Say Goodbye Without Regret
What does it mean to say goodbye when there’s still time—but not enough of it?
I recently lost a dear friend. We had one of those slow goodbyes, the kind that unfolds across months. She lived in a nursing home and was receiving hospice care. Every week, I’d visit—never quite knowing what would greet me. Some days she wanted to talk. Other days, we just listened to the hum of silence together.
When she died, I wasn’t there. But I had already started saying goodbye long before her final breath. And maybe that’s the part we don’t talk about enough—that goodbye is less of a moment and more of a practice.
The Myth of the Grand Farewell
We carry this cultural idea that when someone we love is dying, we’ll know just what to say. That there will be a single, perfect, tear-streaked goodbye—the kind found in novels and old movies.
But most of us don’t get that moment. Not because we didn’t care, but because life is messier than that. Illness doesn’t come with a script. Travel plans interfere. Emotions get tangled. And often, the person we love slips away slowly, until the day they’re no longer here.
Here’s what I’ve learned: a goodbye doesn’t have to be eloquent or perfectly timed. It just has to be offered—with presence and heart.
Saying Goodbye with a cookie
One of the ways I said goodbye was by bringing her a single, homemade cookie.
Nothing fancy—just something soft enough for her to eat, wrapped in a napkin and placed in her hand. A small sweetness in a world that had grown more bitter. I think she liked that I never made a fuss. I didn’t try to cheer her up or ask too many questions. I just brought what I could: a cookie, and myself.
A Song from the Past
Another time, I played a song for her—a favorite hymn, on my fleugal horn. Her eyes closed, and for a moment, I saw her lips move with the melody. There’s something sacred about music at the end of life. It doesn’t require explanation. It just enters the space and lingers in the soul.
The Gift of Listening to Say Goodbye
Mostly, I just listened.
Not for anything in particular. Just listened. To her stories. To her silence. To the way she would sometimes drift mid-sentence and come back a minute later. To the way she always said thank you, even when it was barely a whisper.
It’s a strange kind of ministry, that kind of listening. You become a witness. Not to fix anything, but to hold space for what is.
Preserving Her Words
As the months passed, she shared many stories—especially about the work that had once given her life so much purpose, the colleagues she mentored and cared for, the children she lost too soon, and the granddaughters who still lit up her world.
I asked her permission to record and transcribe them, and that small collection of words—her voice on paper—is now part of her legacy.
Sometimes saying goodbye means helping someone tell their story before they go.
What Goodbye Can Look Like
You don’t need to be a writer or a musician or even a good cook. There are so many simple ways to show love when the end of life draws near:
- Write a note they can hold
- Bring a hand lotion and offer a gentle touch
- Share a memory they may have forgotten
- Sit in silence without reaching for your phone
- Create a playlist of music from their youth
- Light a candle in their room, if it’s allowed
- Read aloud—poetry, scripture, the funny parts of the paper
Small acts. Quiet beauty. That’s what love looks like at the end.
When You’re Not There
I wasn’t there when she died. And I won’t pretend that didn’t hurt.
There’s a particular ache in not being able to hold a hand one last time, to whisper that final I love you. But if I’m honest, I’d already said it. Many times. In many ways.
She knew.
And I think that’s something we need to hear: if you’ve been showing up with love, if you’ve brought your cookie or your prayer or your patient listening—then your goodbye has already begun.
And it matters.
The Goodbye That Lives On
Since her death, I’ve thought a lot about how we say goodbye—not only in words, but in the way we continue to live.
I see her face in a jar of raspberry jam (her favorite). I hear her voice when I hum that old hymn in the kitchen. I remember her courage when I’m feeling especially fragile.
Goodbye doesn’t mean forgotten. It just means changed.
A Question to Hold
If someone you love were nearing the end, what small act might say: I’m here. I see you. I love you.
Don’t wait for the perfect goodbye. Show up with your presence, your listening, your homemade cookie. That’s more than enough.
For more about how to say “Goodbye” click here
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