Sudden Goodbyes: Navigating Shock*

May 9

*Note:

For some, there isn't any time between diagnosis and compassionate euthanasia. The diagnosis is the end. For others, it is a sudden, accidental circumstance. Those moments come as a heart shock, a surreal wave of disbelief and urgency as you try to grasp what's happening. Your head swims with questions, and you're trying to make sense of the news and situation. Your nervous system naturally kicks into overdrive, doing its best to keep you moving through something that feels impossible to process.

If you've experienced this type of loss, I am genuinely sorry for your loss and experience. This loss is where everything happened too fast, where you had no time to make sense, nor time to possibly even say goodbye—please know you are not alone. This kind of grief is complicated to process, as the reality of what happened often takes time to settle in fully; each moment brings a new layer of a deeper awareness of your pet's loss and, with it, another layer of grief as the loss of your pet lands more deeply and only slowly integrates into the new reality.

There is no perfect way to move through this kind of loss. There is only the deep, tender attempt to show up in love while holding the weight of heartbreak and shock. Please know that at the time, you did the best you could with what you knew, in the time you had, given your circumstances, and all of this under an urgency you never suspected and immense pressure.

Many people I work with who have experienced a sudden loss look back and are judgmental or self-critical of their actions and decisions when they look back days, weeks and months after. They blame themselves and wonder what they could have done differently. Please know that your survival physiology automatically stepped in. Your biology, your sympathetic nervous system, was doing exactly what it is designed to do in moments of fear, threat and overwhelm: Protect you. In this place, your brain shifts from being able to think logically and reason to your body doing what it needs to do, which helps you survive your situation. I want you to know that you cannot override your body and brain when it is in a natural survival response situation. Your reactions were instinctual and did not reflect your love or commitment to your pet.

You could have done nothing to "pause" or "do it better" when in shock.

With this knowledge, can you find grace and self-compassion for yourself? Can you be tender with yourself? Can you offer permission to be kind and unconditionally loving to yourself, just as you would to a beloved friend who would have had the same experience? I want you to know that your beloved animal knows this, loves you and holds nothing against you. They keep and hold you in grace because you were there. You showed up. And that is what matters.

This is Bosphorus’s and my story of a sudden end-of-life diagnosis and the shock of little time.

Bosphorus died on May 20, 2021, at 11 years old. His loss took time to land and integrate as I had other significant losses between 2020 and 2023 that compounded my grief and added extra weight to his loss.

The Diagnosis

The diagnosis came like a blow to the chest—a heart shock, the kind that splinters your sense of reality and makes time go blurry. It was May 19. Bosphorus, my beloved companion, was diagnosed with a large, inoperable tumour. Twenty-four hours later, I was holding him in my arms as he passed.

It was sudden. There was no gradual decline or long unfolding journey. I didn't have weeks or months to prepare. And yet—because of the work I've done for years to stay present and grounded, to honour the energy and soul of the animals in my life—I was as ready as possible.

Facing the Reality

When the vet spoke the words out loud, my head swam. I could hear them, but I couldn't make them land. How was this happening? How could he have declined so quickly, and how could I be thinking about euthanasia already? My mind couldn't keep up, and my body was beginning to grasp the gravity. We drove home. I had to stop a few times on the side of the highway to sob and collect myself before I could drive again.

Every moment that followed deepened the weight of that reality.

Seeking Connection

Once we were home, I reached out to my friend, who is an animal communicator. I needed not just to hear Bosphorus' words but validation. I needed to know if what I was hearing from Bosphorus was true, if he was ready, and if he was okay.

"It's okay, Mama. I know it's fast, but I'm ready."

Hearing those words was deafening, but they also brought a sense of peace. As I had heard him, I had hoped I was wrong. I wasn't. This validation didn't make the heartbreak easier, but it gave me his truth and wish, and now I would honour him.

Time, It Is What One Is Given

I had so wanted to walk a hospice and palliative path with him. That's what I do. I support clients through this very thing. I envisioned a slow time together, slowing everything down, letting him lead, and letting life unfold naturally at the end. But Bosphorus had not eaten for five days. He was in significant discomfort. There was no easing into this goodbye. He also told me he knew I couldn't carry him up and down 18 steps alone.

