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Getting Past What Holds You Back with Baby Boomer Weight Loss Expert Scott 'Q' Marcus

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Farewell to the Healer

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The first time I met Dr. Scott Sattler was at his office, back in the nineties.

I was selling pagers — prior to the omnipresence of cell phones. Scott was the decision-maker for a local medical group. I was ushered into the room and warmly greeted with an outstretched hand and smile that seemed like it could split his face in half. Prominent on the wall behind his desk was a poster consisting of Sanskrit writing.

In sales, one learns to establish “emotional rapport” quickly; a fancy term for “be friendly and interested in what the person in front of you finds of import.” However actually curious, I asked of him, “What does that mean?”

I’m sure I’m gumming up the translation but, as I recall, it was something about “The doctor is not the healer.” He elaborated that he was merely the vehicle by which healing could take place, but that healing came from a greater source and simply directed him, in conjunction with the natural abilities of the human body.

I knew I would like him from that moment on. I was not wrong.

We crossed paths regularly. His twisted, playful, quick-witted sense of humor made him a regular in the annual pun-off, in which I competed several times.

A few years ago, he was diagnosed with cancer but continued to be active; speaking on the “Gift of Cancer.”

I recall him arriving at the Center for Spiritual Living, wool beanie covering his now hairless head, yet his ever-present smile still bursting forth sunshine. Using word and song, he shared how his knowledge of having a terminal disease actually made him more aware and grateful for what life brought. He didn’t show regret, simply acceptance of the path on which he now walked. Scott was active in the Sufi faith and his inclusive lessons and stories brought tears of joy to the eyes of those of us in the chairs. His singing voice was pure, penetrating to our souls. The fact that Scott’s story of having cancer could bring forth so much gladness in others summed him up.

Wanting so much to be near that optimism, and being the producer of a motivational podcast at the time, I asked if he’d be willing to share his story on a wider level. We scheduled an hour and I met him at his home, recording equipment in hand. Listening to him, I felt like I was sitting at the foot of wisdom. It was an interview I wished would never end.

The next time I saw him, a few months later, he was in remission.

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Richard Borough

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Ironically, I might never have met him if it wasn’t for this column.

I had been publishing it for about five years when a woman in one of my meetings pulled me aside as the meeting ended. Almost in a whisper, as if not wanting to be a tattletale, she said, “I think somebody is plagiarizing you.”

“Why?” I asked.

She pulled from her purse a clipped article from the local paper written by Dr. Richard Borough, Ph.D. “Look at this,” she said, tapping the paper, “It’s the same thing you talk about in our meetings. You might want to call him.” The piece was about SMART goals.

“Thank you,” I said, “But, no, he didn’t copy me. That’s a common technique among those of us who work on goal setting.”

It was, however, enough of a prompt for me to reach out and introduce myself to him.

Richard ran a business support group, “Mastermind Alliance,” which he developed years prior when he was getting his practice on its feet in the bay area. When he moved to the Northcoast, he relocated its meetings, eventually expanding it also to the Central Valley. I had heard of it from business associates, almost always spoken of in hushed reverence; regarded as a blend of the “Million Dollar Circle” and the Who’s Who of local entrepreneurs. Great minds developed great concepts within its monthly get-togethers; only the best were invited.

Richard asked me to attend the first day we met. I don’t know if I was a “Great Mind,” yet I enjoyed the camaraderie, companionship, and supportive sharing. As my career morphed and changed, I no longer needed to attend; however, it remained on my calendar and whenever an open Wednesday made itself available, I was there.

Richard was at first a mentor, but as we worked jointly on projects, and discovered we had so many similarities, such as writing, speaking, marketing, and coaching; we developed a tight bond. He reached out to me for suggestions as often as I with him. It was inevitable that Richard and I became more than friends. I know the expression is somewhat overused, but he really did feel like a brother. I never had a brother, let alone an older one. Richard filled that role, as well as being a loyal friend.

For some reason unbeknownst to me, we didn’t go out often, only doing so on each other’s birthdays.

