Years ago, my husband and I joined a crowd of roaring, screaming fans as Ringo Starr and his All-Starr Band launched into “With a Little Help from My Friends.” We rose from our seats at Mohegan Sun to sing along with the chorus as if Ringo needed backup.

“This is almost as good as seeing the Beatles,” I told Fred. Not that I was getting carried away or anything.

The Beatles wrote the song specifically for Ringo, giving him a melody that stayed comfortably inside his range. His voice was not dazzling. It was plainspoken, warm and exactly right for the song.

Some people hear the “friends” in the song as a veiled reference to drugs, especially with the line about getting high. I never did. For me, the song was never about getting high so much as being lifted back to normal when you’re down.

Those are the kind of friends who helped me through my husband’s illness. Fred’s former coworkers and old friends showed up big-time. A copyeditor turned pastry chef arrived with homemade pies. A fellow reporter helped Fred write a blog. Lifelong friends flew in from New Orleans or trekked west from Boston to be by Fred’s side.

And two extraordinary friends became the core of my Dream Team: Cousin Caryl and Sandy.

Family drama had kept Cousin Caryl’s side of the family and mine apart for years. Then, in one of those it’s-a-small-world twists, Fred realized he knew her husband. He spotted him at the Northampton Jazz Festival, sitting next to a gorgeous blonde. Was this guy cheating on the cousin I hadn’t even met yet?

I braced myself, then exhaled when he introduced her as his wife, Caryl.

“You’re my long-lost cousin!” I squealed.

And you’re mine!” she said, and we hugged. She gave me all the benefits of a big sister without the sibling rivalry that comes from growing up in the same house.

Soon we started a book group, and I introduced her to my old neighbor Sandy. Almost a year into Fred’s illness, Cousin Caryl asked if we were going on our usual Cape Cod vacation.

“No,” I said. “It would just make my life harder.”

Anyone who has cared for someone knows a getaway can sound less like a vacation than a relocation of the entire to-do list. Same chores, unfamiliar place, no one to help. But that is where friends and family can save a vacation from being just caregiving with a better view. We rented a house together in Wellfleet, and suddenly I wasn’t the only one keeping track of everything.

One day, we stumbled upon a funky gift shop. Sandy handed me a painting of the Beatles with the title “I Get by with a Little Help from My Friends.” Leave it to Sandy to find the perfect gift.

During that week, the group brought Fred birdwatching so I could sleep in. They played ukuleles for him. Every time he turned around, they offered him something to eat.

“It’s like having three mothers,” Fred crowed.

“Some people might not like that,” Cousin Caryl said, waggling her eyebrows.

“I like it,” he answered.

One morning Fred wandered off, but Sandy’s husband, Ken, found him and brought him back. Another day, over ice cream, Fred told Cousin Caryl, “I’ve been having impure thoughts about you.”

“Ah, stop it,” she said lightly. “Or I’ll have to take you to confession.”

The disease had turned my loyal husband into a would-be philanderer, and Cousin Caryl, bless her, knew how to think on her feet. She answered the awkwardness with humor instead of shock.

After Fred passed, the assisted living facility sent home three large trash bags filled with his belongings. They loomed in my front hall like hulking ghosts. I could not open them. Just thinking about Fred’s bright yellow fleece without him in it gave me the willies.

So I called Sandy and Cousin Caryl.

They turned a dreaded chore into a bonding experience. Cousin Caryl and Sandy did what practical friends do. They came up with a system for sorting: Hawaiian shirts for Sandy’s ukulele group, sweaters for old friends, Buddhas for the kids.

Later, I served them my spiced squash soup. As we sat there, spoons clinking, the house felt lighter.

And now, when I hear “With a Little Help from My Friends,” I don’t just think of the Beatles. I think of Cousin Caryl and Sandy. Of Cape Cod breezes and kitchen tables. Of three trash bags that looked like ghosts until my friends got their hands on them.

Ringo had it right. I got by — and I’m still getting by — with a little help from my friends.

Joan Axelrod-Contrada is a writer who lives in Florence with her two dogs. Sign up for her free quarterly newsletter—complete with links to bonus content such as music videos and fun facts— by emailing her at [email protected].