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The Goodbye I Didn't SayPart of you changes when you lose someone you love. It shifts the way you see life—and if you’ve lost a truly good one, it changes the way you live it.
My first big loss was my grandmother—my mother’s mother. It was the last day of Grade 8. Just days before she passed, she was at our house celebrating my sister Lisa’s graduation. She never missed a party, a wedding shower, or a baby shower. She loved the gathering, the laughter, and especially seeing the gifts people received. After Lisa’s party, two of my sisters and I dropped Grammie off at her house. It had started to rain, and she held a grocery bag over her head to protect her fresh perm. As she was getting out of the car, someone mentioned that my cousin and I would be the next to graduate. She scoffed lightly and said, “If I make it that long.” She was 74 and in relatively good health. That night, she had a heart attack at home. She was unresponsive in the hospital for several days. On the last day of school before summer break, I was taken straight to the hospital. We spent hours there. Family came and went. The clock ticked loudly, breaking the silence. But the hardest part was watching my grandfather. He would step into her room, remove his hat—usually with a chewed piece of gum stuck to the peak—and hold it in both hands as a sign of respect. He’d stand in silence, just staring at her. Sometimes, silence can be deafening. After a few moments, he’d put his hat back on and quietly leave. The last time he did this, he paused at the door, took one final look at her, and walked away. The room was full of family when she passed. My mother had just stepped out to check on others in the waiting room. Grammie took three shallow breaths, each one further apart than the last, until her chest sank and didn’t rise again. I was 13. I don’t have many memories of her, but the one that always comes first is that final breath. The stillness. The waiting. The moment we realized she was gone. The cries that followed. Twenty-four years later, I wasn’t with my mom when she passed. I was in the car, on my way to the hospital. Chance and I had just returned from Las Vegas. We went to celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary, his 40th birthday, and my 10-year remission anniversary. It was the trip we had promised ourselves for our 5th anniversary and his 30th birthday—but life had other plans. I was in the hospital then, receiving a stem cell transplant. Two weeks before the trip, we visited Mom. At the end of our visit, she hugged me extra tight. She felt strong—but maybe she knew. Maybe she gave me everything she had in that hug. As we were getting ready to leave, shoes on and standing at the door, Mom had gone to lie down. I lingered, making small talk—something I usually avoid. I was stalling. I took off my shoes, told Chance I’d be right back, and went to sit on the foot of her bed. “I think we should cancel the trip,” I said. She looked at me, eyes wide. “Now why would you do that?!” I told her we could rebook, that I had the time off and we’d be back for Christmas anyway. She scoffed. “Don’t you dare. You’ve been planning this for years. Go. Have fun. I’ll be here when you get back.” An hour later, I told Dad the same thing. “I think we should cancel the trip.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. She’d be furious. It would be the worst thing you could do.” So, we said our “see you laters” and drove back to Amherst. My sister, Kara flew in from Calgary to stay with the kids. Once school let out for Christmas break, she took them to Mom and Dad’s, and Chance and I flew to Vegas. If you knew my mother, you knew—you do as you’re told. We celebrated. We laughed. We soaked in the joy of milestones reached. But our return was delayed. Our flight was late, our luggage lost. We didn’t get back to Amherst until evening. Too late to drive the entire way to mom and dads, too tired to do anything but rest. We planned to drive the rest of the way in the morning. At 6 a.m., my phone rang. I rarely leave the ringer on, but that morning, I did. The sound came from upstairs but jolted me awake. I missed the first two calls, but it rang again as I reached the top of the stairs. “Mom’s headed to the hospital in an ambulance,” my sister said. “Michelle’s picking me up. You might want to head up soon.” I hung up, ran downstairs, grabbed my bag. “Chance, get up. We’ve got to go.” We were on the highway within minutes. Just past the Moncton exit, Kara called again. I answered. Held the phone to my ear. “Nicole… Mom’s gone.” Once again, the silence was deafening. Once again, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t speak. I just listened to her voice. I could hear the shakiness in her voice as she spoke through her tears: “We’re at the hospital. Don’t rush--we’ll wait for you to get here so you can say goodbye.” That’s when my lungs remembered how to breathe again. And with that breath came a wave of sorrow so powerful, it crashed through my chest like a tsunami. When Mom found out she had relapsed, the doctors told her it was terminal. With treatment, they gave her three to five years. She gave it everything she had. But this disease—this cruel, relentless disease—devoured every ounce of strength she had left and then kept going. My dad saw the worst of it. As the spouse, the caregiver, the one who stands closest to the storm, he bore the weight of it all. It’s not an easy role, but