Grandma Betty: The Woman Who Built Me

My Grandma Betty is still alive as I write this, but the truth is… the version of her I grew up with—the firecracker, the leader, the businesswoman who shaped so much of who I am—is fading into advanced frontal lobe dementia. And while I’m grateful for every single moment I still get with her, I’m already grieving the loss of her in real time.

She wasn’t just my grandmother. She was my mentor. My role model. The original entrepreneur in our family long before being a “business owner” was common.

She married my grandfather at 18, and while he was away sailing, she raised three kids under the age of six on her own for many of those years. Managing a household, keeping everything running, and still building a career in accounting and later Tupperware, she embodied grit, independence, and unwavering dedication long before I could even understand what that meant.

A mother of three to a sailor—my grandfather—she spent most of her adult life working as an accountant before joining the Tupperware world in her 40s. And if you’ve ever seen a Tupperware rally, you know the energy is wild. But watching her command a room? That was something different entirely. Even as a child, I remember being mesmerized. She had this grounded confidence, a straight-shooting, zero-BS presence that made everyone trust her instantly.

She wasn’t just a salesperson. She was the person people waited for, because if she thought something was garbage, she’d tell you straight up, then point you to something better. Integrity before commission—always.

She became the sales manager, a national winner for years, and one of the most liberated women I’ve ever known. She was even the first female in Western Canada to experiment with birth control. Tough as nails, sharp as a whip, and light years ahead of her time.

She wasn’t just tough in business. Grandma Betty battled cancer at age 50 and conquered it, proving that nothing could take her down for long. And even before that, she lived her youth with a severe wheat allergy, sent off to a convent on the prairies where she couldn’t escape the endless wheat fields. Through it all, she carried herself with grace, resilience, and a fierce determination that stayed with her her entire life.

She kept doing the books for a local business until she was 82. Most people are deep into retirement by then—she was still balancing ledgers and keeping things moving.

When Addy was born and struggling with mastocytosis, she drove up to Parksville often to help. On one visit she looked at me in her classic matter-of-fact way and said:

“You know that this too shall pass. It’ll just grow a little hair on your chest.”
Her translation: This sucks, but you will get through it.

As a teenager, she’d pick me up from the bus depot on Thursdays—the day I didn’t go to school because of gymnastics training. We’d stop at the mall, get lunch, and she’d give me lessons on how to “pick up boys.” But her mentorship didn’t stop there. When I was 14, she had me hosting my own Tupperware parties to start my hope chest, teaching me the value of hard work, confidence, and earning my own money. She was always distinguished, composed, emotionally steady, and punctual to a fault.

Last Tuesday, I picked her up from the assisted living building she shares with my grandfather. She’s 87, and he’ll be 90 in March. Earlier that day she had overdosed on pills. She was violently ill in my car, and when I asked her what she wanted to do, she said:

“Die.”

That night she fell and cut her head open, and now we’re here—in the hospital, sifting through scattered, inconsistent memories. Some moments she knows exactly who I am. Other moments I’m just a nice girl visiting out of the blue.

It’s a strange grief. The slow fade. The letting go in pieces.

Meanwhile, my grandfather remains steady in the simplicity of who he’s always been. Every Saturday, he keeps his ritual: a glass of dark rum, 3–4 ice cubes, and a little bit of water. Something about that small consistency brings me comfort. It reminds me that even as life unravels in complicated, heartbreaking ways, some things stay beautifully familiar.

I don’t know how much more time we have with Grandma Betty. With how advanced things are. And I know, deep down, that she would not want to live like this.

My brother and I were lucky enough to grow up with young grandparents. Our kids even got to know their great-grandparents—a gift not everyone gets. I’m 46 and can still sit across from my grandfather at dinner and listen to stories from a nearly 90-year-old man I adore. I don’t take that for granted.

But watching someone you love disappear while their body stays? That’s a kind of heartbreak you can’t really prepare for.

Grandma Betty built so much of who I am—my honesty, my work ethic, my grit, my no-bullshit mentality, and my belief that women can lead boldly without apology. Her fingerprints are all over the life and business that I’ve created.

Even now, even as her memories scatter, her impact hasn’t faded.
It’s still here.
Still guiding me.
Still shaping me.
Still teaching me.

And so I close with this, for her—for all the women who raise us, mold us, and make us:

“Cheers to strong women — may we know them, may we raise them, and may we become them.”