Do Not Forget: A Short Story About Indigenous Mental Health Care

Mikaela Brewer
Oct 7, 2024
10 min read

by Mikaela Brewer for The 44 North

**A person with a long, dark braid, wearing a red long-sleeved t-shirt that reads, “NO MORE STOLEN RELATIVES” on the back**

"Canada came here with no rivers, mountains, lakes, or forests. Yet they negotiate with us with the very things they stole from us. And yet society says we get a hand out. Rise people. [...] Canada has nothing to negotiate with. It was all stolen from us.”

—Isaac Murdoch, via Instagram

Author’s note: this short story, particularly the character of Dr. Waubun, was written with the incredible guideposts from Chapter 8 of Decolonizing Therapy. If you are a care provider working with Indigenous Peoples or any People of the Global Majority (PoGM), please consider reading this book.

Meg wasn’t sure what words to use when Dr. Waubun asked her if she wanted to share what happened three years ago. She was quiet, gazing out of the therapy office window cracked open a couple inches under red blinds. It looked out into a sample of forest, or, rather, the last piece of one if the land were a pie tray (as the developers believed). Late afternoon was blending with evening, the trees were bare under a fog duvet, and even though this bit of forest was so close by, the air coming in the window smelled of exhaust and cigarettes. Meg decided it was a terrible time for therapy—so far from lunch and so close to dinner. Her stomach growled.

Dr. Waubun smiled, and reached behind her into a desk drawer for a bar that couldn’t decide if it was granola or trail mix. The crystals of her turquoise earrings clinked together in her long charcoal hair, like someone walking through a beaded curtain. As she offered the bar to Meg, she asked, “Is Meg short for Megis?”

Meg turned her head from the window. One plank on the bridge of trust. “Yeah, it is.”

“Perhaps we can start there?” Dr. Waubun wasn’t like other therapists. Meg could tell that much.

“But that was before I was born. Seventeen years ago.”

“That’s okay. Noodin and Iggy died five years ago. But you’ve known him much longer. Processing grief expands well beyond one moment.”

Meg looked out the window again. The wind was picking up. He was here.

“He’s here. With you.” Dr. Waubun spoke softly.

Meg took a deep breath. “I just miss him. The way he used to call me Shelly instead of Meg or even Megis. I know my name means shell in English, but he used Shelly to poke fun at my Macklemore t-shirt or pop culture things. And Iggy was just the smallest, softest maltese. She was so fluffy— more than any other maltese I’ve ever seen. When I was little, Noodin used to tell me it was because she wanted to be as brown as possible. I loved her brownness.” Meg nearly choked across her last word. The tears began to fall. “I know that Indigenous people are ten times more likely to be shot and killed by police in Canada. But Noodin’s death feels worse. And he wasn’t my father or anything. Iggy was a dog. Everyone at school is annoyed that I haven’t moved on or whatever. I can feel that I make them sad—my friends, teachers, and family.”

“It’s not your fault, Meg. And that’s not fair of them.”

“But don’t you see? I wish I could move on. Meds and diagnosis don’t help. I’m distracted, sleepy, irritable, numb, anxious, and impulsive. I have terrible nightmares. The guilt and shame are so heavy. And I’m here because I need help to make it stop. I’m here because I can’t do it the way everyone else can.”“No. You’re not.” There was a subtle fringe of rage in Dr. Waubun’s reply, but not directed at Meg.

Meg could sense this. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Waubun held out open palms, and signaled for Meg to place her hands in them. When Meg did this, Dr. Waubun began speaking gently and kindly.

“Meg. You do not have to move on. You do not have to bury your anger, rage, and grief to make other people feel more comfortable. Noodin, your beloved friend and elder, shared an apartment with a young man in possession of cocaine. When the police came, Noodin’s roomate wasn’t there, and he was afraid. As they violently kicked down the front door, Noodin jumped from the window. Iggy ran, but they shot her, triggered by her movement once inside the apartment.” Dr. Waubun paused, clearly recalling something before beginning again, “Samah Jabr, the chair of the mental health unit at the Palestinian Ministry of Health, says, “There is no ‘post’ because the trauma is repetitive and ongoing and continuous. I think we need to be authentic about our experiences and not to try to impose on ourselves experiences that are not ours.” The past is the present for us. We’re both here to not let anyone disenfranchise our grief. You mustn’t forget.”

