Page 103 of Confessions of the Funny Fat Friend

I’d never been fired before in my life. Not when I was a teenager baling hay. Not when I was working at a sandwich shop while in carpentry school. And not in the ten years of my professional career. Ten years of hard word, moving around the country, giving all I had to this business.

What was I supposed to do now? Pack up my bags and share Hen’s bedroom? Take over a guest bedroom in her family’s home while they dealt with the very real changes coming in their beloved grandma’s life?

I had savings, but that would get eaten up quickly with rent going the way it was in this town. But I’d do it. I’d spend every last dime and work any grunt job I could find—if Hen would be my last just like I’d been her first. But that was a lot of pressure to put on a new relationship, on someone whose worst fear had just been confirmed.

But I had to ask.

Love isn’t convenient. I just hoped she’d think it was worth it.

62

Henrietta

Confession: I wish I could go back to being the funny fat friend.

I’d beenin and out of sleep throughout the night, and when I was awake, I watched the rise and fall of Grandma’s chest. The part in her lips as she breathed. The drip of liquid through her IV. All signs of life to be lived.

Grandma blinked her eyes open around nine in the morning. She looked at our linked hands, then at me. Her voice was raspy as she said, “Baby girl, shouldn’t you be in Texas?”

Fresh tears slid down my cheeks as I shook my head. “I’m right where I need to be.” I opened my mouth to say more, but a nurse walked in saying, “Great, you’re awake! I have orders to take you back to pre-op so we can get started on your hip replacement.” Another nurse followed behind her, giving me a smile.

Grandma nodded. “Have you reviewed my advanced directives? I have a DNR in place.”

“DNR?” I asked.

The nurse answered, “It means do not resuscitate. It’s a common request from older patients.”

I stared at my grandma, saying these words so casually to a nurse before a major surgery.

“And, yes, we have all of those orders in place,” the nurse said. Then she looked at me. “You’re free to wait in here or in the waiting area, but it will be several hours before she’s back.”

I nodded and squeezed Grandma’s hand. “We’ll be praying for you, Grandma. See you soon.”

She patted my hand and nodded to the nurse who began the process of wheeling her away.

Moments after she left, I realized I’d never said I love you.

I fought tears, hoping she’d come back so I could say it out loud.

I sat in her empty room for a moment, looking out the window that only faced a brick building. Part of me wanted to sit here forever, never face the conversation that I knew was coming. I didn’t want to have it. Didn’t want to face it.

But if Grandma could suffer a broken hip, go under the knife knowing they wouldn’t resuscitate her if something happened, I could survive a heartbreak. Especially if it meant Tyler could have the kind of life he wanted without my selfish needs getting in the way.

I stood on shaky legs and left the room, walking down the long hallway to the waiting area. As I walked in, I noticed my parents sipping coffee, eating takeout. Where was Tyler?

My mom said, “Hen! How was she? Did you get to talk to her?”

I nodded, redirecting my attention to my parents. “I can tell she’s in pain, but she woke up right before they came to take her for surgery. Did you know she has a DNR?” The betrayal in that statement hit me in the gut. “Why wouldn’t she do everything she could to stay with us longer?”

Mom and Dad exchanged looks.

Mom tilted her head. “Watching your grandpa suffer was so painful. She doesn’t want that for herself, honey.”

Dad nodded. “It’s difficult to understand now when you’re young and in love and have your whole life ahead of you. But someday, if you’re lucky, you will have a new perspective on Grandma’s wishes.”

It felt like a punch to the gut, that they were all okay with just letting her go. But I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t know what I could say that wouldn’t cause irreparable harm, so I said, “Did Tyler go home?”

Mom shook her head. “He took a call in the hallway.”

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