Farewell, Pish: A Love Letter to the Unexpected Fish Who Swam Into My Heart

You’d think after everything I’ve been through—a sarcoidosis diagnosis, heart failure, being told I had five years to live, all while trying to wield a knife with dignity and not pass out in the soup—I would be immune to the heartbreak of a fish. Yet here I am, staring at an empty aquarium and feeling like someone punched me in the lungs. And I need those lungs. We fought so hard for them.

Let me back up. Not all fish are created equal. Some are just soulless little floaters who swim aimlessly and forget you exist every three seconds. Others? They become roommates, confidants, silent witnesses to your medical chaos. That was Pish.

Two years ago, I wandered into a pet shop on a day when my sarcoidosis fatigue was pouring concrete into my bones. I was fresh off another doctor visit—another round of medications, including the joy of discovering that Lovaza, the prescription fish oil meant to lower my triglycerides, somehow spiked my cholesterol. Because of course it did. Why would my body do anything normally?

In that fog, I decided I needed some kind of comfort. Most people buy cupcakes, weighted blankets, or three-foot-tall plush sloths. I, however, bought a Siamese fighting fish. A deep, inky blue little guy with a streak of turquoise down his fin like he’d been blessed by Poseidon himself. I named him Pish. Yes, it’s lazy. But try naming anything after nine vials of blood, two imaging scans, and waking up from a nap you didn’t plan.

From day one, Pish was different. Every time I walked past his tank, he would swim to the top and hover like he had something to say. I swear he recognized me. I know, fish supposedly have the memory of a goldfish (thanks, science), but Pish was built different. He showed up. He was present. He didn’t care if I was bloated from steroids or if I was on day three of “post-infusion nap mode.”

You can’t pet a fish. But Pish would come right to the surface when I tapped the glass or said his name. He didn’t wag his tail or purr, but he had attitude, a tiny underwater swagger that made the apartment feel a little less lonely. On days when my heart fluttered like a drunk hummingbird or my joints rebelled, he just… swam there. Nearby. Silent but reassuring.

Fast-forward two years—practically to the day we brought him home—and Pish went quietly. No dramatic upside-down float. No fishy theatrics. Just… slower. Still. Gone.

I wasn’t prepared. Yes, I know: “It’s just a fish.” But grief doesn’t care about the size or species of the thing that fills your heart. Tonight, I’m staring at a clean but painfully empty tank, and I miss him. I miss that little flicker of turquoise. I miss pretending he could hear me. I miss the joy of recognizing something small, alive, and oddly reliable in a life that often feels like a science experiment gone rogue.

Maybe it’s silly to mourn a fish. But Pish was proof that even in a life full of medical charts and medication adjustments, small joys matter. He didn’t ask for anything more than a bit of food and attention. And in return, he made me smile more than most humans on any given week.

Goodbye, Pish. Thank you for two years of quiet companionship, unexpected emotional support, and showing me that sometimes the tiniest lives leave the biggest spaces when they’re gone. Swim on, my friend. The aquarium is quieter without you.

So …

If you’ve ever loved an unlikely pet—or felt grief sneak up on you in absurd ways—I’d love to hear about it. Drop a comment below or subscribe for more stories from the kitchen, the couch, and the chronic illness chronicles. And as always, bring snacks. Even fish food, if you’re feeling sentimental.