Chapter 1: The Search for Support

In my quest for a grief counselor, I found myself sitting with the head nurse, who I mistakenly believed was the professional I needed. As she assessed my situation, I couldn’t help but wonder why my educational background was part of my medical records. I had come to her seeking solace and guidance, ready to share my burden of sorrow.

"Changing schools frequently doesn't imply mental illness, but it certainly presents numerous challenges," she remarked, sparking my curiosity about her choice of words. I sensed a miscommunication brewing between us.

"My family moved around a lot because my father was a diplomat," I clarified. "I’m here because my father is terminally ill. I’ve been grieving for my dear friend who passed away three years ago, and just two months ago, I lost my partner of a decade. I'm terrified that my father's death will push me over the edge."

Instead of addressing my concerns, she continued with her line of questioning. This was the first time in my 56 years that I sought therapy, prompted by a friend's recommendation of a local grief counselor who had helped others in similar situations.

"Cody said, 'Luce, she’s in town at the hospital. It's free with a medical card, and she was wonderful for Anna when her mother was dying.'"

"Who is she?" I asked.

"I can’t recall her name, but just ask your doctor for the grief counselor."

So, I approached my doctor, still reeling from the recent loss of my poet friend who had passed away. All his patients had been shuffled to this junior doctor, who clearly had little interest in my well-being. Consequently, I found myself at this initial appointment in a facility better known for elderly care than mental health services.

What I didn’t realize was that this stern nurse had likely dismissed my claims of a transnational upbringing as dubious. Perhaps she thought I was a problem child, fabricating stories to justify my struggles.

I had never considered that others might doubt my background. I often find myself explaining my diverse upbringing to those who, based on my accent, assume I am Irish. But honesty is a value I hold dear.

Growing up in different cultures made me question reality. What one society deems true may not resonate with another; 'common sense' carries varied meanings for someone like me. Hence, I crafted my own moral compass, grounded in authenticity.

Returning to the head nurse, she inquired about how I was managing my grief and whether I consumed alcohol.

"I do enjoy wine with dinner, but I avoid pubs now due to Chronic Fatigue," I explained.

"How much do you drink?" she probed.

"Sometimes half a bottle, other times a whole bottle," I replied.

"That’s concerning. Drinking a bottle of wine daily means you're an alcoholic," she declared.

I protested, "Not every day! I admit I have a dependency, but it doesn’t really worry me."

It felt as if she was following a script, ignoring my responses as if I were failing to stay on track.

"Before I can refer you to a therapist, you must acknowledge that you're an alcoholic."

"Alright, I’m an alcoholic," I conceded.

"Good," she said, proceeding to dial a number on her phone and thrusting it toward me. "Say your name."

I complied, only to realize I was speaking to a recording.

"Now, tell them you’re an addict."

"I'm an addict," I echoed.

She abruptly ended the call and scheduled me for a series of appointments with a specialist for substance abuse. "You’ll need to attend at least six sessions and refrain from drinking for two months before I permit you to see a grief counselor."

With that, she concluded our meeting, leaving me stunned. I made my way home, reflecting on the encounter, and reached out to Cody.

“Who was she?” Cody exclaimed. “She sounds unhinged! You sought help for grief, not addiction! That wasn’t the counselor Anna mentioned, I’m sure of it.”

It was in that moment I felt anger rise within me. I realized I had been manipulated, and my medical records would now label me as a drug addict. I felt violated.

I never attended those appointments. However, after my father passed, I chose to quit drinking entirely without needing AA meetings. Now, I proudly celebrate seven years of sobriety.

Eventually, I confronted my doctor and extracted the actual name of the grief counselor I initially sought. I refused to leave until I secured an appointment.

The grief counselor turned out to be kind and compassionate. She allowed me to express my sorrow over my recent losses and my father's impending death, often repeating, "Your father loves you."

Hmm. Such profound wisdom!

Do you have an intercultural story or experience you’d like to share? We invite you to contribute to A-Culturated and become part of our community!