Thank you, Betty.

I found her obituary through Google. It seemed like a cruel way to find out, to find out the teacher you’d had such an unbreakable bond with for over a decade could never tell you she’d moved to Berlin, Germany. That she’d been gone for three weeks. October 26th was the day she had passed, and November 12th was the day I found out. I’d been happily chatting away with my sister on FaceTime, wondering where my teacher had gone and how she was doing. “Maybe I should call her more,” I said. “Let’s look her up,” my sister suggested. 

When I saw my sister’s shocked look on her computer, I thought she was joking. There was no way the woman who I’d looked up to for so long, who I saw as family, who was like a grandmother to me, could be really, truly gone. She wouldn’t just leave me, couldn’t just abandon me, no, not when I needed her most. No, she wouldn’t do that. Frantically, I typed into the Google search bar, looking up her name. 

That’s where I found her obituary. Betty Strasser, 1936 to 2024. I felt my heart drop, and I sat there in stunned silence.

To anyone else, she could have just been an elderly, spirited woman in her 80’s. To me, she was a role model who was full of passion and always lived life to the fullest, who always told me she would never retire, who taught me something I’ll never forget. That fateful day on August 15th, 2012, when I was seven and just about to turn eight, was the day I would start to learn piano. 

When I first met her, she would say, “My name is Ms. Hendricks, but you can also call me Ms. Betty.” And so, at seven years old, along with my five-year-old brother who was also taking lessons, we decided that we would call her Ms. Betty, never her last name. What would follow was a decade of piano lessons almost every week, where she would always arrive right on time. Our very last lesson together was in August 2022, right before I left for college. 

I was a stubborn child. Sensitive, too. I hated being critiqued more than anything. I hated when she told me that I was actually doing something wrong, and I remember feeling so frustrated at the way my fingers never seemed to know what they were doing; how I could never identify the correct note at a first glance and how Ms. Betty always made playing look so effortless, that I just started to cry. She impatiently told me to get a tissue, that everything would be okay and could I please stop crying. 

“I’m not criticizing you to harm you, Sophia. I’m here to help you. It’s constructive criticism.” That’s what she would always say. And though it would take me around five years to realize the true meaning of those words and gradually apply them to other aspects of my life, I would eventually learn to understand that notes were more than just fancy squiggles on paper, that there were more songs to be played than “Mary had a little lamb” and “Hot cross buns”, and that Ms. Betty was more than just a strict teacher. She’d also become my friend. 

When you see someone almost every week, at 3:30 or 4 p.m. every Tuesday or Wednesday, and it’s like that for a decade, a connection inevitably starts to form. She became more than just a teacher or even a friend who happened to be 67 years older than me, she was like family. She became a sort of grandmother figure in my life, who was always there to listen to my issues with school or my friends, however trivial it was. 

She wasn’t much for saccharine sympathy, but she was always there to give me sage advice. She told me about her ex-husband and her long-gone son who would have kept the family together, if only he’d lived. She told me stories of all the other students she’d ever had, all the weddings and funerals she’d ever played at, even tales of her own childhood — she also knew how to play the accordion and would often play at a café right near my own hometown. 

She told me about her new husband Allan, how she met him at the church choir. I saw how happy he made her, saw a spark in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in a while. I went to her house once, in June, where I saw a nine-foot tall Christmas tree still up in the main downstairs hallway to my amusement. “It’s much easier to just keep it there all year than take it down,” she explained.  

I remember recitals every spring, always excitedly preparing a piece and going to her church and getting to meet her other students — though after coronavirus in 2020, we would become her last students, and suddenly there were no more recitals. I remember that I invited her to my high school graduation party, and she finally got to see the rest of the downstairs in my house. It had always baffled me that for years, Ms. Betty had only ever seen the hallway and living room of my house, but never the other rooms, let alone the upstairs.  

I also remember that very last lesson we had together, when I played all my favorite songs — and the last song I played for her was a jazzy rendition of “Amazing Grace”, where my dad took a photo of us together. 

I then saw her for fall and winter break that freshman year, but my very last time physically seeing her was March 5th, 2023 — the day of my grandmother’s funeral. She would play for my grandma, and when I met her after the funeral was over, I said to her sadly, “I really miss her.” To which she replied, “I know you do.” 

This past month, on October 23rd, I tried to call her. It was late, around 11:30 p.m. I tried two times, and I left a voicemail. I said that I missed her, that I was really going through it and I really wanted to talk to her again. I would love to hear her voice and see how she’s been doing, so please call back. I tried again October 24th but to no avail, never realizing that within the past year, she had moved to Germany and was no longer in Fort Monroe, Virginia. I never realized that October 26th, while I was having fun at a football game and getting dinner with my family and laughing with friends at their silly Halloween costumes that night, that she had passed away. 

But I also miss her. Because the last time we would speak on the phone was December 8th, 2023 — the day of her 87th birthday. And I wish, more than anything, that I could have one more second to talk with her. Maybe I should have called her more than I did.

I want her to know that I loved her more than anything. That I always thought of her every time I played the piano, and did she know that every time I saw that photo of us hugging after my last recital sophomore year of high school, I got teary-eyed? That every time I heard “Lovesong” by The Cure, I cried and remembered her and my grandma. That almost every password I had was dedicated to her. 

I want to tell her sorry for how petulant I could be, how sometimes I just couldn’t help but talk back. And I want to scream and shout, “How could you move to Berlin and not tell me?”. I wish I could have given you one last hug.

I wish I had said goodbye to you.

But now it’s too late, and I just have to live with my regrets and my memories, good and bad. 

But what I really want to say is thank you, Betty. I want to thank her for every time my fingers touch the piano keys, for every time I’ve played a song for others or for myself. For all the times I got excited over a new piece of sheet music, like when my dad gave me that Peanuts book by Vince Guaraldi when I was ten or when I would run to the printer upstairs after spending my hard-earned money on sheet music as a cashier at Kroger. For all the times I started to learn how to play a piece by ear, testing each key and erasing my paper over and over again to look for the right note, the right key signature. 

I want to thank her for teaching me something that’s helped me emotionally heal, that’s so important to my life. 

Now that I’m in college, I remember her each time my fingers touch a keyboard at the Forbes Center near the Quad, and how it’s important to find a way to express yourself in a healthy way. I remember how she taught me the importance of constructive criticism, and how to learn about other people’s points of views. Whether it’s in class asking questions and having an important discussion on ways the university can improve, or talking with my coworkers at Starbucks and learning all about their stories and realizing how complex everyone is, I always remember how she told me to stay open minded.  

So here’s to you, Betty. I want you to know you mattered so much to me, even if I didn’t always show it. But just know that I’ll always honor you, and never forget what you taught me. 

Until we meet again, play on in heaven.

• #grief
• #life
• #loss
• #love
• #piano
• #teachers