ADHD Forgetfulness: A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to the Podium

Reliving an ADHD-Triggered Embarrassing Moment

Long before I ever knew master persuader and “America’s Internet Dad” Scott Adams, my mentor was my “TV Dad,” Mr. Jan C. Gabriel. His name might be unfamiliar to you, but trust me, you know of him (just click on the hyperlink for his name). Jan created the famous “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!” screaming car race ads in Chicagoland—the phrase oft imitated by Jay Leno and Al Roker.

My Beloved “TV Dad” and Mentor, Jan C. Gabriel, RIP

In the late 1980s, I was a fresh-faced college grad when Jan gave me my first job in television, as the writer/producer for his TV show, “THE SUPER CHARGERS,” a nationally syndicated, award-winning motorsports entertainment TV series (Cars and Stars!). He saw something in me and trusted his gut. With Jan’s coaching, I was one of three on the production team that won an award at the Houston Film Festival as the writer and producer for our Walter Payton-Chuck Norris superboat race episode. Jan taught me everything I know. He proudly introduced me to powerful people you would never believe. But most importantly, Jan taught me the POWER of STORYTELLING, a lesson I’ve carried with me for every client.

To say Jan Gabriel “changed my life” is an understatement. In fact, Jan is the reason I have my son. (Hang with me for a sec—I can explain.)

When I got married, I had a hard time getting pregnant. As an adoptee, it was always in the back of my mind that I needed to know my biological history. I knew addiction ran on my husband’s side of the family, and I worried it would run on my side as well (it turns out, it did). It was why I rarely drank. Never smoked pot. (My friends loved that they could always party hearty and rely on me being their designated driver.)

Jan, who adored intrigue and was cheering for me to have a child, wanted to be the one to find my biological family for me. I knew my bio-parents names, but that was all the information I had. But one day I did an online search and discovered that because I had my bio-dad’s middle initial, there was only one Thomas E. Turner in the entire state of Illinois who was old enough to be my bio-dad. And that was to whom I addressed a letter in October of 2003 from Jan’s office, requesting my bio-history, with Jan’s name and return address to protect my anonymity. Jan was so excited the day we sent it out.

I was living in Florida at the time, and I came back up in January 2004 to produce a corporate video with Jan. I was 39 and still not pregnant. The ‘window of opportunity’ was closing soon.

Jan asked if I had heard from my bio-dad yet. When I told him I hadn’t, he wanted to show up at his address in Lake Zurich, Illinois with a film crew to do a 60 Minutes-style “gotcha” interview. I felt this was too heavy handed and begged him not to. This was one of the only times I can remember Jan being truly angry with me. He felt I wasn’t being aggressive enough with my follow-up, but my intuition was screaming to let things lie for a while longer.

A day or two after, I was just stepping off my flight back to Florida when Jan called me. He was beyond excited. “I have your bio-mom on the other line! Write down this number so you can call her when you get home!”

And so it began. A flurry of reunion phone calls and emails and photo exchanges between me, my two parents (who were now divorced, but were married when I was born) and my three older siblings. I was the last child and only child adopted out.

And the next week, after that first phone call with my bio-mom Linda, I was pregnant.

I’m convinced that peace of mind I got from knowing—which I credit to Jan Gabriel’s tenacious insistence—was the tipping point. This peace of mind enabled me to relax. Get pregnant. And the day after I turned 40, I flew to New Mexico—pregnant—and met all of my bio family with my best friend since 7th grade, Marovich.

The following November of 2004 I had Jack, shortly after Hurricane Ivan destroyed our Florida home. The following spring of 2005, Jan and his wife Teresa stood in the Northern Illinois Lutheran church where I grew up, alongside my bio-dad and my adoptive parents, watching (and in Jan’s case, videotaping) my son Jack getting baptized.

To say I loved and respected Jan deeply doesn’t begin to cover it. His is the first photo I see when I wake up in the morning (this was taken at his wedding to his beloved, Teresa.)

So, when Jan died from polycystic kidney disease and was receiving a lifetime achievement award, his wife Teresa asked me to be the speaker at the Illinois Association of Broadcasting awards banquet. (Mistake!)

I work better under pressure (or so my dopamine addiction has convinced me). I ad-libbed my speech as I was sitting there dining on rubber chicken and waiting to go on stage. I delivered my speech right after Jeb Bush’s speech (who oddly enough was my former governor—at this point, I was living back in Illinois).

When I approached the podium, I had Jan’s ashes with me. They were in a small vial that I placed on the top of the podium, as I dramatically declared Jan’s presence to this huge room of broadcast professionals. Then I riffed my speech. I don’t even recall what I said. I finished, returned to my seat, relieved it was over, and then the next speaker was set to come on.

And that was when the emcee announced: “Umm, Denise . . . you left Jan up here . . .” and pointed to the vial of ashes still sitting on the top of the podium. The entire room of professional broadcasters erupted in laughter.

D’oh!!!

I was ready to move to another country and change my identity. There would be no recovering from that one.

My ADHD forgetfulness was on full display that evening as I and my lobster-reddened face made my way back up to the podium to reclaim that vial full of Jan powder. I know Jan loved me, and I am sure he was laughing his ass off from the Other Side, but that doesn’t make it any less memorable.

I share this story to empathize with the AuDHers and ADHDers out there who lay in bed at night self-flagellating and re-punishing themselves, replaying their Top 40 List of most embarrassing moments and biggest regrets. This moment ranks right up there for me.

Wish me luck sleeping tonight . . .