HAPPY BIRTHDAY IN HEAVEN

My hometown friend Betty Ann (not her actual name) was a year ahead of me in school. As far as I know, all she ever wanted was to enjoy her cozy apartment, take long walks into town and back, hold a steady job, study and listen to opera, design and sew her own clothing, and pursue her favorite pastime, correspondence with friends and classmates who had long since moved away.

She always made time for a visit with me when I came down from Boston where I had gone to law school, married, and permanently relocated. I felt like a celebrity when I visited her, returning to my hometown with news from the further reaches of the Northeast.

Then, the arcs of our lives flew off in different directions, hers into chaos.

Betty Ann majored in math and went on to general accounting positions in mid-size companies, including a branch of a corporation based in Switzerland (although she was never assigned overseas). She learned to sew from her mother and made and mended all of her clothing, an old-fashioned skill that she perfected. If I needed a skirt shortened or if my mom needed a broken zipper installed, she offered gladly.

We attended the same state women’s college in New Jersey, but after graduation I moved on to Boston and she stayed in Linden. We corresponded regularly over the decades. She never missed sending birthday and Christmas cards to everyone in her life, a pastime which gave her obvious pleasure.

Other than taking the train into New York City, I do not recall that Betty Ann traveled much. But in 1972, she fired up her big white boat of an Oldsmobile sedan and drove up to Massachusetts to attend my wedding. She had designed a long sleeveless aqua blue dress especially for the occasion. Another summer, she drove up again, this time to visit at our lakefront house in Essex. These two trips were major journeys, a rare departure from her routine. I don’t think she ever travelled to other regions or outside of the country; she would surely have sent me picture postcards if she had.

Betty Ann had two sisters but the family lived their lives separately and apart, not seeming to display any particular closeness or involvement with each other that I could detect. But she seemed satisfied to create a supportive family circle of her own making. She was especially fond of my mother Rose and visited often. After I left Linden, she strengthened her friendship with my mom and watched over her between my visits. When my mom left to live nearer to me in Boston, Betty Ann enlisted her church group to clean out the closets and basement and distribute to charities what my mom left behind.

She was briefly engaged in her forties to a younger fellow but the relationship broke apart before they could plan a marriage date. In her fifties, she met an engineer, Herb, and they became close friends although not romantically linked. One year she sent me a photo of herself and Herb on their way to an evening performance at the Metropolitan Opera. Herb was dressed in a tux and Betty Ann wore a mink jacket, probably her mother’s. She looked radiant!

As we entered our sixties, I began to have a hard time reading her mail. Her handwriting became progressively undecipherable even though the letters and cards kept coming. I didn’t know what to make of it, but continued to respond, knowing that a letter in the mailbox made her day.

Out of concern I contacted Herb, who told me that, sadly, Betty Ann was suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s. Her sisters lived in the same town but were not involved, so it was her caring friend who handled her finances and made all arrangements for household and caregiving help.

I visited Betty Ann within the year that I heard of her situation. She still recognized me, although the environment in her sweet little apartment was in disarray. I noticed a pile of dolls and stuffed animals on her bed. She told me that Herb had given them to her for Christmas. I met the full-time caregiver he had hired and was satisfied that she was responsible to my friend.

Instead of tailored skirts, slacks, and blouses in materials of fine quality, Betty Ann wore sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers with Velcro tabs, easier for her caregiver to manage. We were able to take a walk past our old junior high school and reminisced about our teachers. She reminded me of a teacher who was the favorite of many, Mrs. Somkopoulos, a name that was deeply imprinted in her memory, still. I knew it was a precious moment of clarity between us—and most likely one of the last.

Some months later, I visited again. This time, her condition had worsened and she spent a great deal of time curled up in bed in fetal position, clutching her dolls and stuffed animals. She couldn’t carry on a conversation and had clearly lost all comprehension of what her life was about, depending on others for what they term ”activities of daily living.” What makes you who you are. Now that I know more about the care and fate of dementia victims, I surmise that Herb did all he could to keep her out of a nursing home . . . and he succeeded.

And then, in 2008, after another six months, an obituary: Accountant, lifelong Linden resident, age 64.

Betty Ann had mentioned to me that her mom and her maternal aunts had all developed Alzheimer’s, but neither of us suspected that she too was in line as a victim. After her passing, her middle sister developed Parkinson’s and died at 68. I later learned that her youngest sister passed at age 69. My friend’s genetic pool was toxic, filled with demons lying in wait for her and her sisters after it worked its destruction on the preceding generation. Its evil work is now done with them.

Betty Ann would have celebrated her 80th birthday today, December 31st, eagerly awaiting the arrival of cards for her milestone year from her many loyal correspondents. But first, she would have sent out a stack of Christmas cards with personal notes inside, then eagerly await greetings in return.

I wish I could tell her how beautiful she looked in that aqua blue dress she had worn to my wedding and how grateful I felt that she honored the occasion by driving up the coast to be there, but it is never too late to pay respects and express affection for a friend that we miss.

Her fate continues to haunt me. If only there had been a way for me to share my store of good fortune with her. Even so, it is my privilege to pay tribute to her memory at this most joyful time of her year, the end of December, with greetings and good will traveling furiously back and forth in the mail.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY IN HEAVEN, DEAR FRIEND . . . .