What would you do if your doctor told you that you had less than three years to live? Would you make any changes in your life?
The year was 2016. Scott Hamilton was only 55 years old, living in Boston, and working a full-time job as an IT project manager when he noticed something odd. On a camping trip, his right hand felt very cold, and he could not get a grip on the zipper of his tent.
Nine months later, he would learn that he was showing the first symptoms of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. ALS is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects the motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord. There is no known cure. Life expectancy is three to five years from diagnosis. In Scott’s remaining time, Scott’s world was going to get progressively smaller and his life increasingly difficult and painful.
Scott decided to take the reins on his life and live it as fully as he could in his time left. He retired, expanded his involvement as a volunteer for Big Brothers / Big Sisters, and began coaching men struggling with relationships or going through divorce. He began singing in a second local chorale. But most of all, he loved traveling and visiting with friends.
That’s how my path crossed Scott’s. My wife and I were on vacation in February 2017, enjoying a warm breeze on sunny Siesta Key beach near Sarasota, Florida. We had just sat down at a picnic table for lunch. Across from us was a man typing away on his laptop. I asked him what he was working on. Scott looked up and cheerfully said, “I am updating my journal about my travels.”
I told him I too was a writer, of sorts. We struck up a conversation that, to my surprise, would lead to a powerful, close, albeit sadly far too brief friendship. I learned that he had two grown children, David and Lauren, and a longtime partner named Rachel, who he loved deeply. I learned that he loved skiing, tennis, visiting national parks, and spending time with his large universe of friends scattered across the country.
Then Scott shared, in a very matter-of-fact manner, that he had been diagnosed with ALS nine months prior, and was given a life expectancy of three to five years, although he said he was still feeling, for the most part, quite well. He had no idea how much longer he had. He was just beginning to show signs of his physical decline. His right arm, right hand, and to a lesser extent, right leg were starting to lose muscle strength and beginning to atrophy. It was just a matter of time before he would lose all ability to move the right side of his body, before it progressed to his left side, and then ultimately move on to his vital organs.
ALS is a cruel disease. But as Scott talked about the daunting road ahead, there was not the slightest hint of self-pity, anger, or denial. Amazingly, he seemed to have accepted his fate. He decided he was going to do everything he could on his bucket list while he was still physically able to. He radiated a positivity that you rarely see in someone grappling with such grim prospects for the future.
Over the course of 45 minutes, I found myself bonding with this kind, transparent man, who refused to play the role of victim. He was going to use his time in the months ahead to mentor men and boys on how to lead lives of compassion, integrity, and authenticity. And he was going to see as much of the world as he could. I told Scott that if he ever found his way up to the Pacific Northwest, we would love to invite him to visit with us.
Six months later, Scott arrived at my doorstep. He had bought a van he’d outfitted for camping. Scott’s health was already showing signs of decline. But his spirit was relentlessly positive. I remember a long walk we took during his visit. My wife and I were deeply anxious about the mental wellness of one of our daughters, then twenty-two. Scott became completely focused on trying to help me find a way to connect with my daughter. It was like we’d been friends my entire life. His entire focus was on me and my worries, not at all about his own.
Between 2016 and 2018 Scott traveled the country visiting friends. He experienced the rare opportunity to travel with his choir to South Africa to perform. He skied for as long as his legs would carry him, wrapping his non-functioning right arm to his chest, and using a single pole. He went to places he’d never seen before and continued to meet new friends along the way.
Scott loved to play tennis, but being right-handed, by now, this was not an option because his right side had deteriorated badly since the time we’d met earlier that year. Even his left hand was starting to weaken. So, he somehow strapped the tennis racquet to his left arm, and we played a few games of tennis. He struggled mightily but never complained. When we were done, Scott calmly stated, “I think it’s time I said goodbye to tennis.”
We spoke by phone a few times after that, and the following summer (2018) Scott came to visit again. Being from Boston, Scott was a big baseball fan. We went to a Mariners game. In the year that had passed since our previous visit, Scott’s mobility had noticeably declined. His speech was slower and somewhat slurred. But his mind was as sharp as ever. Scott would talk about the things he had had to give up, but never complaining or attempting to burden the person he was talking with. It was all so matter of fact. I have never seen anyone model “acceptance” more stoically than Scott.
