Two-Eyed Seeing, Part 2
Part two of a short story by Amy Johnson
Welcome back to Thrutopia! Today we have the second part of Two-Eyed Seeing, a short story by Amy Johnson. Go here to read Part One if you need to catch up. Part Three will be posted at the same time next week.
Two-Eyed Seeing by Amy Johnson
Part 2
We left Henrietta with Rob about to explain some things to her, but our main character also has some things on her mind – like figuring out what’s real and what isn’t.
Hen felt her heart begin fluttering in her chest, and sweat formed on her forehead. Her thoughts began racing, as did her heart. What if I AM psychotic? But most hallucinations aren’t nice like this, and you can’t feel someone touching you. No, don’t cry, breathe.
She wondered how her mother was doing in Alabama. And her cat, Nelson Mandela, was he ok with the hippie pet sitter, Willow? Probably getting double portions by now. And what was she, 50? She looked at her hands, which were decidedly not gnarled or wrinkly.
She did what she had told many of her patients to do. Felt her feet on the ground, sinking roots from her feet into the earth, counting her breathing in and out. She tapped on her cheekbone meridian just under the pupil. Henrietta began to calm.
She had grown up in a working family in Alabama, and was the first to go to college, medical school, and on to be a psychiatrist. She had spent the last ten years busting her ass in med school and residency and did not have a partner, having no time to look or even think about it. The other residents, whom she knew like siblings, were mostly workaholics too. Now, she mainly worked and slept. But her eye was on the prize: to be a caring and compassionate healer of mental illness. She had lived it with her brother Ben, who got involved with drugs and then sank into psychosis. Nobody could help him because he wasn’t insured, and he spent years going in and out of psychiatric wards, with brief periods of normalcy. Normal. What is that? Ben had disappeared onto the streets.
“You are not crazy, please believe me,” Rob said earnestly, and she began to listen.
“Two years after you worked here, climate-related disasters increased quickly. With flooding, heating, and droughts, the first thing that broke down was shipping and supply chains, so that hospitals weren’t able to keep working as they had. Medications and even supplies like syringes were scarce. Hospitals became a low-profit enterprise, and the big multinationals flew the coop.”
Ha, is that a Purdoo Farms Equity joke? She laughed.
Looking out over the mountains in the hazy distance, she saw glinting solar panels on every roof. There were also jungly gardens in back yards. Wind turbines lazily turned on the peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Below, a lone electric cablecar passed, dinging its bell. People were walking up and down the hill.
Robin continued. “It’s been rough. As the warming increased, there were multiple heat domes and grid failures in the south that killed thousands. People began emigrating to northern states, which already had little housing, so that people were living in the forests, getting by as they could. Food in stores was already erratic and very expensive, and Victory Gardens sprouted up all over. Luckily, in this area, food crops still grow very well, and there were already small farming communities using traditional farming techniques. People began raising chickens and goats again. But many people went hungry and suffered, or died.”
She felt a jolt of panic hit her gut. “Do you know if my mother is OK? She lives down south.” Oh, Mom.
“Yes, we located her. Bernadette Dovie Jones. She is well and living near Lake Erie with your cousins.
“Henrietta, I know this is a lot, but perhaps if I can explain, things will make sense. In response to this crisis, two very different political movements occurred. There were the groups trying to limit personal freedom, wanting something akin to a dictatorship. They called themselves the Patriots. These were backed by the evangelicals and the multinationals. Anyone different was imprisoned, including LGBTQ folks and demonstrators, along with minorities and intellectuals who spoke out. They used tech spying, and local vigilante groups called The Home Garda, who would enforce their rules.
“The other was a grassroots campaign named The Mycelial Care Network. There were so few items to buy that people began learning how to make and fix things themselves. Bartering became more important than money. Part of the movement was underground, with resistance to increasing control. Communication was verbal or by paper messages, no electronics. There were factions similar to the Resistance in WW2, helping citizens evade the police state. People began moving to the high mountains, living in caves or camping. Local networks of communication and support were formed to help less fortunate people.
