Grieving While Living Abroad and Parenting: Coping With Family Loss
Last Updated on June 2, 2025 by Kay
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One of the most difficult things about living abroad and away from your family is when someone you love back home passes away.
I’ve talked about this in another article, but my uncle suddenly passed away from COVID in December 2020. This was one of the reasons my family decided to move from Tokyo to Osaka. This way, we could be closer to my husband’s family. I also booked a flight to Canada once it was safe to travel again.
Although my uncle’s death was very sudden, I never imagined another unexpected death of someone I loved. And then early this year, the unimaginable happened.
It’s taken me a long time to write this because I wasn’t ready. To be honest, I thought I was ready today, months later, but I find myself crying intermittently as I type. It’s hard to bring back these memories; it feels like reopening wounds that are still healing. But I wanted to write this for a few reasons.
One reason is to share this story with the community of people who are living abroad and away from their families.
The other is to share how fast cancer can take someone when they least expect it.
And lastly, I wanted to write this for my beloved Aunty M.
Table of Contents
Stage 4 Breast Cancer Timeline
When I called my aunt to wish her a Happy New Year on January 5th, she told me she was in the hospital. She had just been admitted due to excruciating stomach pain she had been experiencing. Other symptoms she had been experiencing included feeling cold, dizziness, eating raw cardamom, and low blood sugar.
She had never told me about these symptoms, which she had been experiencing since the summer.
After being given morphine for her pain, my aunt was discharged from the hospital soon after. She called me that same day, explaining that the doctor thought her breast cancer, which she had battled back in 2021, had returned. I was in denial until my uncle (my aunt’s brother) messaged me the next day and told me that she had multiple lesions on her liver. I responded that if it was really bad, we would book a flight to Canada right away.
On January 6th, the hospital found that the breast cancer had spread to her bones and liver.
I remember calling my uncle and crying uncontrollably after I heard the full story. The doctor had told them she had three to six months to live without treatment or three to six months with treatment.
“But she’s such a good person!” I remember repeating in between sobs, as if cancer only claimed “bad” people. It was so childish of me, especially since another aunt had died of cancer over a decade ago and she was anything but bad, but I didn’t want to accept the reality that life is unfair. The reality that my aunt could really leave us.
I composed myself after I finished talking with my uncle and called my aunt. I tried my best not to cry, especially since she kept saying, ever so gently, “Don’t cry, don’t cry.” I tried to be just as brave and calm as she was.
After we finished talking, I bought plane tickets for my family. Due to my husband’s work, we would have to wait until January 18th to leave. Looking back, I should have left earlier. (I have a lot of “I should have”s.)
The next day, we started preparing for our visit. I was suddenly very excited to see my aunt, and feeling optimistic. She would beat cancer this time, just like she had before. She would be okay.
I messaged her a few times asking if she wanted me to bring some of her favorite tea and crackers to Canada. She said she just wanted me, but I bought them anyway.
On January 10th, I sent my aunt a picture of the weather forecast for my hometown. The temperature would drop by 15 degrees Celsius on the day we would arrive. What bad luck!
“Aww… No good!” she replied.
The last time I spoke to her on the phone was the next day, January 11th. She was listening to some hymns and suddenly started talking about her will. I didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t going anywhere, I didn’t need to know. I remember turning to my husband, and we both felt like she had lost all hope. Despite this, she was speaking normally. She seemed completely fine.
I messaged her from time to time about things we needed to bring. Towels. Laundry bags. After all, I was planning on staying for an entire month, or even longer if need be, to help her out. I started wondering about also visiting during my daughter’s spring vacation in Japan.
The last message I got from her was January 15th. It was one of her “morning greetings,” an image of a positive message to brighten the start of my day. This one, which would be her very last to me, was of a coffee cup with the writing, “Good morning. Smile! Have a wonderful Wednesday..”
When I didn’t hear from her on January 16th or 17th, I didn’t think anything of it. I was so busy preparing for our international flight. I should have called her. But I didn’t know.
