Savanna Pikuyak: Ottawa's Stolen Sister

 Last weekend, I got a call from my son who lives in the Craig Henry area near Algonquin College.

"I think my neighbour was murdered," he said. "The cops are everywhere."

My son did not know the woman who lived just two doors down in the cozy townhouse community where motorists have to mind the kids on bikes as they snake through the narrow streets. She had only moved in the week before, renting a room from a man she did not know, a man who would later that day be charged with her murder.

The neighbours were horrified to hear that the victim, Savanna Pikuyak, had been stabbed to death in broad daylight. On that day, Savanna became part of a sorority I know all too well -- the society of stolen sisters that grows every day in this country.

My cousin Ashley was murdered six years ago by her boyfriend, Derek Favell, who goes on trial for murder in October. She was one of several women in the Salmon Arm area of British Columbia who disappeared into thin air. Most of the other women have never been found and there are no suspects.

Ashley was a white girl from St. Catharines but the majority of others from her community were indigenous -- women who are an endangered species in this country. So many of the murders and missing persons cases take place in other provinces -- B.C. and Alberta especially -- and they are so numerous the cops often just stop looking.

According to Amnesty International, 1017 women and girls identified as indigenous were murdered between 1980 and 2012 -- a homicide rate roughly 4.5 times higher than that of all other women in Canada. In addition, the report states, that as of November 2013, at least 105 Indigenous women and girls remained missing under suspicious circumstances or for undetermined reasons. 

My cousin Ashley's father John has dedicated his life to raising awareness about the epidemic of missing and murdered women in Canada. Each year, he holds events in Ashley's memory and donates the money to the cause. 

So our concern for Savanna is particularly heartfelt. We know the families. We understand their grief. And we rail against the senseless nature of the crime of femicide, which can, and does, happen in any family.

My cousin Ashley and Savanna were very different women from very different backgrounds. But they had one thing in common -- both left their families and communities to pursue their dreams. Ashley was a gypsy who loved to fish and pan for minerals in the frigid waters of British Columbia. She was kind and loving, and sassy. Savanna wanted to dedicate her life to the service of others and become a nurse. She, too, from all accounts was kind and loving and sassy.

Neither of these women deserved their fate.

Their only crime was trying to live their lives to the fullest.

I am ashamed that this happened in Ottawa where Savanna should have been afforded more supports especially from her own Inuit community which is robust in the area. Her death also exposes a need for Algonquin College and other educational institutions to alert students to the dangers that lurch in rented rooms across this city. 

The man who is charged with her murder was known to police, and his ex-girlfriend told the media she feared for her own safety. How was he allowed to rent rooms to unsuspecting young women? 

We may never know. 

As a society, we need to do better for these young women.

My heart is heavy. I pray for Savanna and her family. 

Our family will hang red dresses in Savanna's honour. 

Hugh Riopelle: He was the real deal

 

It was that smile that got me every time.

When Hugh Riopelle entered a room, whether it was after a golf game, or at a party at the National Press Club of Canada, you couldn't help but notice the giant beaming smile. Where ever he was, you knew Hugh Riopelle was always happy to be there.

He wasn't a big man for a former professional hockey player but he was wiry, nimble, graceful. He had a laugh that could be heard across the room, a big belly laugh with a lilt to it. (Usually with an 'ah ha' to end it.) I never got tired of seeing him work a room, or get up on stage with the National Press and Allied Workers Band to sing one of his favorites, like Alexander's Ragtime Band. 

So I was delighted to see him just a few years ago, still lighting up the stage at the Royal Oak in Kanata, at the age of 90, along with his old NPC band pals. There weren't many of them left but they were startlingly energetic, and still entertaining. After his set, he greeted me with a hug, and we sat at the bar for a little chat. Longtime journalist Mike Duffy came by. The enigmatic horn player Viggo Kanstrup was there wandering around. So was Othmar Stein, the former VP of Daimler Chrysler. 

Just for a brief moment, it felt like the old days, taking me back in time to when I was a young staffer at the Ottawa Journal where I was first introduced to "Rip," as he was called. I needed to get a response from Air Canada about a strike of the airline's machinist union. 

"Get Rip," said grumpy old city desker Jake McLaine. "Here's his home number."

He wasn't there. 