“Around the year 2029, consumerism had really declined. The crisis was still going on, but the large corporations like Walmart were not doing well. People wanted renewables, and just began doing their own things with what they salvaged. They got by with less, including electricity. Protests by people on bicycles took over the interstates. Flying became a rare event. It kept getting hotter, and there were more disasters. That brings us to now, 2050.”
Trying not to think about her cat, Henrietta wondered aloud, “How did that work with health care? Am I obsolete?” Her training had mostly covered diagnosis and medications. How would she pay back her loans?
Rob crinkled his blue eyes in another smile. “Out of need, we reverted back to some older ways of treating mentally ill people. We worked with indigenous healers nearby to approach people more holistically. Our programming is based on Two-Eyed Seeing, from indigenous healers. Our philosophy is to provide people with a supportive, natural environment and programming that works. We also have access to lithium and traditional plants used by the Cherokee. We use acupuncture, yoga, exercise, and meditation. Group therapy was brought back. Probably the most important change has been to help people find housing and community. We hooked up people with the Mycelial Care Networks, who provided co-housing and structure. We got to do things the right way once money and profit were not involved.”
“Wow! How are the outcomes looking? And who pays for this?” Hen was floored but also drawn to this way of helping her patients, finally.
“I know this is a lot, Dr. Jones, so would you like to take a walk or go inside and look around. Maybe change into something comfortable?”
They walked down a pebbled path under a bamboo pergola covered in grapevines heavy with fragrant purple Muscadines, and returned to a door to the hospital. This was the door she had entered a week ago – or 25 years and one week ago – when doing her orientation.
“These are what we wear at work, so just find one you like.”
Henrietta chose an indigo gauzy cotton jumpsuit, leaving her scrubs, badge, and phone in a locker.
“First, we’ll go to the unit, and then we can talk more in the lounge. Or if you’d like, we have apartments for the residents where you could take a break and have a think.”
Henrietta felt drawn to the warmth of Rob’s kindness and asked, “Are you a psychiatrist?”
Rob laughed. “I was a new social worker on the old unit, and stayed through the changes. There was nobody who would work here after the Second Pandemic. Then, when Purdoo left, it was chaos, so I just stuck it out. The people still needed help, especially with PTSD from all the losses and catastrophes.” Rob was about her age and had an easy way about him. And he looked really cute in that jumpsuit. NOOOO, girl. Stockholm Syndrome! But Rob does seem trustworthy. Get your head on straight.
They walked up to the psychiatric unit. 5B was breezy, with large windows and fans. “We had to improve the ventilation after the pandemics,” Robin said. It was decorated with light, natural textures and smelled clean.
People were sitting at tables, journaling, playing cards, or chatting. This is the old dayroom, Hen thought. Gone were the hard, heavy chairs (that couldn’t be thrown), and instead there were soft couches. “And over here is the group room where we have various activities going,” said Rob. “Right now we’re doing Qigong. If people are well enough, they also go outside for Nature-Based Therapy.”
“What do you do when someone is psychotic and aggressive?” This had been much of her job, giving shots of Ativan, Benadryl, and Haldol (called B-52s) to people who were out of control. She would do rounds in the morning with her laptop on a rolling table, see each patient for 5-10 minutes, then adjust meds and write a long, complex note so that insurance would pay. Seeing twenty patients a day, working 12 hours, then crashing at the hotel. No wonder I’ve gone over the edge.
Robin said gently. “It has totally changed since you were here. We had to adapt quickly, and we are basically back to more traditional ways of treating people with mental illness. Now that everyone has basic health care and UBI, we don’t have to deal with insurance companies or hospital profit goals. The people who work here are healers who want to do this, and enjoy their work. And the patients mostly get better. As before, there are people who remain unwell and need a lot of support and care. The Mycelial Care Network has developed small group homes in which the people can learn to garden, to fix or build, care for animals, etc. We use plants to help people calm down.”
Henrietta’s brain was full. She felt a huge sadness, but a tiny spring of joy was bubbling up from her heart. “I think I would like to rest for a minute and take all this in. I appreciate your help and understanding. Could I go to one of those apartments you mentioned?”