When Scott no longer had the balance to manage a two-wheeled bike, he began riding a recombinant three wheeler. But one day he simply shared, “I had my last ride on my tricycle. It’s too hard to get into anymore, so I will find it a new home.”
By mid-2019, Scott was no longer able to ski, ride a bike, or even drive. He became mostly confined to a wheelchair. With each new barrier to his mobility and quality of life, he confronted it gracefully, calmly, and with a quiet acceptance. When I would ask him how he was feeling, he would never shy away from discussing the struggles he was enduring. He was always transparent about his ordeal. But his focus was more about how grateful he was to have lived the life he had, and to have been surrounded by so many people that he loved and who loved him.
In his final months, Scott was no longer able to swallow solid food. His breathing became extremely labored, and it became hard to speak. He began receiving hospice care in his home. He used his final weeks to say his thank yous and goodbyes to his friends and family.
In November 2019, when Rachel wrote to me to share that Scott had passed peacefully in his sleep, I felt like I had lost a lifelong friend.
Scott was a man I deeply admired, for his courage, his grace, his kindness, and his desire to make a positive and lasting impact on the lives of the people he touched. I will forever be grateful for that chance encounter at a picnic table on Siesta Key and the introduction it gave me to one of the finest and most decent men I have ever known. A man who truly lived his life to the fullest.
[Postscript: A few weeks before Scott’s passing, a friend of his created this video of Scott and some of the places he traveled and people he visited while he still had his health. If you are curious, you can watch it here.]
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Do you suffer from Time Blindness? According to medical experts, if you’re always late to everything, you might have this condition. Sadly there’s no cure – unless you try using an alarm clock for once.
It seems like every month, we learn about a new mental health dysfunction. For example, I’ll bet you’ve never heard of Globophobia. This diagnosis, first issued in 2013, is the irrational fear of balloons. Then there’s Arachibutyrophobia, a fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of one’s mouth. As a child I had a beagle that suffered from this. I gave him a slice of bread with peanut butter on top, he chomped down on it, and struggled for the longest time just to open his mouth. I don’t think he ever forgave me.
Then there’s Alien Hand Syndrome (AHS), a rare medical condition in which the person loses total bodily control of one of their hands – something that attacks me whenever I play pickleball and invariably end up blowing the final point to lose the game, as I send the ball soaring wildly out of bounds.
It’s time to add another unusual mental disorder to the ever-growing list: an enigmatic condition known as Time Blindness. It’s a peculiar phenomenon where the victim is crippled by a severe inability to gauge how much time has elapsed or estimate how long a task will take. As a result, Time Blinders as they are called tend to be chronically late …for everything.
People who, like me, have mild to moderate ADD, are more prone to lose track of time because… where did I put my keys? I wonder when the next episode of Yellowstone will come out. Um… where was I? Oh right. Time Blindness. You may have a family member who suffers from this malady. Don’t scoff. It’s become a widespread mental health crisis. In fact, medical experts estimate 85% of people under the age of 30 who routinely watch TikTok videos on their phone experience this condition on an hourly basis. Don’t believe me? Just ask their parents.
I have tremendous empathy for these punctually impaired individuals. Imagine how difficult their lives must be. They set off for the grocery store to get a couple items, telling their girlfriend, “I’ll be home in 30 minutes with dessert” only to return two hours later, having purchased 40% of the bakery section’s inventory of pies and cakes – not to mention bringing home an impressive collection of new gardening tools, thanks to an unplanned side trip to the ACE hardware store because they saw they were having a 15% off sale. It’s as if their concept of time operates on a secret cosmic calendar that only they can decipher.
Victims of Time Blindness are late for everything – doctor’s appointments, romantic rendezvous, even driving their spouse to the airport. When you and your friends are waiting for one of these sufferers to meet up at the pub, and you receive a text telling you, “Almost there,” that’s not good. You and your buddies are in for a bit of a wait. The Time Blinder sent this text as they were about to leave their house – which is a good 45 minutes from where you are. I suggest you go ahead and order a round of hot wings while you wait.
Sufferers of Time Blindness tend to under-estimate how long it takes to do things, and as a result are chronically late. Sadly, Barry was late for his job interview and didn’t get the job. Fortunately, Barry dodged a bullet. He would have hated this job.
When Time Blinders email their boss, “I’ll have that report for you in an hour,” the boss shouldn’t stress out when six hours later, they receive another email with the subject line, “Almost done – just another couple of hours” It’s not the employee’s fault. They’re time blind. They can no more tell the difference between one hour and five than they could distinguish between a tuba and a French horn.