"Call the press club," Jake barked. "If he's not there, try the golf club."

He wasn't any of those places but he did call me back in the middle of the night with a crisp no comment, as I recall. Still, it was a comment. Rip saved my butt, as he did any time I needed to write about Air Canada where he worked in government and public relations. 

First rule of a good p.r. Get back. Give them something. There's always a deadline.

I got to know Hughie a few years later when he invited me and a ragtag group of freelance journalists to join him on Air Canada's inaugural flight to Geneva. We met at the press club, then took our act to the Air Canada lounge, then spent a whirlwind three days exploring Geneva and Interlaken. There was a pub crawl, a ride up the Jungfrau in a rickety cable car, dinners and pastries, and a tour of a winery.

It is was on this trip that I met the gregarious cartoonist Ben Wicks who kept us all in stitches for days.

How do they do this? I asked myself. I was 25 and could hardly keep up with the rest of the crew each of whom had twenty years on me, at least.

He kept us all in line, and on time, much to the delight of the crabby tourism people of Switzerland who could have taken a few lessons on grace under pressure from old Hughie. 

Hugh Riopelle was a gentleman, and a pro at everything he did. He was a devoted husband to Marie, and a great dad. He was fun, He was lively. He was the real deal.

He would do anything for anybody, and often saved the bacon of harried travelers left in the lurch often in the middle of nowhere. There were flights and medical arrangements made for people in distress. He was like Red in the Shawshank Redemption, the guy who could get things done from time to time. 

Air Canada could use a Hugh Riopelle right about now. Quietly competent. Good humored. Utterly unflappable. Always with a story. Often with a shoulder. 

I have never in my life met a nicer, kinder person than Hugh Riopelle. I don't think I ever will. 

(Hugh Riopelle died this week, peacefully, at the age of 95.)

RIP Rip. 

Mr. Guo's Oasis of Hope

 

My husband Scott isn't afraid of much. As a cameraman for CBC National News for 26 years, he was shot at filming the horrors of war and hung out of helicopters to capture images of bodies blown to pieces during the Air India crash. He also found himself embedded with a guy name Lasagna during the Oka uprising. 

He's not afraid of much. But he is afraid of needles especially the big ones. I never knew this until last week when I asked him to see an acupuncturist to treat his Achilles tendon as well as a variety of other work-related injuries.

"Don't be a baby," I said. "Just go and see this guy. Rick Logan says he's a genius."

My friend Rick has been sending his friends and associates to see Zhaoqi Guo for decades. Mr. Guo has treated everyone from mayors to cabinet ministers during his time practising in Ottawa. Eager patients travel from across the country to see him. 

Upon Rick's recommendation, I found myself at the Sino Acupuncture Clinic. 

I wanted to see for myself. 

For years, I have suffered with acute pain in my left knee. My doctor prescribed Advil and ice. I've seen physiotherapists, chiropractors and personal trainers. I also tried wearing a patella strap which was recommended by a relative to help ease the pain in my knee that is a constant nuisance when I go up and down the stairs. 

For years, I was an active club tennis player and golfer. Now, I can barely make it around the supermarket, and I've gained 25 pounds. The only way I can sleep is with a pillow between my knees. 

Mr. Guo's clinic, Sino Acupuncture, is located in a tiny white house across from an arena near the Civic Hospital. There are no fancy windows or signs, just a tidy screened in porch filled with exotic bonsai trees and plastic shoes. His wife is the gatekeeper, who sits behind a desk with a landline and a couple of binders which she uses to check in patients. There is not a computer in sight.

Mr. Guo greets patients as if they are long lost relatives.

"Hello my friend," he smiles behind his mask. Everyone is a friend here. 

Many of his patients come to him as a last resort after most other medical practitioners have given up on them. Mr. Guo has successfully treated everything from end stage cancer to migraines to macular degeneration. In some cases, his talented hands have eased the pain of patients, in other cases, they have reversed medical conditions considered untreatable.

Many modern medical professionals scoff at Traditional Chinese Medicine which uses  herbs, acupuncture and other ancient remedies. They prefer to cut, scan and prescribe during their billable hours instead. 

But more people are embracing TCM especially now that it has been recognized as a regulated medical profession under the College of Traditional Chinese Medicine Practitioners of Ontario, and in four other provinces. TCM is now covered by private medical insurance. 

