Grief Before the Goodbye

There’s a grief that arrives before death. It’s heavy, quiet, and sometimes harder to name. I see it in the eyes of spouses sitting vigil, in children navigating the liminal space between hope and letting go. It settles into the pauses between breaths, the sighs that don’t quite have words.

One woman I supported, Ruth, read poetry to her husband every evening. Even as his speech faltered, even as he slept more than he was awake, she continued the ritual. After each poem, she’d pause and say, “What do you think, Jim?” Then she’d smile and answer for him, “I know, that line gets me too.”

She told me they’d fallen in love over books—passed notes in margins, recited stanzas over candlelight dinners. She knew he might be unable to respond anymore, but it didn’t matter. She was speaking for both of them now.

Anticipatory grief is its own kind of ache. But it also opens a doorway. A chance to say the things we might have waited too long to say. To soften. To connect.

One of the greatest gifts we can give someone who is dying is to grieve with them before they go. To let them know they mattered, and that they will be remembered. I’ve seen families read old letters aloud, make scrapbooks, tell favorite stories as if repeating them would preserve the person a little longer. And in a way, it does.

I sat with Ruth on the day her husband died. She held his hand and read one last poem. When she finished, she said, “You can go now, my love. I’ll keep reading for both of us.”

I often remind families: the goodbye doesn’t have to happen all at once. Sometimes, it comes in chapters. And each one is a chance to love more deeply. Each poem Ruth read was part of her goodbye, layered with memory, grief, and devotion.

Grief before the goodbye is not premature—it’s preparatory. And in its own way, it is love at its most intentional. It says, “I will hold your memory with care. I will miss you before you’re even gone. And that, too, is a kind of love story.”

And after the final breath, when the house is quiet and the room feels too still, that anticipatory grief becomes a bridge. It eases the shock. It holds the mourner gently. Because the work of loving didn’t wait until death—it began long before, in poems and presence, in whispered I-love-yous and remembered lines.

It’s a way of saying, “I will not let you disappear without knowing how deeply you were loved.” And in that, there is comfort. There is grace.