That was it, no more. Yet we never missed it. That unto itself was not so odd, but he insisted that we forever, every time, without fail, visit Oaxaca Grill and always order the same meal. We would do so on his birthday each year — and then again on mine. Despite suggestions from me, no other options were considered.

“Why do we always come here?” I asked. “Why not somewhere else?”

“I like this restaurant.” He replied simply as if that answered everything.

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I Lost Another Friend This Week

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The ability to cope with loss is one of the most important life-skills we need as we age.

Bluntly put, either we die or those around us will die. If we go first, it doesn’t really much matter (at least to us). Yet that’s not the preferred option. Therefore, the longer we live, the more loved ones we will lose. If we cannot cope, we shrivel.

I don’t need to tell you that, especially in a year like this one.

Although you and I might appear to follow different trails, we’re actually traveling the same path. You’ve had losses. I’ve had losses. It’s a sad part of the universal human experience. With life, comes death; ain’t no way around it. Said new-thought singer Jana Stanfield in her song I’m not lost, I am Exploring, “All of us are headed for the same destination/ So why not blaze travel that’s got imagination.”

I’m now closer to 100 than I am to 30, and this is not as old as I plan to be.

So, I must look ahead and plan for what those future days will be like.

To do so, I – most likely as do you – look for inspiration from those with wisdom; in action, thought, or deed. My preferred role models have altered over the decades. When younger, with life stretched out in front of me, an unending highway vanishing over a far-away horizon; I sought career advice from those successfully earning their way in my field of choice, radio. Wanting a relationship, I took a seat at the feet of many successful in their pairings, querying them as to how they met, how they knew they were right for each other, and what kept them together.

In order not to live in fear at this age, I’ve now taken to looking for older role models; men who are healthy and active well into their later years. Over time, I’ve been inspired by Dick Van Dyke, Mel Brooks, George Bush Sr., and Jimmy Carter. (The difficulty I’m running into woefully is that the older I get, the fewer men I can find who are a few decades older than me.) Politics aside, these men show(ed) zest for life continuing to appear to welcome in each morning. By the way, they lead their lives, they sweep away doubt and fear for those who follow. They’re not perfect. They’re probably not fearless either. But it doesn’t matter. As Jack Nicholson said to Helen Hunt in As Good As It Gets, “You make me want to be a better man.”

Last week, one of my local role models, Everett Henkle, passed on.

Right up until he passed, Everett remained active. He had to be ordered to rest. Even in his eighties, he kayaked; worked to clean up our local highways, and volunteered at every event we conducted at the Center for Spiritual Living. He was first in line to move tables, sweep floors, mow lawns, or just hang with you and talk. Energizer bunny? Meet your human counterpart.

But it’s not just about how much one can accomplish. I was drawn to his joie de vivre  — he was upbeat, aware, and engaging. (He also had great taste; he loved to read this column.) Finally, although he and his wife, Ruth, were a couple of decades older than my wife and me; seeing them together inspired us because we saw that “getting up there” didn’t mean romance must end.

I don’t want to paint a false image. Everett and I didn’t get together for coffee or go out to a movie or march in protests together. Truth be told, outside of events associated with the Center, the only other times I saw him were accidental; maybe if we bumped into each other in the store or something similar.

See, but that’s the thing. One doesn’t have to hang out with one’s role models in order to learn and be inspired. It’s their energy, the way they approach their lives, it’s their attitudes that speak to us. Being around them lifts us up.

Everett did that for me. I am more than I was and I am more hopeful because I knew him.

Possibly the saddest thing is on a Sunday morning when I’d greet him at the entrance to the Sanctuary, he’d say, “Another good column Scott.”

I hope I did you proud Everett. Thank you for being in my life.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and founder of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, where he can be contacted for coaching, consulting, and presentations. During this social distancing period, he is conducting monthly on-line workshops on setting goals and getting past what holds you back. You can find out more at www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com/intentions

 

Walking a Minefield: Tribute to Friend

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It’s been said the difference between depression and grief is that the former seduces, while the latter attacks.

Whether it’s delivered by phone, direct conversation, email, or – ever more prevalent these days – via social media; the effects remain the same. Word blasts you in the solar plexus as a surprising sucker punch. A tsunami of shock flooding away whatever thoughts had been active the instant prior, blood rushes from your head, you stagger slightly, and then the awful reality of the moment clamps itself firmly on to your psyche, a rabid dog unwilling to let go.

