Childhood Memories Of Old St Mary's

In my home community of Attawapiskat, one of the largest structures ever built was St Mary's Hospital. It was established in the early 1950s by Catholic missionaries. In 1969, medical services were turned over to the provincial government and the hospital was renamed the James Bay General Hospital.

I remember roaming around the community in the early 1980s with my friends when I was about seven years old. It amazes me to think that back then my friends and I were allowed to wander away from our homes to visit cousins and other companions around town. We felt comfortable in our tiny, remote community and we freely roamed every corner of town by foot or bicycle. This was our world and at the time it seemed like a huge place. One of the main attractions in the middle of town was old St. Mary's Hospital. It captivated us.

The hospital was a grand building to us youngsters and we were regularly warned by adults that it was off limits as a playground. It was in fact a busy place with all kinds of medical services attending to the local people. The more our parents directed us to stay away from the towering three story hospital the more we wanted to investigate it. The white clap board sided building sat looking out of place in the middle of the wilderness, surrounded by clay and muck. The huge outdoor emergency staircase that rose up to the upper floors was like a magnet to us. We eagerly climbed to the top and looked out from our high perch to observe Attawapiskat.

When I ventured on the hospital grounds I felt like I was taking a big risk because my mom Susan worked as part of the kitchen staff and my dad Marius was involved in the maintenance department. I had to be very sneaky to access the building knowing that my parents would be upset with my being there. This became a game of cat and mouse and you can imagine how much fun that was for a bunch of kids.

Old St. Mary's had benefited from several renovations over the years. At one end there was an extension of new space, which was connected to the main building by a narrow corridor. I remember this passageway having a low roof and it offered plenty of climbing opportunities for my friends and I to run from one side to the other. Unfortunately, I have a very distinct memory of scrambling proudly atop this structure and peering through a small frame window into the kitchen. Wouldn't you know it, there was my mom staring back at me with a grimace. She made it abundantly clear that this passageway roof and the hospital were out of bounds.

I remember attending the hospital on many occasions with my mom for checkups. If there was a doctor in town I saw him, otherwise we consulted with one of the seemingly stern nurses. When we walked into this place, I felt as if I had been transported to some other part of the world. The smell of ammonia from freshly washed vinyl floors filled the air. Echoes of voices reverberated through dimly lit, white washed hallways. Nurses and other medical people danced about us in a very tight, organized and purposeful choreography. They spoke in a foreign language that I was just beginning to grasp and at the time they all seemed so alien to me.

These medical, white suited people were privileged and I knew it. They lived in apartments with running hot water, toilets and baths while we dealt with homes with no services or proper sanitation. The hospital filled me full of fear because it was so far removed from the world I knew. It was so unlike our life in the community that was full of chaos and dysfunction. It was also unlike the serenity of the nearby wilderness and the familiar Cree culture I knew. It was a place of extreme white cleanliness and order. In the midst of this white washed world I felt like any move I made or any word I said was wrong and out of place.

My most prominent memory of this old hospital deals with breaking my leg one winter. I was only eight years of age. Somehow I had joined my brothers to help push my dad's old truck out of the snow and a board being used for traction spit back and fractured my leg. Both my shinbones on my left leg were broken. I was traumatized and in shock I went to the dreaded St. Mary's. On top of being injured there I was in hell.

Happily for me Roland Hookimaw, a local nursing aide appeared. She was on hand to assist in treating my broken leg. She tried to calm me down and did her best to reassure me as a seasoned severe, older nurse in a white uniform examined my serious fracture. I recall staring up at Roland and crying in pain as the nurse set my leg for a cast. Once the work was done, Roland stayed with me until I fell asleep, and from that point on I felt a special connection to her.

When they tore down St. Mary's in 1984 to build a more modern facility I shed no tears. The new James Bay General Hospital was more open, colourful, brighter and pleasant to visit. It was also full of familiar community faces of those who were lucky enough to be employed in the facility. We still didn't have a full time resident doctor but we were blessed with many dedicated and skillful nurses. Many of them continue serving the community today. Meegwetch to the Toh-Keh-Neh-S-Koh-k (nurses).

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