“Help!” — Learning to Ask, Learning to Adapt
🎵 “And now my life has changed in oh so many ways
My independence seems to vanish in the haze…” — The Beatles, “Help!” (1965)
I was doing my usual morning routine, and I needed something from the top shelf of the pantry. I reached up like I always used to — I’m 5’9” with a nearly 7-foot reach. But this time, I couldn’t do it. I had to grab my “grabbie stick.” It hit me in that moment: I used to do this with no trouble at all. But not anymore.
Then I tried to open a new container of half and half for my coffee. My hands didn’t cooperate. I reached for the jar opener tucked in my utility drawer. I used to be able to twist open any jar or bottle. But not anymore.
Last weekend, I looked over my shoe collection for a pair of heels to wear with a dress. I saw my old favorites — 3 to 4 inch heels I wore with confidence for years. Now, I stick to 1.5 to 2 inch block heels. I used to strut in stilettos like they were sneakers. But not anymore.
That’s when “Help!” by The Beatles came to mind. Yes, some of my independence seems to have vanished in the haze. So what on Earth happened?
Life happened.
A slow, creeping change began in my body. I didn’t notice it at first — the physical impairments were so subtle. Eventually, I learned I had rheumatoid arthritis, diabetes, and psoriatic arthritis. The autoimmune system that was supposed to protect me had gone into overdrive, and I had no idea. I was diagnosed with all three conditions at the age of 40. The triple whammy.
With medication, therapy, and changes in lifestyle, I began my journey to maintain as much independence as possible.
I didn’t do it alone.
My husband was my rock. He installed a raised toilet seat. He opened the stubborn jars. He reached up to grab what I couldn’t. He could sense when I was heading into a flare and would gently tell me to rest while he took care of chores. I didn’t need much help — but he was always there to fill in the gaps. His presence, his encouragement, and his quiet support meant everything.
But now, he’s gone. And his help is gone.
So what did I do?
I found new ways to ask for help.
The house we’d lived in for over 30 years no longer worked for me. With 15 stairs just to reach the living areas, I knew it would eventually become unmanageable. I had a single-level home built — one that met my evolving needs.
The sedan I once loved became a struggle. So I found a small SUV that made getting in and out much easier.
I stocked my home with tools that gave me back pieces of my independence: my “grabbie stick,” my jar opener, and other small but mighty helpers.
I retired from teaching — something I loved — because it became mentally and physically too demanding. That was one of the hardest choices of all. But it was time.
My conditions can’t be cured. But they can be managed — with help.
And yes, I still miss my husband. I miss his advice, his reassurances, and his encouragement when I doubted myself. I miss him just being there. The emotional support, the quiet presence beside you — that’s a kind of help no tool or device can ever replace.
Sometimes, asking for help feels hard. It can feel like admitting defeat. But it’s not. Asking for help is a form of strength — a way of saying, “I choose to keep going, even if I need a hand.”
If you're facing something similar, here are a few things I’ve learned:
Reach out to friends, family, or therapists when you need someone to talk to.
Don’t underestimate how many helpful tools are available — I’ve spent a lot of time on Amazon finding exactly what works for me.
Let others know where you are and how to reach you in an emergency.
Most importantly: listen to your doctors, and do what they recommend. Their help matters.
I didn’t expect to need this much help at this point in life. But here I am. Still reaching, still adapting, and still singing a little Beatles in the morning.
Because the truth is —
“I just need you like I’ve never done before.”
Bethanne
05/01/2025
