On Red Dress Day, I think of my sister and other loved ones taken from us too soon

This First Person column is written by Curt Sanderson, a 42-year-old father from Saskatoon. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.

I couldn't stop looking toward the main highway. My knees were weak and my mouth was dry.

Any moment, there would be a dark grey hearse turning the corner toward the small town Saskatchewan community hall. 

I couldn't handle the dread of seeing my 24-year-old sister in a casket.

I began to feel faint as the hearse pulled up to the front of the building. The funeral staff unloaded the casket and slowly carried it into the hall.

Three days earlier, I was living my best summer life. I was 19, and I had graduated from high school the year prior. I was preparing for my first day of bible college when my mom burst into my bedroom to tell me Cindy was in an accident. 

I was not ready for any of this. 

A sad day for Indigenous peoples

My mind goes back to that time every Red Dress Day, a national day of awareness for missing and murdered Indigenous women, girls and two-spirit people (MMIWG). 

On this day, I think about my Cindy and our childhood growing up in Mont Nebo, Sask. We lived in a small house with no furnace or running water, but we were loved, which made up for a lot.

Cindy became a mother when she was a teenager. She tried hard to provide for her son and daughter. Birthdays were always a big deal for her. No matter how much she was struggling, she put on a party for her kids, so they would know how special they were.

She was an intelligent, funny, loving and resilient young woman — wise beyond her years — who, despite everything life threw at her, never stopped trying to better herself. Whether she was going back to school or working to overcome addiction, she was always striving to move forward. 

On the evening of Aug. 31, 2002, she had been out walking with her boyfriend in Prince Albert, Sask., when a 43-year-old man in a pickup truck began following and yelling racial slurs at them. There was an altercation that led to Cindy being dragged beside the truck. She lost her balance and fell underneath the tires.

She was taken to the hospital, where she died later that morning.

The trial process was a traumatic experience for our family. The man who hit her was charged with criminal negligence causing death, impaired driving, and driving with a blood alcohol level over the legal limit.

During the trial, Cindy was painted in a negative light and blamed for her own death. The judge told the man that he was certain he was a good man who just had one bad night.

The man on trial was eventually sentenced for dangerous driving and failing to remain at the scene of the accident. He would serve just over two years in prison for my sister's death.

So many Indigenous families have a Cindy — a loved sister or daughter who went missing or was killed. Sadly, there is nothing unique about what happened to her.

The day of the funeral 

That eventual trial and sentencing were far from my mind on the day of my sister's funeral. 

I stood anxiously as the funeral director set up the casket at the front of the room and opened the lid. He stepped aside, and there she was. There was an audible gasp in the room.

I have always been a calm, reserved and self-conscious person, but that was one time in my life where I completely lost all composure.

When I rallied the courage to stand at the casket, I made sure it was a brief look. She was wearing a pretty, light blue dress. I stood there for a moment before walking outside.

The beautiful dusk September sun was shining down on Mont Nebo, despite the sorrow that existed in that little community hall.

I have a fond memory of the ride to the cemetery, listening to the Elvis Presley song, "Long, Black Limousine," about the small-town funeral of a girl killed in an accident in the city. I vividly remember sitting in the front seat when we passed by our abandoned childhood home as the song played. 

"There's a long line of mourners, driving down our little street. Their fancy cars are such a sight to see…."

Did it actually happen that way? I can't be sure. But when I think back to that moment, I'm reminded of the words of a wise Dene elder who said, "Sometimes when things are bad, our spirits whisper stories to our minds to help us be happy."

After the interment, we arrived back at the hall for the last meal. I lingered on the front steps, waiting for something. I could hear everyone inside talking and eating supper.

I looked to my right toward Ahtahkakoop Cree Nation, before shifting my eyes back to the direction of the highway, but there was nobody coming.

The finality of everything hit me at that moment. I began to understand that I was never going to see my sister again.

Her life had been stolen from her. A mother had been stolen from her children. Her love had been stolen from all of us.

I opened the front door and walked into the hall. I closed the door on my old life and entered a new life without my sister, less loved than I was before.

Crisis support is available for anyone affected by these reports and the issue of missing and murdered Indigenous people through a national 24-hour hotline at 1-844-413-6649. 

Health support services such as mental health counselling, community-based support and cultural services, and some travel costs to see elders and traditional healers are available through the government of Canada. Family members seeking information about a missing or murdered loved one can access Family Information Liaison Units.

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