil Leiner in it, just seems plain wrong.
I was thinking about all of the ways I could share your wisdom and midwestern warmth as I was remembering you on this neon day. Gosh, how the world needs that right now. I know I do.
Perhaps I’d share the story of the day you died, all four kids at your bedside. My friend Terri shares that the death anniversary is the least interesting thing about her dead parents and I tend to think that is a stunning realization and truth. Though unlike the sudden loss we experienced with Mommy, there remains a picture in my memory of holding your hand, playing your favorite songs close to your ear, smushing in close to you in the bed and not noticing your last breath was last, until we did.
There is so very much to grieve in the world right now, can you see it all from up there? I saw that ICE marked vehicles were landing in Ohio, and I thought you’d have a hand in protecting your hometown pride. The Ohio State and all. It’s messy and I want to call you and hear the calm cadence of your voice and wise storytelling. I know you would have checked in on Meems in Minnesota. Al’s Mom misses you too. Did you know you died on his Dad’s birthday? I know. Ooof. I guess all of it helps us to remember and celebrate. Very Neil Leiner if you ask me.
I told a friend that I felt a bit guilty about holding my own grief in the tumult and loss so many are experiencing right now. This collective grief is heavy. So many holding so much. She offered permission to grieve and share about you if I felt I needed that and I grabbed it. Thank you Linds. It helped me to remember that there is no hierarchy in grief, no grief Olympics — even if you lived a good long life. It is because you did that there is so very much to miss even in the midst.
The young man that was killed, Alex Pretti, he was an ICU nurse at the VA. I know how proud you were to have worked in the VA when you were in the army. The days you marched in the Memorial Day Parade in Chappaqua with your veterans cap will always remain special to me. He was a good man Dad. He was helping someone when he was shot. It’s all so senseless and cruel. There are stunning videos of him offering last rights to a vet. Their family released it. I would have sent it to you. I know you’d have the just right words and actions to share. He was working on cancer research. I recalled the breast cancer drugs you helped bring to market back when and your work on Breast Cancer Awareness Day. I hope you have been part of his welcoming up there. He really seems like someone you would admire. I know I do.
This morning I connected with Amy, my friend and yoga teacher from Chicago after a zoom class. She calls you Grampsy. All the friends call you Grampsy. Even some of my clients. It is so endearing. When I shared it was the one year anniversary tomorrow, she could not believe it. Time is such a robber and strange friend. Like yesterday and forever ago, all at once. Amy lost her Mom young too, and Dad just a few years ago. “Can you believe we have no parents” she said, and “we are orphans”. It is hard to contend with and here we are at a year. And I am not a little girl at 60. But I was always your little girl. My head in the crook of your arm on the sofa. Nothing could hurt me there. I know from my work, and losing Mommy so long ago, that we think there will be some magic when we make it through all the firsts. But no. Just magical thinking. I think I will come to visit you on Sunday, and then I remember.
We tried to go to “the French” in town on your birthday. Everyone ordered one of your ‘favorites’. The burger was eh. The onion soup not as good as any of us recalled and the goat cheese wonton salad wilty and boring. We decided it was you that made it all delicious. It was the same day that Starbucks was dropping their pumpkin spice drinks. We walked over instead of staying for desert and ordered some icy PSLs. When they asked for a name, I said, “Neil. Hearing them call your name still in the local Starbucks will never get old. I do it all the time wherever we go. Even on our NYC take out deliveries. Neil is very popular at Excellent Dumpling.
For so very many years you were the only parent. We never talked very much about that, you just picked up the baton and ran with us. Check ins on the kids and work, the weather. gardening and plans for a visit. You became our council and sounding board and even learned to gush at haircuts, discount finds and new outfits. Even a trip to the Op Shop thrift was up your alley on visits! I am so grateful for that, and I feel like I never thanked you enough. You guided me through my divorce too. I just told a friend this week that was navigating her settlement, your winning advice. I always thought it was just a hopeful Dad strategy and never really wanted to believe it.
You told me to negotiate a “step down” as part of my settlement. Going from part-time freelancer and full-time parent on the ground when their Dad travelled to single mom and full-time freelancer was going to need a bit of gas to get up and running at full steam. I had owned a PR firm and had a hand in the editorial game in Chicago, but this would be a Herculean shift. You said, take most of the settlement up front, and taper off. By then, you will be in the job you need and you will likely be remarried. I scoffed. I never wanted to get married again. Hell, I had never even been on a date having married my college sweetheart. Truth was, I never wanted to get divorced again. I believed in love and you did too. Even the kind that included loving me and a 3 year old and a 10 year old. And you were not only right, you were front and center at the wedding loving your new son in law. He loved you right back.
Back in the PR days when I was drumming up clever names for the agency - you reminded me to use my own name on the door. You will be doing the work. They are paying for you. You have established yourself at agencies and with editors who return your calls. Use your own. It was also yours, and it made us both so proud. Still does and always will.
You know what else we never talked about enough? Your own father loss. You were only 7 when Grandpa Bernard died. My namesake. How did you raise us with all that fatherly goodness having not known much of your own? It was so innate, nurturing and soft. Those early morning trips to the skating rink to earn a patch have been with me lately. Maybe it’s the crazy winter. The very day we were supposed to have your unveiling, a foot dropped on Westchester. Did you do that? I really can’t think of something I ever tried to do where you were not cheering or offering sage advice. And your Special French Toast, that is still in rotation. Dr. Brown’s Diet Creme too. It almost brings me to tears when I see it in the grocery. I toss a six pack in the cart and have one when I miss ya.
And oh how I miss the guy we met along the way as your memory faded. I don’t spend a lot of time with him, but I am damn proud of all of the celebrations and moments we shared. I visit those photos often. I am forever grateful for the glimmer that always remained. The sparkle in those almond Leiner eyes that let us know you were right there still. We did our best, we really did. You were the envy of the place. Hipster joggers, hoodies and Hoka’s and always a thank you and a please till the end. You were robbed of some “good years”, but I know you would not have felt sorry. So we try hard not too as well.
You died on January 27, 2025. It was an unremarkable day, until you were gone. We made all the calls and waited for your last ride home. Unimaginable. I fell into bed in my clothes. I woke like a shot in the night and realized you died on 1.27. In a final act of advertising cleverness it seemed. I told the story the other evening at book club—we were reading signs. We had heard you say it every time you took a photo. And you did that a lot. Thank goodness. So many fun childhood snaps.
You would take forever focusing that damn Canon and say… 1, 2…..7. To try to get us to smile. There I was alone in the dark when I realized that was the date. You died on 1,2…..7. I texted the sibs. Nobody was up, but I had to tell them anyway. Clever. Remarkable. And making us smile, still. I am thinking of getting a tattoo of that tomorrow. I think you are on board. I see lots of 127 signs lately. Have to believe it’s you.
How I miss you Dad. Today and every damn day. I will keep writing. Sharing. Remembering your lessons. More soon. ILYMTTWWW