Oh, sure. Some naysayers might argue that Time Blindness is just a fancy medical-sounding name for ordinary procrastination – an excuse for self-absorbed narcissists to be rudely late, only thinking about their own priorities and ignoring the impact their chronic tardiness has on everybody else. And to that I say, um, er…um, Hmm. I see where you’re coming from, dear wife of mine.
It’s important not to judge these people too harshly – unless they’re your spouse, and this is the third time this week they kept you waiting twenty minutes while they tried to make up their mind about which earrings go with which outfit. My point is, in most cases, people struggling with this temporal distortion honestly just lose track of time. They don’t mean to be rude – except for my nephew Harold, who is never on time for anything. He’s just a jerk.
Often the chronologically challenged become so engrossed in whatever it is they’re focused on that time seems to stand still. Is it their fault that they accidentally got so distracted while binge-watching the final five episodes of Season Four of Succession that they totally forgot about your wedding? … Oh, you say they were the Best Man? And they had the wedding rings? Oh my. Well, then I definitely wouldn’t invite them to join you on your honeymoon.
This is Blake. He’s been playing Call of Duty for the past 14 hours. He totally forgot about his date with Jessica. He lost track of time. You may say Blake is an irresponsible, self-absorbed slacker. Experts say he’s a victim of Time Blindness. Experts are idiots.
Currently there is no known cure for Time Blindness. However, if you ask my wife, these victims could, for once in their lives, maybe just set an alarm on their phone or budget an additional hour to complete a task. I think we’ve just solved this medical crisis. That wasn’t so hard after all.
Of course, my wife has zero sympathy for people who are perpetually late. She has her own suggestion for how to cure them of their disorder: The next time you need to leave for the airport for a trip, and they’re not ready: LEAVE WITHOUT THEM. Let them miss the flight.
I hear where she’s coming from. But it’s not that simple. It was an NFL playoff game and it went into Double Overtime. I couldn’t just abandon my Seattle Seahawks in their time of need. I’m sure in time, my wife will eventually understand…. Eventually…. Or not.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
Long before Tinder was a thing, I went out on a computer date. Turns out our fleeting, star-crossed love affair was doomed from the start. The computer concluded we were a perfect match. The computer was wrong.
This is a true story about the shortest date in my life. Now, technically you could make the case that my wife was my shortest date, given that she tops out at 5 feet 0 inches.
But I’m not talking about the shortest person I ever dated. No, I mean the shortest date in terms of hours… um, make that minutes. Because my shortest date lasted exactly 37 minutes. Despite its brevity, this date still doesn’t rank as my worst date. That would be another date you can read about.
As much as this may come as a shock to some of my readers, I was not exactly a Ladies’ Man in my youth. That’s because I went to a private all-boys’ military prep school from grades one through twelve. I had literally no interaction with girls, and thus virtually no dating experience, until I headed off to college.
In my first year at the University of Virginia, the dorm I was assigned to was an upperclassmen dorm, because they’d run out of space in the freshmen dorms. I lacked the self-confidence and charisma to approach any of the female upperclassmen in my dorm for a date. I asked out precisely one girl during my freshman year, named Jocelyn. She was a cute girl in my Astronomy class. But when I asked her out in October, she replied (and I will never forget her exact words): “I’m going to be pretty busy until April.” To this day I regret not having the presence of mind to come back with, “I hear you. I’m pretty busy, too. How’s the month of May looking?” So, no, we never went out.
I actually did have one date my freshman year. My dorm-mates, always up for a fun practical joke at my expense, decided to enter my name – without telling me – into a computer dating dance party. To participate, you filled out a form with information about yourself, your personality, likes, etc., which information was fed into a computer database. It then matched you up with another student the algorithm determined was compatible with you. Like a primitive version of Tinder but without the ability to swipe right.
A week later, I received a notification that I had been matched up with a computer date. WTF?? How did this happen? Then realizing that I had had roughly about as much sex in my freshman year as a neutered Boston Terrier, I decided to “go with the flow” and see where this unexpected opportunity might lead.
The rules explained you were supposed to meet your match prior to the actual event. Her name was Judy Spivey, from Suffolk, Virginia. When I knocked on her door, she immediately greeted me with an almost guilty look on her face.