And Mr. Guo is no ordinary acupuncturist. Back in his native China, he was a medical doctor who specialized in endocrinology. His work has been published in many journals, and he has presented papers at medical conferences around the world. He has also served as a visiting professor of TCM at Ottawa University. 

He has 50 years of experience in his field and relies on practices that are more than 5,000 years old. 

Everyone of his patients is a walking testimonial. 

Dr. Peter Davison, an Ottawa family doctor is one of them. Dr. Davison suffers from Stage 4 cirrhosis and found himself in Mr. Guo's clinic seeking relief from severe backpain. Having late stage cirrhosis is like sleeping on a brick. Dr. Davison was in agony.

I met him the first day I went to the clinic.

"I feel fine," he said. "I can't believe how I have been treated by my colleagues."

After five months of acupuncture, Dr. Davison says Mr. Guo has reversed much of his condition and he believes the treatments have given him another five years of quality living. 

Two weeks ago, I entered Mr. Guo's tiny clinic at the appointed time. The place was standing room only. He asked me to fill out a questionnaire which included questions about my past medical conditions (not much to report other than hypertension and a worrisome bout with basil sarcoma) as well as questions about my current state of health (bad knee, bad stomach, and a sore small toe.)

Mr. Guo then looked at my tongue, up and down. 

"Do you know your tongue is purple?"

Hmm. Forgot to tell him about my red wine habit.

After a couple of sessions, Mr. Guo pronounced that my right knee wasn't the culprit at all. It was the other side of me that was causing all the grief -- that and degenerating discs in my back. He treated me using acupuncture needles on my front and back, and in my feet. For the first time in years, I could actually stretch out my knee enough to do the exercises that had been prescribed by him, and the pesky physiotherapist. 

For bonus points, he treated my arthritic middle finger. After one session, I could actually bend it.

Instead of just focusing on my bad knee, he looked at me as a whole person whose every action can cause a reaction. 

One day, a treatment caused my knee to swell. 

"What did you eat today?" he asked.

"Grilled cheese," I replied.

"You are allergic to dairy."

Huh.

Mr. Guo also recommended that I could help stave off the arthritis that had crippled my grandmother by going vegan, meaning no meat, chicken or fish. 

I smiled.

"I'll take it under advisement," I smiled.

Acupuncture sessions take about an hour so there is lots of time to talk to other patients. It's also impossible to not to hear about everybody else's ailments since we are a mere sea of humanity separated by white curtains. 

In some ways, it's like visiting a beauty parlour. Everyone seems to know each other, and happily swaps stories. 

I met one woman with Stage Four oral cancer, who reminded me of my friend Jennette who died from it three years ago. Jennette's final journey took place in a blur of strong medication and vodka. This woman comes to Mr. Guo to ease her pain holistically. 

I brought a friend whose doctor suggested removing her gallbladder because she was in constant pain, and could barely eat. After one session with Mr. Guo, her condition disappeared. Last week she was at the cottage with us eating up the surroundings. It turned out, the gallbladder wasn't her issue. (This was later confirmed by an ultrasound.)

She's been back to see Mr. Guo several times. Oh yes, he told her she has undiagnosed osteoporosis. 

Aside from a little discomfort, acupuncture is relatively painless. In fact, most of Mr. Guo's patients are quite relaxed as evidenced by the fact a lot of them end up snoring loudly. 

Each day after my treatments, I rushed home to tell my husband about how great I felt. Eventually, I wore him down and he agreed to go for treatment.

"How was it?" I asked as we sat together at cocktail hour.

"I can feel my toes," he said. "I haven't felt my toes in years."

"Anything else?"

He showed me his hand which had always had a sebaceous cyst just under his third finger.

The cyst was a quarter of the size it was before his treatment.

Now, I am not a doctor, or a medical expert. I cannot give you scientific data or show you reports in English language medical journals. All I know is that after just five treatments, I have new hope that one day I will walk the golf course again, maybe even play tennis. 

Like the hundreds of others whom Mr. Guo has treated, he has given me hope when traditional medicine offered me none.  

This blog is not intended to offer medical advice. Please consult your doctor before seeking non-medical treatment. Treatments at the Sino Clinic cost $100 for the initial visit and $70 for each subsequent visit.