Dr. Waubun was smoothing her thumbs over Meg’s hands, filling the space between them with an energy of care. She slowly let go and sat back, taking a sip of tea.

Meg didn’t know what to say. She’d never heard someone speak of Noodin’s and Iggy’s deaths this way—as if the fear that stifled Noodin from opening the door wasn’t his own fault. Dr. Waubun had offered space for Meg even though she already knew the core details of what happened. She also knew on a spiritual, ancestral, emotional, and political level. It felt as if a key had unlocked something in Meg that she didn’t know existed inside her, let alone the shape of it.

“I’m sorry, Meg. I hope that wasn’t too much or too forward.”

“No, not at all. It was helpful. Being in this room with you doesn’t feel like it usually does—like there’s actually five walls instead of four. Many of my other therapists have felt like blank white walls. Not that they were evil or anything. I think they meant well. Even wanted to help.” Meg laughed briefly. “It’s strange how much of a difference the walls make. The olive, copper, and blue are refreshing.”

“I understand.” Dr. Waubun smiled, and the wrinkles around her eyes and cheeks moved like little eddies. “Could I ask you something?”

Meg nodded, fiddling with the elastic at the end of her long braid.

“Would you share your perspective or definition of grief and rage?”

Meg blinked as if the ancestors inside her hadn’t heard these words in centuries. “I, uh, don’t know. Since we moved to the city we don’t even talk about the emotions we could name while feeling them, let alone grief and rage.” Meg paused to think, remembering a phrase Dr. Waubun used a few moments ago. “What did you mean when you said “disenfranchised grief?”

“Ah, yes. It’s a phrase I’m learning, too. There’s a great book called Decolonizing Therapy, by Dr. Jennifer Mullan. I have it here, on my desk. Perhaps we could speak about some of it together. What do you think?”

Meg nodded with a mild enthusiasm that made Dr. Waubun sit up in her seat.

“Wonderful. The first thing I wanted to share with you is Dr. Mullan’s definition of disenfranchised grief: “Grief that people experience when they incur a loss that is not or cannot be openly acknowledged, socially sanctioned, or publicly mourned.” How does that resonate with you?”

Meg thought for a moment. “I’ve always felt that I was only allowed to be sad if an immediate family member died, or someone in the military or on Remembrance Day, or a natural disaster. But I feel so much when I think about anything. Losing Noodin and Iggy didn’t fit into those buckets.”

“Yes. And, they’re connected to and represent a much larger cultural grief, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly it. Violence to our land, language, songs, cermeonies, dances; my family’s trauma; our ancestors’ trauma; abuse, poverty.” Meg’s voice cracked and rose in volume with each word.

“Mhm. Would you like to say more about what you’re feeling?”

“Fire. Like I want to burn all the labels people forced upon me.”

“Which labels?” Dr. Waubun remained gentle, but met Meg’s heartspace energy where it was blooming.

“Defiant. Dominant. Rebellious. Oppositional. Uncontrollable. Resistant. Unmanageable.” Meg counted these on her fingers, snapping each finger open from a tightly closed fist. “It’s like these are labels reserved for ignorant people. Pathological people.” Her eyes welled up with each word.

“I know. And that’s not true. Do you believe me?”

“Maybe. Starting to.”

Dr. Waubun nodded and paused a moment before speaking. “Dr. Mullan says that there is something called a Rage-Grief axis, and that “one side needs a release—physiologically and emotionally—and the other requires the space to rest and grieve. To be with the difficult emotions, rather than display them.” She also says, “We relive what is unfinished through our disguises””

“This makes so much sense to me.” Meg said through her tears.