I quickly determined why she had that almost guilty look on her face. Because after ten minutes of mindless, mundane conversation about “what are your favorite hobbies” and “what’s your major,” my soon-to-be date dropped this bomb: “Tim, you probably should know something before we go out on this date. I’m engaged.”
“I’m sorry. You’re engaged? Engaged in what?” I replied, pretending not to understand what she’d just said.
“I have a fiancé,” she clarified. “We both decided to enter our names in this computer dating thing, just to see what kind of people we would get paired up with. We meant it as a joke.”“Wow. Hilarious. So, I’m the joke, is that it?” I thought to myself, realizing this was a complete waste of my time.
“I got paired up with you,” my not-so-dream date sheepishly explained.
“Oh, I see. And who did your future husband get paired up with?” I asked, barely hiding my annoyance.
“He didn’t.” [Insert long, extremely awkward pause….] “But we both agreed that I should go through with this date” – like it was her civic responsibility, like jury duty – just an unpleasant commitment she’d have to endure, spending an evening with me.
The dance was two days later. I knocked on her door. She was dressed in a knee-length red dress. I was wearing my finest lavender corduroy bell-bottom slacks and matching red-and-blue striped shirt, with what in retrospect was a way too wide white tie (hey, give me a break, I went to a military school, so I had zero fashion sense).
After we arrived at the dance, we sat nervously for about fifteen minutes, sipping our Diet Cokes as I struggled to keep the conversation going with cliched questions like “Do, you think Uva will have a good basketball team this year?” and “So, how did you and your fiancé meet?”
Before long, I noticed Judy kept diverting her glance to something in the distance. Make that, someone. Who was she looking at? Now, don’t get ahead of me. Then she looked back at me, noticeably agitated, and said, “Pardon me, I’ll be right back.”
In case you were thinking I made up this entire story, I did not. This is a photo of my computer date from our college’s book that showed the names and faces of all the incoming freshmen.
She headed off to talk with the person in the distance. You guessed it. Her fiancé had been watching us the entire time. In retrospect, it probably was the right call not to try to slow dance with her in front of her future husband. Decades later, I still remember Judy’s words when she returned to our table: “Would you like to see World War Three begin? Or would you like for this date to be over right now?”
If this had happened today, the far more self-confident, wise-cracking version of me would have grinned and said, “Thanks for giving me a choice. I think I’ll go with the first option, Judy.” But the shy, freshman college student version of me instead said, ”I understand. I wish you both the best of luck.” What a wimp. Then I looked at my watch. 37 minutes had elapsed since the start of our first and last date. As I plodded back to my dorm, it occurred to me that I could have stayed in my room and watched an entire episode of Hawaii Five-O. It would have lasted much longer than my date.
Now and then I look back on our surreal, aborted courtship and wonder whatever happened to Judy. I tried to look her up on Facebook but without success. I will never know. But I like to imagine her future without me. Maybe – just maybe – she had a miserable, tumultuous marriage, and her husband left her for a younger woman he found on Tinder. That makes me smile.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This is Pam. For years Pam has been carrying a grudge against her sister Meg because Meg got the entire $200K of their father’s inheritance. All Pam got was Barkley the dog. Barkley pees on the carpet every day and destroyed her sofa. Okay, Pam, I’d be angry, too.
I’ve rarely been one to hold a grudge. It takes a lot to get me triggered, and even then, I usually move past whatever momentary feelings of irritation I’m experiencing within minutes or, worst case, a couple of hours – unless it’s ANYTHING that my annoying neighbor Bert Higgins says or does, in which case, I will never let it go. What can I say, I just don’t like the guy.
Other than with my neighbor Bert, I never saw the point to letting personal resentments fester. Research shows that holding onto anger and bitterness is bad for your emotional and physical well-being – much like the feeling of rage that consumes many readers after having been subjected to my latest humor article: “Damn it, Jones! That’s ten minutes of my life I’ll NEVER get back!” is the usual complaint I receive.
Nelson Mandela once wrote, “Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” On a related note, for months I resented my first college girlfriend for making out with a friend of mine. Six months later, she still hadn’t died. So yeah, turns out Nelson was right.
