What It Takes To Be Betsy by Betsy Ashton

Most of you who know me or who have been following me know I'm independent and stubborn. That's a double understatement. So, three weeks ago on April 25th when I fell and broke my wrist, I knew I was going to need a lot of help. My dear husband stepped up to taking care of me along with all of his own tasks. He had no idea what being me entailed.

I broke the right radius, the bone that allows the wrist to turn. I had surgery one week later. 

Now, I'm profoundly right-handed, so I knew teaching my useless left hand to do anything would be a long and winding road. It was and is. 

Let's start with what I'm doing now: writing a blog entry. I'm typing with my left hand, backing up constantly to fix typos, and trying to keep my thoughts clear. Yes, my brain struggles to fend off the anesthesia muzzies. I figured out how to hunt and peck the letters. Then there was a contraption called THE MOUSE. I didn't reset the buttons, because it wouldn't have done a darned bit of good. I'm getting better at mousing. I'm so proud of me. I'm feeling cocky enough to trying to cut and paste, but not until I feel like being bought to my knees in frustration.

Cooking is out of the question. I have a freezer full of homemade soups and stews. We laid in a stack of Lean Cuisine and plenty of fresh veggies for salads and for roasting on the grill. Terry is good in the kitchen. Normally, I cook and he cleans up. Now, he's doing it all. I'm so lucky. Eating itself can be a challenge. As one of my friends said years ago about his toddler: "it's not pretty, but it's effective." Only twice since the break have I wished for a bib. At least, clothes and hands wash. Speaking of laundry, I've never been good at folding fitted sheets, but at least I have an excuse. Wonder how long I can milk this for sympathy.

Personal hygiene has been easier than I thought. A baggie over the mallet bandage first and the brace now, rubber bands to keep the water out, and an elbow to help with shampoo bottles work to keep me clean. Pedicures take care of toes and feet. Forget makeup. I'm out and about in native skin. And bless the people who developed battery-operated toothbrushes; they are my heroes.

To the people who have come to my aid--the nice young lady who helped me put groceries in the car, the barista who put lids on my coffee so I don't pour slop hot liquids all over, and the sweet young girl who carried two lattes to the car--I appreciate your kindness and am in your debt. 

To Joesephine at the Westlake Library, the "scene of the crime," who fetched ice, called Terry, and took me to get emergency treatment, you're my hero for springing into action and not getting sick when you saw how out of alignment the wrist was. I promise to share your kindness forward, right after you rename the building "The Betsy Ashton Library at Westlake."

Two weeks after surgery, I'm in a brace like the kind we wear for carpal tunnel and start physical therapy next week. Keep an eye on Facebook for updates. And if you see Terry looking harried, give him a smile and a hug. He's my super hero.

Your Five-Minute Best Friend by Betsy Ashton

We all know what BFFs are. They're those dear friends who are with us no matter what. We may have known them since elementary school, or they may have entered our lives more recently. We all have at least one. What I'm talking about here is a best friend who shows up exactly when you need her and then disappears.

These best friends find you in a time of need. Maybe you've slipped and fallen. This BF helps you up, sits with you for a few minutes to be sure you are all right, offers to call your family. Maybe even gives you a hug before going on her way. I bet if something like this happened to you, you haven't forgotten that five-minute kindness.

Back when I was commuting, I had a five-minute BF every morning. I rode the Hudson line of Metro-North into New York City daily for eleven years. For that decade and a year, Ralph was my conductor on the morning run. Tall, maybe 50+, with a smile that lit up the darkest and coldest winter mornings. He moved with a practiced rocking gait as the train pitched and yawed down tracks that should have been replaced years earlier. He had his own patter when we flashed out monthly passes.

"Thank you."
"Thank you, miss."
"Thank you, ma'am."

A bare "thank you" was reserved for all the men whose noses were buried in papers. "Thank you, miss" was for younger women, whose noses may or may not have been buried in papers. "Thank you, ma'am" was reserved for women of a certain age, one Ralph never explained.

I waited eagerly every morning for my smile and greeting. I looked forward to it. The regular commuters made sure to tell Ralph if they were going to be away for more than a few days. He had a tendency to worry and ask if you knew the woman you always sat with was all right. And when he had a vacation planned, he let us know.

We came to know about his children and grandchildren. We know what kind of car he drove. And yet not one of us thought to ask him about the difference between "miss" and "ma'am."

I was in my tenth year of the commute when things changed. Now, understand, please. My looks hadn't changed all that much since my first day on Metro-North. I'd had silvery gray hair when I arrived. I weighed plus-or-minus five pounds over the ten years.

One morning, the fateful day arrived. Ralph smiled at me and said, "Thank you, ma'am." My seatmate gasped. I gasped. People around me gasped. Ralph didn't. He rolled his way up the car, oblivious to the turmoil he'd caused.

That winter day was the day Ralph ceased to be my BF. Forever.

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Betsy Ashton is the author of Mad Max, Unintended Consequences, and Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, now available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.