It's been a while since I've heard any mention of Jean Scott. Brad and she were my wife's and my favorite Vegas "celebs." Have you heard from her and if so, how is she doing?
[Editor's Note: Of course we've heard from Jean. She's also our favorite Las Vegas celeb. Here's what she told us in response to this question -- and others of its ilk.]
Lately, people have asked how I’m really doing. Apparently, my lifelong habit of putting on a cheerful face at all times doesn’t fool everyone.
Here’s the honest answer. I’m okay. But I’m not always “fine,” at least not in the bright breezy way I sometimes say it. Growing older gracefully has always been my goal, but let’s just say I’m still working on that project.
Doctors are doing their part with the physical side of aging. Hearing aids so I can jump into conversations instead of just smiling and nodding. Special glasses — with prisms, no less — so I can read what I write and stop tripping over curbs. Eye injections to cure a bleeding retina. Medication to wrestle with insomnia. It’s quite a list. If there were player’s cards for medical appointments, I’d be at the top tier by now.
But mental health — that’s my assignment.
After five years of caregiving as Brad’s health slowly declined, I thought I was prepared for his passing. He had 92 full happy years. Even in the final stages of dementia, he always recognized me. It was a blessing that he slipped away peacefully in his sleep, exactly as we’d both hoped and talked about for years. And although we didn’t meet until we were middle-aged, we still had 40 wonderful years together.
Yet I learned in an instant that no one is ever truly prepared to lose the love of their life.
The grief has lasted longer — and felt heavier — than I expected. At fifteen months now, I can finally say I’m beginning to see a little more daylight beyond those black clouds of sorrow. I’m doing the things we’re told help: leaning on family and dear friends (including many of you reading this), looking for ways to support others walking their own hard roads, and staying engaged. That engagement has taken the form of learning, playing, and even teaching a wonderfully challenging new game — Mahjong.
My hardest task, though, may be learning to relax. My daughter Angela gently reminds me that I’ve spent my entire life filling every minute with purpose. At one point, I had to buy bigger desk calendars just to squeeze in everything I intended to accomplish each day.
Now my brain still thinks I’m 67 and comes up with so many interesting plans. My 87-year-old body, however, frequently waves a bright red stop sign.
So I’m negotiating between the two. I look at my still-crowded calendar, but it’s written in pencil, so I’m practicing the art of erasing. If something demands too much energy or makes a day feel crammed, out it goes. Even my recliner has started to look less like surrender and more like wisdom.
“Trying to relax,” for someone wired like I am, can feel like an oxymoron. But I’m making progress.
And these days, when someone asks how I’m doing — really doing — I can more often answer with a strong and truthful “Fine.”
