1. The Day I Let You Go
19th November, 2024
It had been an unusually rough week. My body wasn’t holding up well, and that day, too, I forced myself to take full doses of paracetamol and just barely made it to work. By the afternoon, I was debating whether I should ask to leave early. That’s when my older sister called.
“Hey unnie, what’s going on?”
“…It’s Bandal. Bandal is…”
The moment I heard the trembling in her voice, I knew. The moment I had tried so hard, for so long, to avoid had finally come. My mind, already struggling to function, froze like the sudden chill of an ice cream headache. Everything in front of me went white. I could see nothing around me. By the time I stumbled out of the ward, my face was already soaked in tears, and I had nearly lost all composure. What should I do? What should I do? I needed to get to Korea right away. I started frantically searching SkyScanner for flights, but even while doing that, I had no idea how I was going to explain this to my line manager. Would they even let me go? According to our hospital policy, do pets even count as family?
With trembling hands, I finally made the call.
“My little sister passed away. I need to go to Korea. Well—she’s not my actual sister… But to me, she is. She’s my dog.”
My words tangled. My voice shook. My heart was breaking, and my sentences were no longer sentences. My line manager told me to stop crying and speak clearly. But if I had been able to do that, I wouldn’t have been crying in the first place. In the end, the answer was blunt. Because a dog does not count as family, I was not eligible for compassionate leave. What’s more, I was told that my current state—emotional, unstable—could be considered unprofessional. I ended up taking a half-day off due to emotional distress and the physical symptoms that came with it—shaking hands, uncontrollable tears. I have no memory of how I even got home that day.
Bandal was eighteen years old in Korean age. Despite her age, she was still going for daily walks, still living well. I never imagined she would leave us so suddenly. Just two days before, she had gone to our grandparents’ house, eaten grilled meat, and played happily. That evening, after coming home, she went on her usual walk with my mom as always. But that night, something started to feel off. She wasn’t crying in pain—but no matter how she sat or lay down, she seemed uncomfortable. She couldn’t sit or stand still, constantly shifting her position. My mom held her close all night, trying to give her some rest. The next day, my uncle came by and spent some time with her, and during that time, Bandal managed to get some sleep. My mom, increasingly worried, had filmed a video of Bandal and sent it to the vet. The vet thought it might be a short flare-up of her usual back pain. The clinic was closed the next day, so they told my mom to bring Bandal in on the following day if she was still in discomfort. But Bandal didn’t make it to the next day. Around 10pm, that night, in my mom’s arms, she took her final breath. Her little body stopped moving before her eyes could even fully close. And holding her in that stillness, my mum whispered softly,
“Goodbye, Bandal.”
Looking back, perhaps it was a good ending—for her. In the days just before she crossed the rainbow bridge, she had the chance to see her favourite people: my grandparents and uncle. Could she have sensed it was the end? Just hours before she left, she had gone on one last walk, just as she loved to do. Always so clever, always so thoughtful, Bandal left just as my mom had hoped she would: peacefully, in her arms.
She had never been seriously ill while she was alive. She left on her own, without forcing us to make the painful decision of euthanasia. My dad and I were overseas, and my sister was out of town, so none of us could be there in her final moments—but even so, we were grateful. Grateful that she didn’t suffer too long. That she had spared us the worst. Even in the end, Bandal was thinking of us. She did everything she could to make sure we wouldn’t feel guilty. She gave us everything she had, right until the very last. The next morning, thanks to my dad catching the earliest flight to Korea, I was able to join Bandal’s funeral via video call. From a distance, I said goodbye as she lay there, still and peaceful, as if she were simply napping. I wasn’t sure what to say at first. Then, I remembered—I’d never told Bandal my name. To her, I had always just been “the second sister.” So I told her, finally.
“Bandal, my name is Haru. On the other side of the rainbow bridge, there will be patients and friends who knew me, and Grandma Yeoboshu—she’ll be waiting for you. Don’t forget my name. Tell them you’re with me, okay? Don’t be scared. You are never, ever alone. I’ve already asked them to take care of you. So go play now. Have fun. I’ll meet you again soon.”
Bandal, who had only weighed 3.5kg when she was alive, returned to my mom’s arms in the form of a much smaller urn.
It was the quietest, warmest goodbye I’ve ever known.
And perhaps, the greatest love of my life.