“Sure, sure, let’s go.” The small apartment was on the top floor of the hospital, with a view of the mountains, and a cool breeze greeted her at the windows. “I’ll get back to you in an hour.”
She poured some water and lay down on the single bed, pondering. Then crying.
Rob walked back to their office on the unit. This was their tenth “transportation” through the portal, and each one was different. But Henrietta Jones was something else. She was the first doctor who seemed excited about how mental health treatment had changed. No big ego, and she was compelling, not just because of her appearance. Tall, with dark curly hair, light grey intelligent eyes, and golden skin. She seemed to really care.
Rob knew not to let their attraction get in the way of the group’s hope that Dr. Hen was the one to help them. All the living beings had so little time left.
After a nap, Henrietta felt less crazy. I’m just going to go with this and not overthink like I always do. OK, Gran? Speaking to invisible dead people who whispered in her ear. What next?
She walked down the stairs to 5 B and went in. Robin was nowhere to be found, but a woman who seemed to be working there looked up. She was in her sixties, and her white hair was braided in a rope down her back. “Hi, I’m Nell Crowe, social worker, herbalist, and kaumatua. My people are from the Quallah Boundary reservation, Bird Clan. How can I help?”
“Yes. I was wondering if I could get a tour of the unit?” I came from the past through the toilet downstairs. No, don’t say that.
“Sure, Doctor Hen. I know who you are, and you are welcome. Most people are in group or outside, and a few are getting treatments. What would you like to see first?”
“First, what is a kaumatua?” Hen asked.
“It’s a Maori word for elder. We used their model of having elders involved in health care clinics, to provide wisdom and help stabilize the team and patients. ”
Henrietta thought for a second and said, “I’d really like to know how you decide which people need what treatment. It sounds like you have so many approaches.”
Nell smiled, and Henrietta felt warmth pouring over her like syrup. Tears began to well in her eyes and she felt her heart cracking open.
“Here,” Nell said, “sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Henrietta did not like to cry in public, but it felt like so much anxiety and grief were near the surface.
“It’s all right to cry,” Nell said, handing her some lemony herbal tea. “The river of tears helps raise our boats when we’re stuck.”
“I’m OK. I’m not used to people at work being so caring.”
Nell looked at her and said, “You’ve been through a lot these past few years and days. Now you can relax and learn.”
“So, to answer your question, Hen, when someone comes in through the ER, which we now call Triage for Care, we decide if we can help, and then where they should go, whether up here or to a less restrictive group home. Once here, we have a treatment team meeting each morning to understand what the issues are. The man sitting at that table, for example, came from north Georgia, and lost his family in a forest fire. He walked north and ended up here.”
Across the room sat a man in his forties, who was writing in a journal. He had curly black hair and his dark brown skin had pink healing scars. He looked profoundly sad.
“What is his treatment plan?” Hen asked.
“He feels he has no reason to live, no purpose. His wife and young child are gone, his home destroyed. First, we listened to him deeply as he told his story, listening with both native and scientific knowledge. This is what’s known as Two-Eyed Seeing, from the Mi’kmaq elders in Nova Scotia. While listening with indigenous knowledge, images arise that may help. We blend this with scientific knowledge about healing. Joining with him in his grief and continuing to listen are most important. We may intuit a story that can help him make sense, as in narrative therapy. We may actually hear or know what to do, knowledge from the ancestors. Relationships and community are so important, so we are trying to locate some relatives, which is hard due to all the migration.” Nell saw him looking at them and waved.
“Would it be OK if I talked with him? He reminds me of someone.” Nell said yes, and Hen walked over.
His name was John Little, and he had lived through hell. While walking north after the fire, he felt like dying every day. Each bridge or river looked like a way to end his torment. On the third day, a small grizzled yellow dog had begun to follow him. He told Henrietta that caring for “Lucille” became his reason to go on. Aside from that, he had no plan.
Hen listened deeply with tears in her eyes and began to think about John’s future, and all of those people trudging north with broken hearts.
We’ll leave it there for this week. Please come back next week to read the conclusion to this story!
Let’s build the mycelium network today!