Still, I wanted just a bit more time—even two or three days—to sit with him, to let my body try to catch up to what was happening, to hold him in my lap, and to snuggle. Bosphorus only ever liked snuggling on his terms, and that night, he chose to sleep on the floor rather than his side of the bed. The bed was too much effort, and he didn't want my help. As hard as it was, I respected his request for space. I draped my arm over my bed and held my hand on him throughout the night. We both had a restless night.

The Call That Was Another Shock in Our Timing

The next day, I called the vet at noon. No appointments were available for a peaceful home visit in the next few days, and the only time available was at the clinic at 4:30 p.m. this day. Otherwise, we would have had to wait over a week. I knew he couldn't wait.

I felt I had no choice, so I said yes.

The clock started ticking. There were four and a half hours until the appointment, but 90 minutes of that would be spent driving. We had only three hours left—three precious, impossible hours together. How would we make the most of them?

After agreeing to the appointment, I collapsed on the floor, sobbing in a way that cracked me open, thirty minutes of complete surrender to the shock, pain and trust of the timing of our journey. My body couldn't hold the weight of his diagnosis, and now this choice, this goodbye, this reality. All I had was surrender to what is, no matter how I wished it could have been different and be given more time.

Finding Sacred Moments

And then, Bosphorus walked over and licked my face.

As if to say, "Come on, Mama. We're not done yet."

So I got up.

And I spent every remaining moment with him in the most present, sacred way I could. We walked together to say goodbye to his friend, Ella, a German Shepherd, down the road and then walked back towards home in the woods, where the trees not only knew us but also seemed to hold us. I stroked his body, feeling every ridge of his spine and his fur beneath my hand. I whispered how much I loved him as tears streamed down my face. I told him how grateful I was. I thanked him for our time together. Over and over, I said.

"Thank you, I love you, thank you, I love you, thank you, I love you…"

Our Farewell Moment

My friend and her daughter came and drove us down to the vet. It was a silent and picturesque drive in the Columbia Valley. I felt held by the mountains and blessed by their beauty. These final four hours were both a blur and a lifetime. They were not enough, yet they were everything. They were filled with so much love, grace, and sadness.

He left this world as he entered mine, held in my arms. We stayed like this for quite a while, me holding and lying with his body. I grounded myself in my breath, our love and my grief. I let my tears flow and anchored to the energy of this very sacred moment, just as I've helped so many clients do. We drove home with his body in his usual spot in the car. When we got home, I brought my cats out one at a time to see his body and pay their respects so they, too, could understand he was gone and begin their grieving process. The next day, a few close friends gathered; we held a ceremony, communally dug his grave, and buried his body, and after, we sat in reverent silence, sipping tea together in the mountain air, taking in the view. A red-tailed hawk called out as it flew over. I laughed as that is how Mushu, my boxer, his fur sibling, who had passed in 2014, shows herself to me, her call was saying- "He's here with me, Mama. We are running and playing again." An image of the two of them flashed before me, and I felt their palpable joy in reuniting. I smiled in my sadness.

Throughout all of this, I could feel our connection and love. It did not fray. It deepened. I embraced the love of our connection forever within and around me.

That is the gift I carry forward for myself and those I support.

Inviting Your Stories

If you've faced or are now facing a shock or sudden end and are trying to process the unthinkable with time not on your side, please know this:

Presence is still possible.
Connection is always there.
There is no wrong way to walk this path.
Your beloved pet feels your love, even through your shock and grief.

Sometimes, we are given long, winding journeys, and sometimes, we are given no time. Each journey we have with an animal is different.

Both are sacred.

Bosphorus showed me that we can still show up fully present, even in little time, and even with a broken heart, we are held in deep love.

I welcome you to share your story with me via email.

Our Story Is at the Heart of My Work.

As a professional animal communicator and end-of-life grief specialist, I walk with pet parents through these tender moments, whether they come with a having time or are sudden.
If our story resonates with your experience, may it offer you some comfort in yours. I invite you to explore the resources and my blog posts to support you through your grief. I share about our energetic bond with our animals, how to stay grounded in difficult times, and how to honour your never-ending soul-to-soul connection.

You can also learn more about my offerings—from personalized support to workshops like 'Embracing Deeper Connections'—all designed to help you understand your connectedness and how it lasts, even when you're saying goodbye.