Dealing with grief in another country.

Grief is a beautiful thing, it helps us proclaim that we loved something, a declaration that in that moment we loved something enough that when it’s gone it leaves us with great sorrow. A quote I read somewhere online that sticks with me today in an age of constant grabs at our attention. Grief is something most people do not want to write about, and I doubt most want to read about but I feel as though it’s something important to discuss. It is something that can happen while you’re abroad, and while it’s something we all hope we can avoid, it’s important to know what can and cannot be done while being away.

While studying in Japan. I woke up to a phone call. It was a close friend with a somber tone asking me if I was busy. I remember saying no, I had just woken up and I had to get ready for class but I could chat for a little what’s the matter. That’s when I heard the news that a friend had died back in America. I was shocked, it felt like the world stopped for a second, before I heard the train pass by my dorm and pulled me back into reality. I wanted to ask them if they were joking, but I knew in my heart that they would not joke about such a heavy topic with such a somber tone. Instead I asked how, what had happened. They replied that he passed away in his sleep, he had been sick for a couple of days and then he was gone, his best friend found him and called the paramedics but he was already gone when they got there.

I don’t know why it never crossed my mind that something like this could happen while I was away. Maybe it was blissful ignorance or maybe it was the fleeting thought that tomorrow is never a guarantee, which only ever comes and goes during moments of grief. My friend had to go as their family was calling but before they left they told me if I need anything to not be afraid to reach out. I sat there in disbelief, he was a year below me, he had so much energy and so much happiness and yet he was gone. I reached out to our mutuals asking how they were holding up and by the time I finished I noticed I had missed my first period. I sent out emails to my professors explaining my current situation and stating that I would not be in class today.

All I wanted to do in that moment was stay in my dorm, To just curl into a ball and trap myself in memories of the past and I doubt anyone would have blamed me for doing so, but I remembered that I am only in Japan for a semester, for less than four months I wanted to find a way to grieve that would tie into my time abroad. Is that weird? Yes it really is, but I look back on it and I think it was just a way for me to distract myself. I decided to hop on a train for two hours and go see some spider lilies. While they bloom in Japan, they are usually in small patches, I decided to go visit a place called Kinchakuda Manjushage Park in Saitama Park, where a large amount grows every year covering the ground as though it is a sea of red. I arrived at the park as it was about to rain, went and purchased an umbrella from a local convenience store and walked to the park. As I arrived it began to rain as though the local kami knew why I was visiting their lands. I do not know how long I walked in circles in that park, long enough for the sun to go down and to be ushered out by the people who were working the park. In that time I just remembered him, his energy, his annoying laugh, his infectious personality, his dumb jokes that would make everyone cringe. I miss you Jaydon.

It’s hard, being in a different country, knowing that you’re going to miss their funeral. Knowing that you aren’t able to effectively counsel your mutual friends, and that even upon your return you will never see them again. That does not mean that the world stops spinning though, and as much as I wanted to just shudder myself away in my dorm, I decided to make my grief a part of my journey. I got to see a beautiful sight, my new favorite flower, a flower that in Japanese culture represents final goodbyes. They say that the last time you talk to someone a spider lily grows where you part ways, and I would like to imagine that one grew the last time I saw him before I left for Japan.