The Nun, Part I
Introducing Sister Sophronia, Sister Servants of Mary Immaculate (SSMI). My mother, father, brother, and I fondly referred to her as simply “the Nun”. She was my mother’s sister and my favorite aunt, the first by sheer fate, the second by personal choice.
Sister Sophronia, Head of Hospital Nursing and School of Nursing, Grey Nuns Hospital, Regina, Saskatchewan, circa 1967.
In 2004 Sister Sophronia Pauline Sianchuk passed away at the age of 93, a grim effigy of her former commanding self. Dutifully, the nuns and her resident Manitoba diocese published a memorial in the Winnipeg Free Press — a bland portrait of a faithful nurse, ardent Catholic and loving family member. A carbon copy of all those before her. A carbon copy of all those who followed her.
The depiction was understated at best.
My Aunt was no Carbon Copy
She was pro-choice (to be addressed in Part II).
Pro-“going modern” (the raising of hemlines, the softening and un-starching of head caps and chin vestments), drawing the line at mini skirts and not displaying the cross, and
Pro-let’s substitute “the sin and fear of hell and damnation” with “God is good and God forgives”.
I was raised in my father’s, Ukrainian Greek Orthodox faith.
Sophronia and my mother were Ukrainian Greek Catholic. As was the custom of the day (1933), when mother married she became Orthodox, and the Nun became a member of the family through assimilation.
Sort of.
In retrospect, she assimilated us, thankfully. Especially for me.
Honorary Timeline
Provincial Secretary, Canada, 1939-1944
General Proficiency Medal, School of Nursing Edmonton, 1946
Head of Hospital Nursing and School of Nursing, Grey Nuns Hospital, circa 1967
Bachelor of Arts, Slavic Studies, circa 1979
Community Service Award, City of Winnipeg, 1987
Certificate of Recognition, Archeparchy of Winnipeg, 1987
Mentor, 1974-1999, date of her last letter to Gravel Roads.
1976, University Hospital, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
My first and only birth. Two days of back-breaking pain in the making.
The Nun’s been living at the farm in fearful anticipation of this. Rightly so. It was determined that I required special care at the University Hospital, two hours away.
At the call, my father drives from the family farm in our 1966 yellow two-door Ford, snags the Nun, shuttles me down a flight of stairs and across a strip of ice (Saskatchewan, January, 1976, -25 degree temperatures). He was 63 or so at the time.
We’re on our way. Highway 16. Under construction. Mega bumps and holes and craters.
It’s ok, Joe (my father who is driving). The rough road will only encourage the birth. It’s all good. Says the Nun.
Three hours later we arrive at the hospital.
Four hours later I am still in pain. Why?
Nurse enters room every thirty minutes. ‘Would you like an epidural?’
‘No, she’s fine’, says the Nun.
This goes on for thirty-five hours. Or so. I can’t honestly recall.
And the Naming of Child
The white hospital drapes were drawn rather generously, I thought. It was a two bed hospital room. I was the first bed nearest the door. Sister sat in a chair to my left. Praying. The nurse asked, “had ‘we’ chosen a name?”
Nicole for a middle name. Patrick if a boy.
It was a girl. And so Patricia Nicolette was born.
