Betty

Sometimes in life things happen to you and there is no plain lesson. They hurt and that is all there is to it. Betty was involved in one of those incidents.

Betty was my best friend. I told her everything. She was there for me to hug and to hold. She meant the world to me.

Betty was my doll when I was about 3 years old.

I remember one of my brothers coming home and telling my mother that it wasn’t right for a boy to have a doll. It would have a bad influence and I would grow up being strange in some way, shape or form. I would become a sissy.

It wasn’t long after that some strangers came to our door. They had come for Betty. I remember scooping her up and running with her to the basement stairs. The footsteps came closer. I screamed. I sobbed. I pleaded. And Betty was ripped away from my arms, never to be seen again.

I can rationalize and forgive my mother. I know she was trying to do what she thought was right. The feeling of being totally deserted and helpless still hurts. Why didn’t anybody consider me?

Before my mother died, we talked about this. I could tell she was genuinely sorry. The next time I came to her apartment, she presented me with another doll. It was ugly, and it was not Betty.

To this day, I hate saying goodbye.

If you have a child who has a dear friend, I plead with you not to take it away from him until he is ready to part with it. The damage you are trying to avoid may be less harsh than the damage you do by removing the loved one.

Fortunately my stuffed dog, Bullet, named after Roy Rogers’ dog, helped me through the pain. Bullet has been with me over 50 years. His ear is clipped on with a safety pin. Most of his fur is worn off. The button eyes are long gone. He will go with me wherever I do, even into the grave. We have been through too much together and he is my friend forever.