I come from a hearty stock of grudge holders. One of my brothers who will not be named (okay, you twisted my arm – his name is Ted) would not speak to me for over a year because sixmonths after he had asked me for a three-month loan, I had the temerity to ask him to pay me back the $500 I had lent him. My egregious offense was asking to be paid back at all. Thankfully, my brother explained his understandable outrage at my insensitive treatment: “Family members should never expect to be paid back.” That was over forty years ago. He still harbors hard feelings. I’m confident in time, he’ll forgive me and reimburse me. Do you think it’s too late to ask him to include interest? Nah, that probably wouldn’t end well. Forget I even mentioned it.
Everybody holds onto grudges. Even famous people. For example, did you know that John Adams, America’s second president, was a close friend of Thomas Jefferson, our third president – until 1801? That’s the year that Jefferson defeated Adams for the presidency. Adams never forgave Jefferson (his VP when Adams was president) for running against him. They soon became bitter enemies, refusing to settle their differences for more than twenty years. It wasn’t until very late in life that they finally made amends. Personally, I’m not so sure they forgave each other so much as dementia may have set in, and they each thought they’d made a new friend.
Thomas Jefferson (L) and John Adams famously fell out of favor with each other and became bitter enemies. Jefferson was envious of Adams’ great wealth. Adams resented Jefferson for his lush, full head of hair and his hot mistress Sally Hemings.
Many famous people throughout history refused to let go of longstanding grudges: Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, Van Gogh and Gauguin, Thomas Edison and Nicola Tesla, Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono, Donald Trump and… well, just about everybody who’s ever worked for him.
The above list includes several extremely intelligent, talented people… and Donald Trump. In each case, they chose to keep the fires of grievance burning for years. At least Hamilton and Burr eventually found a way to abruptly resolve their feud – if you consider pistols at dawn an effective way to end a dispute.
Have you ever noticed how for some people, it’s easier to offer criticism than a compliment? Similarly, some of us would actually choose to stay angry and resentful rather than forgive the other person. Why is this? Here’s my theory: Sincere forgiveness can require a lot of effort. Worse, it just might require us to accept that we played a part in creating this rift. And why should we waste our time on self-reflection about our own shortcomings when it’s far less work to place all the blame on my annoying neighbor, Bert Higgins?
Besides, if we forgive the other person, that lets them off the hook. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Charlie Jamison forget about the fact that he ran over my pet guinea pig Bubbles with his Schwinn bicycle back in 5th grade. He still has never apologized for murdering my best friend.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that holding onto a long-simmering resentment offers several useful benefits. First, you’ll no longer need to worry about getting them a birthday present or sending a Christmas card. You won’t have to invite them over for Thanksgiving. And you can relax as you watch the football game knowing they’ll never interrupt the game with a pesky phone call to vent to you about their disappointing teenage son Norman.
If you expand your network of people towards whom you could harbor resentment, just think of how much spare time it will open up in your weekly schedule. Of course, it works in reverse as well. If there is someone in your life you find slightly unpleasant to be around, you might consider insulting them about their appearance or parenting skills. That way, they’ll start to resent you and, if you’re lucky, refuse to acknowledge your existence. Mission accomplished.
Why do people carry grudges? Well, in this case, it’s because Maria was named the prom queen, while her identical twin sister Evelyn lost out. So unfair. And Maria even had the nerve to wear the same dress as Evelyn. What a bitch.
So, I’ve changed my mind. Instead of letting go of past resentments, I’m going to start to embrace them. You hear that, Coach Steck? Perhaps you’ve forgotten about the time you demoted me to second string on our high school football team after I had one bad game back in 1973. Well, I haven’t forgotten, Coach. I’m coming to even the score with you – assuming that at the age of 104 you’re still alive, you son of a b*tch.
And Larry Elmendorf, don’t think I’ve forgotten that in 5th grade you once called me “Thunder Thighs Jones” because you thought I had fat thighs back then. Vengeance will be mine, by which I mean I will post a snarky comment about your recent weight gain on your Facebook page.
Tonight I’m supposed to make dinner, but I’m feeling lazy. I’d rather just have some leftover pizza and watch the game. I think I’ll get out of cooking by pretending to carry a grudge against my wife for nagging me repeatedly that I still haven’t mowed the lawn. Yeah, that should do the trick. And I’ll forgive her the next day, when it’s her turn to cook.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Now and then, I sometimes worry that things will go horribly awry. The other day, while out doing errands, I wondered, did I remember to turn off the stove? Close the front door? Unplug the toaster? It got me anxious… which is why, when I finally got home, everything was just fine. See? Worrying works!
