Losing a Friend and a Flower That Never Withers

I started the last week with a difficult news. I found out that a friend of mine passed away. He was one of many great friends I met at Fletcher Hall during my first year in Ann Arbor. Located on the edge of campus, we had no dining hall and no entertainment. South Commuter, infamously infrequent Blue Bus (a local commuter bus system for the University of Michigan) was the only reliable connection to the world outside. Its remote location and lack of amenity forced us to spend ridiculous amounts of time together. We would round up everyone in the hall for lunch or dinner because nobody wanted to ‘hike’ alone to the nearest dining hall in the freezing winter of Ann Arbor. Although many drifted apart after the first year, I was always elated to bump into my fella Fletcher buddies on the campus.

When I saw a Facebook post with my friend’s name tagged on it. I was quite excited to find out what he was up to because I haven’t spoken to him for very long time. Instead, I found out about his untimely death and some challenging circumstances toward the end of his life. Tragically, he took his own life.

My first encounter with suicide happened in the summer of 2007 when my cousin took her own life. She had a troubled marriage because of her husband’s long history of alcohol abuse and infidelity. She left this world leaving behind two kids and the disgraced husband. I remember attending her funeral, and there were sporadic shouting and scuffles throughout the funeral. I remember feeling angry, numb, filthy, and ashamed. Since then, I’ve lost few more to suicide.

I’ve attended funerals where it was appropriate to celebrate legacy and memories of the dead. I suppose my mind is properly orientated to process inevitable and timely death. It is sad to say goodbye for good, but I accept that death is a way of life. On the other hand, suicide feels like a whole different way to say goodbye.

When I found out about my friend’s death last week, I was devastated. I also had many questions, and none of them was comfortable to think about.

Why did he have to do it? Could I have done something? Why didn’t I keep in touch with him? What were the missed opportunities? Should I reach out to the family? If yes, what do I tell them? What about other Fletcher buddies? Should I let them know as well? Does anything good come out of it? Am I making the whole thing about me? If yes, am I selfish to think this way?

I couldn’t articulate how I was feeling. My brain was shutting down to make my emotion inaccessible as a coping mechanism. My mind often drifted to a void, and my eyes gravitated to meaningless YouTube videos because I did not want to deal with the death. I believe it is important to grieve properly, and suppressing (or neglecting) negative emotions would be the last thing I want to do, but I did not know what to do.

For a time, these ponderings consumed me, their intensity heightened during the quiet solitude of my commute. One day, on my way home, I walked by a quaint flower shop named “시들지 않는 꽃” roughly translate to “a flower that never withers.” In that moment, I realized a flower that never withers is no flower at all, and a life devoid of loss is no life at all.

The fragile bud slowly unfurls its delicate petals to greet the sun. Each petal, infused with sweet scents of honey, invites pollinators to dance among the blossoms. The once vibrant bloom begins its descent into oblivion. Its petals, once a canvas of radiant hues, now droop and darken, surrendering to the passage of time. The sweet scents dwindles and fades while its beauty forever preserved in the memory of beholders.

The bigger the blossom, the greater loss it will be. Although I am still grieving, I am also thankful that my friend Dave and I had one gigantic blossom together in the hallway of 915 Sybil St.

Perhaps, the only sane way to live is to nurture what we’ll mourn. I will have to keep watering the flowers that will bud and blossom, so their beauty forever engraved in my memories long after they fade away. Good bye Dave, thank you for making me belonged, welcomed, and loved. I will miss you a ton.

P.S. — My friend Dave Lehmann is survived by his wife, Stacey. If you knew Dave, she would love to hear what impact he made in your life. Please contact me for her email.