Shake it as you might, the jaws of grief hold tightly; the only effective tools to pry loose its pincers are acceptance of this new horrific, hurting actuality; and patience, allowing time to apply — however slowly — its healing salve.

Looking back on the twisted road that to date has been my life’s journey, one of the main thoroughfares on which I’ve traveled has been my involvement in the media.

Starting as a college DJ at UCLA, I spent decades on the air and behind the scenes, eventually ending up as a media coordinator and consultant (among other jobs). There was an expression among “air personalities” back then: “You can tell the success of a disc jockey by the size of the trailer attached to his car.” Between the years of 1977 and the early eighties, I had no fewer than nine addresses. Tribes of nomads were we, wayfaring across this vast land, U-hauls in tow, pursuing larger audiences and higher wattage, mostly in pursuit of the Holy Grail of prime time on a clear-channel 50,000-watt blowtorch.

Some found it. Most took a detour — as did I, ending up on the Northcoast of California in 1983 to program an AM/FM combo. My original plan? Stay among the redwoods for a few years before moving to the bay area, intent on afternoon drive on KFRC. Should 35 be labeled as “a few years,” there’s still time. (Of course, KFRC has been gone since 2005 so there is that.)

Over the last 24 hours, I’ve heard distressing news about two of the tent posts of my life for these last three-plus decades.

One of my closest friends has been fighting cancer. Recently, he was told there was nothing left to do, “Go home and live your life as well as you can.” I fear that a future column will pay tribute to him.

Yet, today, I awoke to find out that Pete Meyer, morning personality on Power 96 in Eureka, passed away shockingly, suddenly, without foretoken.

It’s appropriate that as I write this, gray clouds suffocate our sky line, embracing the melancholy that this community now collectively bears.

If you don’t live among the towering titan trees and rocky coasts in Humboldt county, I’ll bet you know someone like Pete.

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Skipping Across the Rainbow Bridge

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“Jack” was the name chosen by someone long before us.

jack-&-I

However, when we rescued him from the shelter, we figured, “Why not? We might as well keep the name.” His moniker morphed strangely to “Jackpot,” slid into “Pot-Pot,” and eventually just — embarrassingly enough — “Pot.” I usually called him “Big Puppy.”

Being older, Jack had “issues.”

Boy howdy, did he have issues! We didn’t seek out a dog that needed 24-hour attention, but we got one. Within a week of his “gotcha” day, we discovered he had hypersensitive skin, causing him to chew and scratch at his sides so much, he would bleed. To prevent self-mutilation, we stumbled upon the idea of adorning him in toddler-sized T-shirts. Since Mini-human clothing is not designed for Mini Schnauzers, we had to put the shirts on backwards – with the design facing up instead of down. Securing them so he didn’t trip, while still providing freedom to “do his business,” he was the most “stylin’” dog in town. Eventually, he acquired a complete wardrobe of emblazoned with super hero motifs, holiday fashions, and our favorite, inscribed, “Mommy’s Little Monster” in stark white letters. Beyond soothing his skin, we’re sure he liked them because after every walk (when we had to remove his shirt to attach his leash), he’d wait for us to re-dress him.

A never-ending source of noises was our Big Puppy.

He didn’t bark much (unless he saw another dog) but he grunted, groaned, licked, chewed, yawned, and exhaled loudly without end. He also broke wind – constantly, always a source of confusion to him, causing him to spin mid-step, seeking the source of the rear-end disruption.

What most people remember was that he “skipped.”

Because his hind legs were too close together and he had scoliosis (did I say he had “issues?”) his rear feet bumped each other when he walked, causing him to hop, giving the appearance he was skipping down the street. It didn’t slow him down, but did provide the funniest impression of a Fred-Astaire-Singing-in-the-Rain upbeat gait as he strolled down the avenue. Ironically, it was spot-on; he actually was happiest in those moments.

Sunday was our last walk.

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Scott "Q" Marcus 707 834.4090 scottq@thistimeimeanit.com

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