I was in my mid-twenties when Sister Sheila rolled up to the side HR door of the Sister Frances Dunn building on her scooter.
I was new to St. Joseph Hospital. New to the Sisters. New to everything, really.
I don’t know exactly how she found me—
my cubicle was down the hall, not near the entrance—
but somehow, we crossed paths.
She needed help writing a note—her hands were shaky with age—
and I invited her to sit down.
That became the start of something.
She came by often after that.
Scooter parked. Receipts in hand.
Sometimes she’d ask me to help tally up her monthly spending.
Sometimes she’d tell me stories about her feathered friend, Buka.
Sometimes she’d just sit for a while and catch up.
She had this quirky spirit.
She’d zip around, stop by, check in.
And I’d make time.
We made time for each other.
It was easy.
It was steady.
It mattered.
And when she began to decline, I was there.
At the hospital. At Regina.
With Sisters Theresa and Ann Marie.
They were steady, familiar, deeply close to her.
And still, they made space for me too.
I saw something I hadn’t seen before—
the way the Sisters gather when one of their own is nearing the end.
How they take turns at the bedside.
Keep vigil.
Pray together.
How they accompany each other not just in life, but in dying.
Sister Sheila was the first person I was close to who was actively dying.
And she was the first Sister to draw me into that space.
I still think about the Valentine’s card she left in my mailbox, weeks before she passed.
I didn’t find it until after the funeral.
She had written that she missed me. That she wanted to see the new office.
That she hoped I’d take her there someday.
I wish I had.
But what stays with me isn’t just the card.
It’s that she was the first Sister I ever met.
The first to make space for me.
The first to quietly draw me closer.
And I carry that.
Still.