“Me too.” Dr. Waubun smiled. “And we can schedule many sessions with as much space as you need to process this. Perhaps even with any rituals, ceremony, energy work, or spiritual work that are part of your healing process. Do you have a relationship with these that you’d like to incorporate together?”

“Not right now, but I want to try to learn more about what my ancestors practiced.”

“Wonderful. We can make that a part of our work. Would you like to keep working together?”

Meg laughed a little. “Goodness. Yes please.” She wiped her tears with the back of her sleeve.

Dr. Waubun laughed too and nodded.

But Meg’s face changed, suddenly. “I just don’t know how many sessions I can afford.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.Through our donations program you had an anonymous donor for at least a few sessions. Specifically for you, too.” Dr. Waubun beamed.

“What?” Meg was confused. She hadn’t told anyone she was doing this.

Dr. Waubun grinned and nodded.

•••

As Meg walked out of the building fifteen minutes later, she saw an orange pick up parked by the curb, on the opposite side of the parking lot. It couldn’t be.

She wandered over, slowly, to find a young man, no more than eighteen, asleep in the front seat with his arms crossed. His mustard coloured toque was pulled over his eyes and long lashes—that she knew were there—and he was using a plum purple flannel as a blanket. Meg’s heart leapt and carried her fist with it to knock loudly on the window. The man woke with a start.

Jack. Noodin’s Jack, who she hadn’t seen in five years but recognized instantly. They’d been childhood friends until his family moved to Michigan after Noodin’s death.

As he clambered out of the car, disoriented, Meg fit herself into his arms. Startled, he fell backwards onto front seat and elbowed the car horn. It echoed through the trees on the other side of the truck, sending a group of crows in a flurry of feathers and cawing.

“Oh shit!” They said in unison, laughing. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to be making a ruckus.

Jack got his footing and stabilized himself by gripping Meg’s shoulders. He looked at her for a moment, scooped her into a hug, and kissed the top of her head.

“Why are you here?” She asked with a mix of joy and accusation.

“Well, let’s just say I’m sorry I haven’t been.”

“Why? To both parts of that sentence?”

“My mom couldn’t come back here. Even though they were divorced it shredded her heart. And I was only twelve. I wanted to visit as soon as I could drive myself but I was afraid. And it all still hurts. I thought my grief might add to yours. I know how close you were with my dad.”

Meg shook her head and started to interject but Jack continued.

“You don’t have to say anything. I know we have to work through it together. The pain feels so big because it is bigger than both of us.” He smoothed the collar of her shirt. “Remember, right before I left, you dared me to kiss you in the powder room as a ‘pact’ not to ever have a girlfriend?”

“Oh my. Why do you remember that?” Meg looked down and blushed.

“Because I should have done it.” He titled her chin up.

“We were twelve, Jack.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think love has an age.” He laughed.

“Love huh? Hm. Well we don’t have a powder room now.”

“No, but I’ve got a shitty car with doors cancelled out by untinted windows?”

They both full-body laughed until Meg remembered where she was. “Wait. How did you know to find me here?”

“Uh…” Jack couldn’t come up with a lie quick enough.

“It was you, wasn’t it? You paid? Why?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Because I saw that funny meme about the ex who’s supposed to pay for your therapy when your credit card declines.”

How he maintained a serious face Meg didn’t know. “What the fuck, Jack?” She was struggling to be serious now.

“Okay. Your mom called to check in on me, so I asked about you, and well, the rest is history. I don’t have a lot of savings yet. My mom helped.”

Meg shook her head, smiling, and as she was starting to reply he kissed her. This was absurd, she knew. Abrupt. But then something occurred to her. This wasn’t about the cute crush they’d had on each other since forever. Along with the heaviness of grief inside them, there was a whole lot of love. Perhaps, if that pink robot dude from Marvel was right in asking, “What is grief if not love persevering?” then maybe people have to choose how it perseveres. Maybe this kind of love builds up too, mimicking a heavy, painful ball in the chest if it’s not released—rewoven and reshaped—upon others in a way that honours why it’s there in the first place. Joy is fighting the fight too. Meg kissed him back.