You know, they say that worrying is like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do but gets you nowhere. My wife says that I worry too much, that I fret over every little thing that could go wrong, when the reality is, none of those things ever do. But she just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that the act of worrying is actually a highly effective, scientifically backed method of preventing disaster. Sure, she says I’m “obsessive” or “paranoid” or “a nervous nelly,” but I’ve done the math, and I’m convinced I’m right: worrying works!
I’ve started keeping track of some of the things I worry about – big things, small things, catastrophic things – and after careful analysis, I can confirm that more than 95% of these unpleasant scenarios never actually happen. And here’s the key: the reason they never occur is because I worried about them. That’s right, I’m the human equivalent of an emotional insurance policy. My worrying creates a protective bubble preventing the events I fear from materializing.
When my girls were in middle school if I hadn’t spent hours stressing over the possibility that one of them might get teased or tormented at school, they would have certainly at some point been accosted by a gang of sixth grade mean girls intent on humiliating them for a fashion faux pas by pelting them with bottles of hand lotion, lip gloss, or whatever else middle school girls keep in their purse. But since I worried about it, they always came home unscathed – conclusive proof positive that worrying is the best kind of prevention.
Let me explain how my Worrying Works theory is scientifically sound, by sharing a few examples.
A Cat Getting Loose
I know it’s irrational, but every time I open the front door to leave the house, I’m concerned one of our three cats will see their fleeting window of opportunity and make a run for it. I worry about them getting hit by a car, getting devoured by a coyote, or just deciding to leave us for a family of more responsible pet owners. They never actually do make a run for it, preferring instead to park themselves inside whatever newest cardboard box just arrived from Amazon. I can only assume that my intense worrying about this scenario somehow convinces them not to attempt a jail break. Cats are perceptive like that.
Falling Down the Stairs
I’m no longer in my prime, so the issue of falling actually is serious problem for people my age. I’m not exaggerating when I say that every time I descend a staircase, I’m mentally preparing myself for the possibility that I will trip, tumble and fall headfirst into a coma – probably while carrying a helpless kitten or a priceless Ming vase (although I don’t currently own a Ming vase).
The prospect of this horrible accident haunts me so much that I tightly cling to the handrail like it’s my lifeline. Clearly, obsessively worrying that I might fall has worked because I have never once fallen down the stairs. (I have accidentally tripped over our cat Zippy lounging on the landing a couple times, however.)
Running Out of Money
Ever since I found out five days before the start of my second year that my father could no longer afford to pay for my college education (true), I’ve been a bit obsessed with financial security. I have this nagging feeling that eventually our nest egg will run out, and we’ll be forced to sell our house and move into a trailer park where our unit is right next door to a recently released ex-con who did time for arson, plays Metallica at full volume at 2am, and hates cats.
The reality is that our financial planner says we have enough of a cushion comfortably to get us through the next ten years. Yeah, but what about after that? Hopefully, by anxiously checking our bank balance every nine hours, my financial day of reckoning can be postponed.
At every annual physical, I worry this will be the time my doctor tells me I have a brain tumor the size of a grapefruit. So far, that’s never been the case. However, recently he told me I could lose a few lbs. Now I’m worried about my weight.
My House Getting Destroyed
I know it’s a bit extreme, but sometimes when I leave the house, I wonder if I’ve left the stove on, or worse – if the house is going to spontaneously combust. Either that or vanish into a mysterious sinkhole that was lurking for all these years directly under our house. But despite my constant worry, I’ve never come home to a smoking pile of ashes or any other disaster – unless you consider my cable TV going out due to a windstorm a disaster. I’ll never know with 100% certainty, but I’m pretty sure my anxious brain is working overtime to keep our house safe.
Annoyingly, my wife doesn’t appreciate the thousands of dollars my habit of worrying about absolutely everything has saved us. Okay, I’ll admit that I can’t prove that my compulsive worrying has kept the countless worst-case scenarios at bay. But I’m not ready to let down my guard. I know that the moment I do, my car will break down on the way to the airport, and Zippy will escape out the garage door that I forgot to close. And I’ll probably get a cavity.
You may think I’m crazy. But my system has been working for many years. And my advice to you is this: You really should be worrying way more about stuff than you do. It just might ensure that on your upcoming trip to Florida, the plane doesn’t crash in the Bermuda Triangle. Just trying to look out for you, buddy.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I used to stress out over some of the silliest things, like, was I a good enough manager at work? Was I doing enough to be a supportive husband? Would my teenage daughters turn out okay? Would I ever cure my banana slice drives off the tee? (Answer to that last question: No.)
