January 2024, one month before his birthday, my grandpa was hospitalized. Lauren was there to support me, and at some point she told me that she wanted to grow old together like my grandparents, and that she couldn’t imagine anyone else by her side in the end but me.
I believed her; I imagined the same.
Being a nurse made watching my grandpa die complicated and heavy. I’ve often said it’s both a blessing and a curse knowing the things I do.
I left work early that day to see him. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew he was really sick. His respiratory rate was in the 40s. His breathing sounded wet. He was confused and could barely speak a sentence. He was decompensating.
I said so.
I asked why he was on a regular floor and not the ICU. I demanded to speak to the physician assistant about the change in his condition. I questioned his labs and why it had been hours since the last ones were drawn. I questioned the medications running through his IV. I asked about starting BiPAP. I wanted him transferred.
I told my family I didn’t think he would make it through the night if he wasn’t.
At 8 PM, I went home.
I usually sleep with my phone on silent, but something told me to leave the sound on that night.
Around 1 AM, it rang.
He had coded.
Nine minutes of CPR before they got him back.
When I drove to the hospital, I thought I was prepared for what I’d see. My grandpa was intubated, yet he didn’t need sedation. The pressors weren’t helping much. I touched his feet and felt that his toes were getting cold.
I had to explain to my grandma that the machines were keeping Gramps alive. The reflexes I knew to look for weren’t there. I told her what I believed that meant.
And that’s the part about knowledge being a curse.
There are moments when I wish I could’ve just been the granddaughter.
Before they removed the breathing tube, I stood beside him and ran my fingers through his hair. He always had gorgeous hair. It was still so soft.
I leaned close to his ear, crying.
I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry that I had gone home.
Sorry that I hadn’t fought harder.
“I love you, Gramps.”
When they pulled the tube from his mouth, I swear he winced.
That shattered me.
A month later, all I wanted was to get my mind off things. To do something fun with Lauren.
A chance for connection when it was much needed.
I bought tickets to a comedy show.
We ate Mexican food beforehand. I had two margaritas, nothing crazy.
But sometimes alcohol makes me emotional. And I already had chronic anxiety around driving to unfamiliar places.
The fine print on the tickets warned that we could be turned away if the doors had already closed, and we were quickly running out of time.
So when I couldn’t find the venue, I panicked.
I didn’t feel like I was being helped with directions or being reassured that we would figure it out.
At some point, Lauren suggested we just go home.
I didn’t want to go home.
The comedy show mattered to me. I had bought the tickets. I had planned something I wanted to do, something that didn’t often happen.
When I parked to ask for directions, it was already show time.
I was practically running toward the mall the venue was supposedly attached to.
Lauren was casually walking behind me.
I looked back and was upset at the distance between us.
As I reached the building, overwhelmed and angry, I turned around and yelled, “I hate you.”
I didn’t.
I went inside and found a mall security guard. I asked him where the venue was, but by then I was overwhelmed and convinced we were already too late.
I gave up and decided to go home.
When I walked back outside, Lauren was waiting.
But she wouldn’t get into the car.
She told me she was going to take an Uber back. I told her there was no point in spending money on an Uber when I could drive her.
She refused.
I asked her to get in the car again, but she still refused.
Eventually, I told her I wasn’t going to keep begging for her to get in.
So I left.
Later, we texted.
I don’t remember exactly what either of us said. I remember Lauren couldn’t believe I had left her there to call an Uber, and that the driver felt creepy to her. She was upset with me.
I tried to explain myself.
Yelling “I hate you” wasn’t okay.
But I had spent so much of our relationship being the understanding “level-headed one.”
This time, I was the one who lost control.
I fucked up.
I pleaded for the grace I had given her so many times.
She didn’t give it to me.
How she told me she was done is a blur.
That was February 2024.
Months of silence. Reconnection. No-contact.
Repeat.
It’s now August 2026.
A few days ago, we went no contact again.
The ridiculous part is that today I was simply looking at my labs in the Quest app.
Disappointed that my cholesterol is still high.
Thinking about how my doctor has mentioned Lipitor but I refuse to take it since it reminds me of what happened to my grandpa.
Rhabdomyolysis.
Kidney failure.
Coding.
His hair.
Growing old.
A comedy show.
An Uber.
I hate you.
I didn’t.
I don’t.