it’s one taken on without hesitation when you love someone. In sickness and in health, right? By the time she passed, my mother weighed less than 90 pounds. She couldn’t eat. She was in constant pain, though she rarely let it show. And still—she smiled. She stayed present. She bobbed her head along to Mavrick’s Christmas song, soaking in the joy of her grandchildren. I know there was another side, one only my dad saw. He was her safe space. And the people we feel safest with see every side of us—the good, the bad, and the heartbreaking. Mom and I once talked about the memories that stick with you after someone is gone. I told her about Grammie—how the last image I have of her is the one that always comes to mind first, whether I want it to or not. That’s why I didn’t want Madison and Mavrick to attend funerals when they were little. I didn’t want their memories of someone they loved to be shaped by a coffin. I think Mom remembered that conversation. I think she knew she wouldn’t be here when I returned for Christmas. And even at 38 years old, she was still protecting me—shielding me from her final breath, from the pain of her last moments becoming my lasting memory. She gave me the gift of remembering her in life, not in death. I wasn’t meant to be there when she passed. At first, I was devastated. But now, I’m grateful. Because when I think of my mom, the first images that come to mind aren’t of a hospital bed or a final breath. They’re of her smiling. Pulling weeds in her garden. Doing something kind for someone else. Driving that big, blue diesel GMC van. Laughing. God blessed me with the parents He chose for me. He gave me the gift of irreplaceable people—people who shift the very foundation of your life when they’re gone. Losing someone like that changes everything. At her visitation, more than one person—more than two—called my mother an earth angel. And they were right. There aren’t many people like my mom and dad. They were a power couple in the truest sense—each one making the other better. That’s what a life partner should be. It’s a big reason why my sisters and I are who we are, even if we don’t hold a candle to the light our mom brought into this world. When you’ve had someone in your life who lives to serve others, who always puts everyone else first, who lights up a room more than any LED lamp ever could—losing them shifts your entire world. My mother was the glue that held us all together. She brought people together. She was the warmth in the room. After the initial shock, I felt a brief moment of anger. But it quickly gave way to overwhelming sorrow. She took a piece of my heart with her when she left—because I was a part of her. The day after we buried her, I didn’t leave my bed. Every time I woke up, the tears came. I just wanted to sleep through the pain. But then… that was it. I gave myself that day. I let myself feel every uncomfortable, aching moment. And because of that, I could begin to breathe again. I’ve learned that I can bounce back—but only if I give myself the space to fall first. Some people go through life never knowing someone so profoundly special that their absence changes everything. That thought saddens me. Losing Mom has been one of the strangest and hardest things to understand. She was our first love—the one who instinctively protected us, no matter how old we got. She always did what she believed was best for us, and she was our biggest supporter, even when we didn’t realize it. Everyone warns new parents not to take time with their young kids for granted. They say things like, “You won’t realize the last time you carry them to bed or lay beside them after a bad dream. You won’t know when it’s the last time they just want to spend the whole day with you—just because you’re Mom.” But what about our parents? No one really prepares us for the fact that there will be a last time they visit our home. A last time they stay over with the grandkids. A last trip to the dollar store. A last time they say that familiar phrase we’ve heard a thousand times but never really noticed until it’sgone. A last birthday call. A last card for any occasion at all and the surprise that follows when we say thank you because she “only sent it on Tuesday!” A last batch of cookies that everyone loves. We don’t recognize these moments as “lasts” when they happen. But what if we did? What if we paused and thought, “Take this in. Be present.” What if we slowed down opening that last gift they wrapped, or lingered a little longer over Thanksgiving dinner, knowing it might be the last one with them? What if we answered every call, just in case it was the last time they’d make it? Why doesn’t anyone prepare us for this part? For the quiet heartbreaks and the deep, inevitable losses? Maybe it’s because you can’t truly understand until it’s your turn. Until you’ve lived it. Until you’ve felt the silence where their voice used to be. No matter how much time we think we have, it never feels like enough. We were given a timeline, but nothing can truly prepare you for the moment when she’s no longer here. And while I miss her deeply, I also felt a quiet sense of relief when she passed—relief that her pain was finally over. I find peace in knowing she now lives in a place free from suffering, surrounded by light and love. I used to feel guilty for not saying goodbye. But maybe I didn’t need to. Because with a love like hers, there are no real goodbyes—only “see you laters”. 
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