A Love Letter to Betty
Rest in Peace my Sassy Friend
A Love Letter to Betty
Betty was a feisty gem, and I count myself lucky that our paths crossed. She was ninety‑four when we met, and from the very first moment she made it abundantly clear who was in charge. My kind of woman. I remember thinking, Yes, this is exactly who I want to be at ninety‑four. Fiercely independent, sharp as a tack, delightfully sassy, and unapologetic about enjoying a stiff cocktail at the end of the day.
During our first meeting, she instructed me, didn’t ask, instructed me to go to the liquor store and pick up her gin and vermouth. She had a nightly martini ritual. I paused, wondering whether this was a good idea. After all, I had been hired to be her care manager, and duty is duty. But it didn’t take long to realize that saying no to Betty was simply not an option. Besides, she had been enjoying her martinis without incident for more years than I had been alive. So I followed my marching orders.
Betty grew up in Wales, and her accent, still thick, musical, and wonderfully unapologetic, allowed her to get away with more than most. She could snap your head off if you tried to argue, so I learned quickly that reasoning was the only path forward. Over time, she let me in. She trusted me. And I adored her stories: growing up in her family’s hotel, the day the Beatles walked in “just a bunch of scrawny boys from Liverpool,” she’d say with a dismissive wave. Oh, how I wish I could have known her then. I treasure every tale she shared.
As the months passed, she came to rely on me. She even allowed me to make suggestions, though that didn’t guarantee she’d listen. Mostly, she let me help her when she could no longer do certain things herself. What we built was more than a professional relationship; it was a friendship, a bond I will carry in my heart forever.
Eventually, Betty began to decline. A hospital stay led to rehab, and during one of those stays, I received a panicked call from her vet. Her beloved cat, Sammie had died. I was with her when they told her. Days later, she looked at me with hollowed eyes and said, “It will never be the same again.” I didn’t argue. I simply said, “Yes, Betty. Things will never be the same.”
Three months later, Betty passed away, reunited with her loving husband, reunited with Sammie, reunited with the life she had lived so boldly.
Rest in peace, Betty. You were loved on this earth far more than you could ever imagine. Thank you for letting me into your life. Thank you for the martini lessons, the stories, the sass, and the privilege of knowing you.