But then I met somebody who helped me put so many aspects of my life into proper perspective. His name is Buddy. I’ve known Buddy for the past eight years. He’s starting to get up there in age. I’m not sure how many more years he has left, to be honest.
I’ve never seen him shave. He seems to wear the same outfit every day. He prioritizes comfort over fashion. Buddy has never been one to be concerned with impressing other people. He doesn’t care if others judge him for his lackadaisical lifestyle. He is comfortable in his own skin. Buddy leads a simple, modest life.
Nowadays, since I’m retired, and I’m pretty sure Buddy doesn’t work anymore either, we see each other often. He’s never been into accumulating tech toys, expensive clothes, or watches. He never pursued getting a driver’s license, so he can’t even legally drive. As far as I know, he doesn’t travel much. At least he’s never mentioned any trips to exotic locations. He’s never been to Disneyland, nor has he expressed any deep desire to visit the Grand Canyon. He’s pretty much a homebody, from what I can tell.
Buddy’s needs are simple. He doesn’t brag about his latest achievement. He never talks rudely or arrogantly around women. He doesn’t drink or smoke. He’s no gourmet, but he wouldn’t turn down a good New York steak if you offered it to him.
In our visits, Buddy has helped me realize what’s important in life – and what isn’t. He comes by now and then and, with a gentle glance, reminds me to take a deep breath and relax. If he had a mantra, it would be four words: “Don’t Worry. Be Happy.” The way my friend sees it, nothing on my list of worries is all that pressing, anyway. Whatever it is I’m currently obsessing over, it can’t be that important. Or if it is, it will pass soon enough. Keep reminding me about that, okay, Buddy?
I often wonder how Buddy lets the worries of life just glide over him, like water off a duck’s back. He never complains about any of his ills, even when his arthritic legs are acting up, and it’s hard for him to take long walks. He’s unflappable and takes everything in stride. I admire this about him. I want to be more like Buddy. I need to acquire his indefatigably calm perspective on life’s ups and downs.
Over the past several years, we’ve become extremely close. When I share some of the things I have been working on, Buddy never interrupts me. He’s a better listener than a talker. He never discusses his own troubles. He is the least self-absorbed, most well-adjusted fellow I’ve ever known. When you’re in his presence, his entire focus is on you. And in minutes, all my cares and worries seem to melt away.
Buddy doesn’t move as quickly as he used to. His walk has slowed to somewhere between a saunter and an amble. These days, he enjoys relaxing in his big comfy chair and soaking in the sun. There have been times when I was so busy that I didn’t slow down long enough to reach out to him to say hi. But he never seems to hold a grudge about those sorts of things. When we finally reconnect, he’ll just look at me with the kindest eyes, and I know he’s just glad to see me again.
I don’t know how much longer Buddy will be around. I’ve noticed he’s been moving a lot slower lately. And I can tell he’s in pain sometimes, especially when he gingerly attempts to negotiate stairs. But he never complains. He just accepts his lot in life, never choosing to play the victim. Buddy has taught me to be a more patient, calm, and grateful human being. He has taught me to be more forgiving of others and not to worry about things I can’t control.
I think about the fact that someday before too long, Buddy will probably pass away. When that day comes, I will miss him terribly. But until then, I’m grateful to have him in my life. And at the end of every day, I look forward to lying in bed, knowing that in a few minutes, Buddy will quietly meander into my bedroom, and lie down next to me. And my wife doesn’t mind it a bit. After all, Buddy’s her cat, too.
PS: Oh, about the photo at the top of this article. That’s a dear friend of mine named Charlie. He’s a great guy. Hope that wasn’t confusing.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Over the course of 45 minutes, I found myself bonding with this kind, transparent man, who refused to play the role of victim. He was going to use his time in the months ahead to mentor men and boys on how to lead lives of compassion, integrity, and authenticity. And he was going to see as much of the world as he could. I told Scott that if he ever found his way up to the Pacific Northwest, we would love to invite him to visit with us.
In his final months, Scott was no longer able to swallow solid food. His breathing became extremely labored, and it became hard to speak. He began receiving hospice care in his home. He used his final weeks to say his thank yous and goodbyes to his friends and family.
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