My daughter wanted to give my aunt flowers. Since we couldn’t bring real flowers onto the plane, we prepared a little box with fake flowers from Daiso, a drawing my daughter made of her and my aunt in front of my aunt’s home, and some cozy socks.
On January 18th, the day of our flight, I called my aunt, but she didn’t answer. Again, I didn’t think anything of it. Our bags were packed, filled with our winter clothes and gifts for my family, and we headed off to Canada.
We had to take three flights to get to my hometown. The last flight, which would depart Vancouver, was delayed by four hours. I was annoyed we would lose four hours with my aunt. I imagined us sitting on her couch, eating food together, and catching up. I imagined my daughter sitting next to my aunt, with my aunt gently holding her.
My daughter was very tired, it had been 16 hours since we left after all, but the thought of seeing my aunt soon kept her going.
One more flight.
When we arrived, 20 hours after leaving Japan, my cousin picked us up at the airport. Despite the sudden cold snap, everything seemed fine. He greeted us with a big smile and gave us all hugs.
And then he broke the news when we were in the car. We wouldn’t be going to my aunt’s house. We would be going to the hospital.
Like An Accident
My husband and daughter waited in the hospital’s lobby while I went up to see my aunt.
She was hooked up to so many machines. She was breathing laboriously. My entire family was sitting around her, grave looks on their faces.
“Kay’s here!” someone softly told her. I don’t remember who it was. “She’s here!”
My aunt’s eyes fluttered open and looked at me with very tired, very yellow eyes. The discoloration was caused by a buildup of ammonia in her body due to liver failure. This was why she had been craving cardamom.
She tried to say something to me. She tried to smile.
I sat next to my aunt and I cried. I said her name a few times in a high-pitched voice I didn’t recognize, as if I had become a child again. I then apologized repeatedly for not seeing her for two years.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
She had been suddenly admitted to the hospital the day before we arrived when she could no longer move due to the pain. She had fought for so long, and we didn’t make it in time.
I remember asking my aunt if she wanted to see my daughter, A, and she said no. I don’t think she wanted my daughter, still the tender age of five, to be scared, so I honored that.
Apart from this, I don’t remember much at all. At some point, I had to leave. After all, my husband and daughter had been waiting in the lobby for a while now. They were probably very tired after such a long trip.
My cousin took us to my aunt’s house. Opening the door, we were greeted by darkness. The house felt cold and soulless without my aunt. I didn’t want to be there without her.
The next day, January 19th, my uncle took me to the hospital in the evening. My aunt was sleeping, so I just sat next to her and talked to my uncle’s wife. I felt bad for my husband and daughter, who had traveled from so far only to stay alone in my aunt’s home, but it couldn’t be helped.
At one point, my aunt asked my uncle why she was “still here”. He had mentioned to me that she had asked this before. As he had done before, he asked her what she meant by “here”.
“The hospital?” he asked.
She shook her head, no.
On January 20th, my uncle, his wife, and I went to the hospital in the morning. My aunt was awake and very responsive. In fact, it seemed like she was getting better! She made jokes, we talked like we always did. She said she was fine going to a nursing home if she wasn’t well enough to live alone.
And then a resident doctor came into the room to give us an update on my aunt’s condition. The damage to my aunt’s liver was too severe, and nothing could be done. We could prolong her life unnecessarily or place her in comfort care. This would mean they would stop giving her treatment, which was painful for her, and instead provide the means necessary so she could pass away naturally and peacefully.
A single tear fell from my aunt’s eye, but that was it.
My uncle had to make the painful decision to choose comfort care, struggling with wanting to keep my aunt in this world, but also wanting to fulfill her last wishes. None of us argued. There was no point in keeping my aunt in unnecessary pain and prolonging the inevitable. And she, most of all, didn’t want this.
Despite this, I still held some hope that she would miraculously get better. I didn’t want to accept the truth.
We spoke to my aunt a little longer before we had to leave. The last thing I said to her before I left was, “I love you.”
