This is a rough breakdown of the basic facts surrounding the Itsumi Shiraishi incident. I always try to organize things using the “5W1H” technique my father taught me, no matter what the topic is. Depending on the situation, you can add “WHOM” to make 6W1H, and then “HOW MUCH” for 6W2H.
As you can see, the “WHY” in this case is unknown. Speculations are being tossed around…Was it an accident? Was it suicide? Was it murder?
I will relate my account of the incident. My story may be of value to you—because I know how it really happened.
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Now, before I write about Itsumi Shiraishi’s death, I must first tell you about my relationship with her.
Itsumi Shiraishi and I were in the same grade and shared a science class. We both dreamed of becoming doctors. We rooted for—and sometimes competed against—each other for better grades. We each aimed to get into a university with a top-ranked medical program. Itsumi Shiraishi was a worthy rival, as it were.
My father, who passed away two years ago, originally inspired me to become a doctor.
He was fantastic at his job. He used to work at a teaching hospital, and later opened his own small clinic to work as a family physician in our region. While he may not have had the newest medical equipment, he would peruse monthly academic magazines, attend scientific conferences and study sessions, and did everything else that he could to stay current with the latest medical knowledge and techniques. Knowing patients know their own symptoms best, he would diligently listen to his patients as they described their symptoms, then find the cause of their illness and search for a cure. My father never stopped believing in “learning from your patients.”
Masses of people attended my father’s funeral. I sat with my family and watched the long line of attendees offer incense—like an elderly man who’d been my father’s patient since his clinic first opened, a woman who’d been his patient since she was in kindergarten and who brought her own toddler there, or three generations of a family who all went to him for primary care—and I was surprised to see how many patients he had actually taken care of and healed. My heart swelled with pride every time I heard someone softly whisper, “Thank you, doctor,” through their tears.
That day, I vowed: I will be a great doctor like my father. I will take the clinic that shut down with his death and reopen it with my own two hands.
The only possessions my father left me were the encyclopedias that filled his bookshelves, back issues of the American Journal of Medicine, and a worn-out stethoscope. It was so characteristic of him that I was moved to tears.
Since then, I’ve dedicated more time to my studies. Sometimes the stress is too much and I feel like giving up, but at those times I visit hospitals to lighten my mood. I hop on random buses and trains until I find a hospital I’d like to visit. When I arrive, I see people suffering from illnesses. Health care providers offering their sincere support. Smiling patients leaving the hospital. Every one of those people rekindles the fire of my motivation. You may find it strange that I take hospital tours to feel refreshed, but I think that all scientific girls are a little eccentric to begin with.
Itsumi Shiraishi was more balanced in that sense. I assumed that she was a liberal arts type because she ran the Literature Club, so I was surprised when we ended up in the same science class in our second year. I am confident that I will not lose to anyone in mathematics and science, but know I don’t do well in classical literature, kanji, and English. But Itsumi Shiraishi was unbeatable in those subjects, too. How irritating. She must have been right and left-brained.
There are many bright students at this school, of course. However, Itsumi Shiraishi was my personal rival. I spent half of each day studying just so I wouldn’t lose to her. Just when I felt like I couldn’t keep up this exhausting routine any longer, Itsumi Shiraishi invited me to the Literature Club in my second year of high school.
Sayuri Sumikawa, another student in my grade, warmly welcomed me into the club. At the time, the only other members included Akane Kominami and first-year student Shiyo Takaoka. (I know she’s billed as a “high school author” and all, but I didn’t finish her book. My head started to hurt just from reading the first page. Is that style the trend now? Honestly, I’m not into it. But of course, I told Shiyo that I read the whole thing).
The book discussions were excruciating at first. Even if I did do the readings, I was terrible at answering questions like “What is the theme of the piece?” or “How do you feel about it?” or “What is the story trying to say about modern society?” and voicing my opinion about the novels.
“You can’t just say ‘It was interesting,’ Sonoko,” Itsumi often said, disconcerted.
“But that’s really all I felt,” I would reply.
“That can’t be. Every story has a theme and a question for the audience,” she would retort. This was a plausible argument.
“Okay, then what about the legend of Momotaro?” I asked jokingly.
To my surprise, Itsumi launched into a rapid-fire discourse on Momotaro’s “relevance to today’s aging society, pregnancy over the age of forty, and the declining birth rate,” and “the absurdity of the violent resolve to exterminate the Oni.”
At first, I got Itsumi to give me easy assignments, such as medical works of literature by Robin Cook and Michael Crichton. I was so fascinated with their stories of heart transplants and rare bacteria, I could read them from dawn until dusk. Shiyo and Akane didn’t seem to enjoy them nearly as much as I did (as was clear after Akane exploded, saying that “These books are so boring that they’ll ruin teatime!”).
Nevertheless, human beings are, above all, creatures that can learn. Despite my apathy towards the book discussions, I gradually learned how to understand literature after reading more and listening to the members’ thoughts and analyses. The trick to lengthy novels is to extract 6W1H or 6W2H instead of 5W1H, and then compare the book to modern trends and events. Once I got the hang of this, the discussions weren’t so painful for me anymore.
Take Stendhal’s The Red and the Black, for example: