Not All Goodbyes Wait for You
On Sudden Loss, Unfinished Love, and the Ache of What We Didn’t Get to Say
We were supposed to be packing for Chicago.
We were going on a belated trip for Sophie’s 13th birthday (and Father’s Day) with my parents and brother. There were bags to zip, gifts to wrap, snacks to prep. We were bringing our dog, Luna, but our two cats, Oscar and Blue, would stay behind with a sitter.
But our 5-year-old cat Oscar started breathing funny the afternoon before we left.
At first, it seemed odd—but not urgent. He was panting. Unsettled. I dug around his fur, making sure he didn’t have a tick. His belly felt bloated, and one of his legs looked blue.
My husband rushed him to urgent care.
I stayed behind to finish packing. Before he left, I stroked Oscar’s head and body, feeling his motorboat purr. When I placed him in the carrier, I whispered gently to him that it would all be okay. I didn’t say goodbye.
Why would I? I assumed he’d come home.
He didn’t.
After x-rays, the vet said it was heart failure, a congenital condition that can happen at any time with rescues. As Alex debated what to do, Oscar looked at him and took his last breath.
No slow fade. No warning. No space to hold him at the end.
Just like that… he was gone.
This Wasn’t the First Time
Years ago, we lost our first dog, Neruda. She was old. Gentle. She started breathing strangely one night too, and as I looked into her eyes—I just knew.
We held her. We told her it was okay. We said our goodbyes. The next morning, she was gone.
That death was heartbreaking… but it had a softness to it. An expectation that comes from a pet’s life well-lived.
Oscar’s death was different.
It wasn’t a letting go.
It was a ripping away.
The Sharp Ache of No Closure
Grief is always hard.
But when there’s no ritual, no final moment, no space to know it’s the end—it carves a different kind of hole.
There’s no paw on your lap. No soft breathing in the quiet. No incessant meows or purring. No need to feed, scoop, or soothe.
Just… absence.
As we brought his wrapped body home so our other two animals could sniff him and understand, we dug a grave in the backyard and buried his body. The next morning, before 6am, we were on the road to Chicago.
Over the course of four days, it felt like emotional whiplash. So sad one moment and then celebrating Sophie and the family being together the next. Such good food and company. Walking 13 miles per day. Museums. Lake walks. Being in the place Alex and I fell in love, built a life together, and birthed our daughter. The city soothed us in a way we truly, deeply needed.
It was a celebration and a mourning, all in one.
Grief is invisible, and yet it moves like a storm through your body. One moment, you’re folding a shirt. The next, you’re on the floor, remembering the warmth of a cat you didn’t get to hold one last time.
We’re Taught to Move On.
But grief wants us to move through.
We’re a culture obsessed with closure.
With moving on.
With “celebrating the good times” and “getting back to normal.”
But what if grief isn’t asking us to move on?
What if grief is asking us to be still?
To feel it all.
To let the pain rise.
To let it wreck us.
Because pain, when we let it move through us fully, becomes something else entirely:
A portal.
They Leave Us, But They Leave Us With So Much
No, Oscar won’t greet us at the door anymore. He won’t nudge into the sunniest spot on the floor. He won’t curl into the crook of my legs or push his head under my hand as I finish my morning crossword puzzle. He won’t annoy me with his persistent meows.
But his love still lives in our house.
In the quiet.
In the sunlight.
In the empty space that now feels both sacred and so very sad.
And now I know something I didn’t fully understand until this week:
The heart doesn’t rebuild in spite of its breaking.
It rebuilds because of it.
Love is the Risk. Grief is the Proof.
We love things that cannot stay. That’s the deal.
That’s always been the deal.
But every time we love anyway—knowing the risk—we say yes to life in its most fragile, exquisite form.
So I’m saying yes to the pain.
To the mess.
To the ache that reminds me: I cared deeply. I stayed open. I said yes to love without guarantees.
That is what grief gives us.
Not comfort. But clarity.
Have you ever lost a beloved pet?
What did your grief teach you about presence, love, or letting go?
I'd love to hear from you in the comments.
With love and presence,
Rea