She responded quietly with, “I love you, too.”
She died the next day, in the early morning of January 21st.
This was 17 days after she had first gone to the hospital, not knowing the cancer had come back.
She had died less than an hour before my uncle, his wife, and I arrived at the hospital. Even the nurses hadn’t known and were surprised, one saying she had just checked her.
My aunt was always a very beautiful woman, but on the day she passed, she looked especially lovely and appeared even younger than her age, 67. It brought me a small bit of comfort knowing her last moments on Earth were peaceful and not in pain.
My daughter, A, had been asking every day since we arrived when Aunty M would be coming home. Telling her that Aunty M had gone to God’s house in heaven, “kamisama no ie,” and then having to take her to my aunt’s funeral a few days later, were some of the most painful moments of my life.
The little drawing my daughter made for my aunt was displayed alongside flowers at the funeral. The small bouquet of fake flowers my daughter chose for my aunt and an omamori we got from a shrine were put into her casket to be cremated with her.
You can read my eulogy for my aunt here.
Grieving While Parenting and Living Abroad
My daughter and husband left Canada first, and I left a week later after helping with what I could.
I had a lot of mixed feelings when I returned to Japan.
I had wanted to leave Canada as soon as possible after my aunt passed away. I couldn’t stand being in her house, a constant reminder that she was gone. The house had lost its soul, making it also feel foreign to me, like an abandoned building.
But after I was back in Japan, I wished I were with my family in Canada. They were going through the same pain as I was, and I felt like by leaving them, I left a part of myself behind. At the same time, I felt like a part of me had died when my aunt passed.
I didn’t want to cry around my daughter, so once she was gone to kindergarten, I spent almost every weekday morning for several weeks sobbing instead of working. Sometimes I couldn’t help myself and cried on weekends. My husband was always so understanding and supportive, giving me hugs or letting me stay in bed all day as I cried.
I cried a lot in the car. Although my aunt had been to Japan twice, there were so many new places and things I wanted to show her. Now I would never have the chance.
My aunt’s birthday was at the beginning of April, spring, but when the cherry blossoms bloomed, they didn’t feel as beautiful. All colors were muted. My life felt muted. My life became, and still is, a before and an after.
My aunt and I would talk every Wednesday, so I tried to keep myself busy on Wednesdays. Go out, go on playdates. Just not be home.
My daughter would sometimes remember my aunt and start tearing up, but I would quickly change the subject and try to smile. I knew I had to be strong for her, but it was so hard. My aunt was like a mother to me, and now she was gone. How could I be a good mother without her guidance? Without her love, her advice? I was all alone.
My uncle called me from time to time, which helped. It wasn’t the same as talking to my aunt, of course, but talking to him reminded me that I still had family in Canada who cared.
I also started therapy, and this has substantially helped me with healing. I don’t cry nearly as often as I did a few weeks ago, and I’m slowly coming to terms with accepting what has happened — that she’s gone.
However, I feel like I will never forgive myself for not having visited her for two years. Airfare had doubled since I last visited back in 2022, and there were no direct flights from Osaka to Canada (although there are now, too late). Remembering our last horrific trip to Canada, I didn’t want to go through that again, especially alone with a young child.
Last summer, though, my husband and I had decided we would visit Canada in the summer this year (2025). But it would be too late. We didn’t know.
This is what everyone tells me: “You didn’t know.”
I didn’t, but I did take my aunt’s presence, her life, for granted.
I never, ever want to do that again.
People also tell me, “At least you got to say goodbye,” and that I did, in fact, make it in time. But I lost so much time with her when she was still healthy. To me, it was too late.
There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about her. I wish I could hear her voice again, her laugh, and see her smile. I wish I could hug her and tell her how much I love her and how much she means to me.
You never know when someone will be taken from you in an instant, be it an accident or an illness. So, please hug your loved ones if you can or give them a call.
If you have family abroad, try to visit them as often as you can. You never know when there might not be another chance.