Sunny Dicum was accepting of all people and compassionate toward those facing hard times, writes her son Gregory.Courtesy of family
Sunny Dicum: Refugee. Trailblazer. Inspiration. Traveller. Born Feb. 11, 1937, in Vilnius, Lithuania; died May 27, 2026, in North York, Ont., of complications related to stroke and dementia; aged 89.
Sunny always remembered her first sight of Canada: it was autumn and the Nova Scotia coast was aflame with red and orange trees glowing in the dawn. Just 12 years old, Sunny had already experienced a lifetime of uncertainty and chaos by the time her eyes lighted upon the country she would come to call her own.
Singrida Saulë Ancevicius was born to Pauline Ancevicius, a school principal, and Pranas Ancevicius, a journalist and Lithuanian socialist activist. Her namesake “Saulë” is the Lithuanian Sun Goddess.
Sunny’s childhood was consumed by the Second World War. The family fled the Red Army to Berlin, then American bombs to the German countryside, then the Soviets again, walking west toward British lines. Sunny, her older sister Ingrid, her younger brother Jon and her parents spent four years in refugee camps in Germany before they crossed the North Atlantic to another life in Oakville, Ont.
Within a few years Sunny had become fully Canadian, turning her back on the chaos and violence of the old world in favour of the Canadian style of order and safety.
She attended Trinity College in Toronto, where she was widely regarded as whip smart and a whole lot of fun, and she built a network of lifelong friends. After graduating in 1959, Sunny earned a master’s and diploma in psychology from Queens University.
It was the start of a career oriented toward helping others. She worked as a psychologist at the Jewish Vocational Center, Bloorview Children’s Hospital, Toronto District School Board, and the Canadian National Institute for the Blind. Later, she served on the Psychiatric Review Board and later still, served on the Executive Board of Trinity College.
But in 1965 that was all to come. In that year Sunny found her soulmate in Frank Dicum, a young doctor who had been her classmate at Trinity. They were married before a small group of friends and family at Hart House at Trinity College in a blizzard.
Sunny and her husband Frank travelled widely in retirement.Courtesy of family
Sunny was a staunch rationalist and lived her convictions with matter-of-fact ease. Frank was a fellow immigrant from British Malaya, displaced by the same war. But Sunny never talked about her husband in terms of race or colour: love is love and what does it matter if it violates social norms? She was a trailblazer and enjoyed opening minds by living and loving. She raised their two children, Gregory and Julia, with this expansive spirit.
In the 1970s Sunny paused her career to raise her children through their early years. Throughout their lives, she encouraged them to apply themselves diligently to those things they found interesting, and always to consider the bigger picture.
While she was accepting of all kinds of people and ways of living, Sunny did not hold back her withering contempt for those she found small-minded or self-serving. Still, she was compassionate toward those facing hard times, even those of their own creation. She had a no-nonsense practicality often made her the person who did the things nobody else wanted to do, whether that meant emptying a mousetrap or convincing a friend to go to rehab.
Sunny was overjoyed to meet grandson Xeno in 2008. In him she found another kindred spirit, impish and appreciative of the finer things. A love of ice cream, in particular, brought them great joy.
Sunny and Frank travelled relentlessly, eventually visiting every continent. In the process, they imbued their children with wanderlust and set an example for many with their vigorous schedule in retirement.
One highlight was a trip to Lithuania in 2001, when Sunny, aged 64, introduced her Canadian family to cousins long lost behind the Iron Curtain. The sweet reconnection and homecoming renewed family bonds, although Sunny noted that when she spoke her prewar Lithuanian it sounded old fashioned.
The confinement of the COVID-19 pandemic slowed Sunny and Frank down and by the time it relented they were ready to move into assisted living in North York. There, Sunny relaxed into the fog of dementia, becoming a sweet if befuddled woman who was a joy to the staff and an enduring comfort to Frank, who now finds himself bereft of his companion of 61 years.
Gregory Dicum is Sunny Dicum’s son.
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