My name is Manya, and I am creating this fundraiser for my friend and former colleague Sarah Qavvik, an Inuk mother of five who is facing one of the most difficult and emotionally heavy seasons of her life. I met Sarah while working in Sanikiluaq, the small fly-in Inuit community on the Belcher Islands of Hudson Bay. During my time there as a nurse, Sarah was one of our secretaries in our clinic. She was the person everyone counted on to help with Inuktitut interpreting, assisting elders and families during doctor clinics, making sure people were booked properly, and ensuring the health centre ran smoothly on busy, unpredictable days.

What stood out to me most about Sarah wasn’t just how dependable she was. It was how kind and steady she remained, even while raising young children and balancing the pressures of work, home, culture, and community. She never asked for anything from anyone. She showed up, on time, with a good attitude, day after day. Those who have worked in northern communities know how deeply someone like that contributes—quietly, consistently, and with generosity bigger than her job description.

Since I left the Arctic, Sarah moved south to Winnipeg with her growing family. She has worked incredibly hard to build a stable life in the city, still carrying the weight of caring for her children, supporting extended family, and maintaining her connection to home. Even in the south, she is still the same responsible, warm person I remember.

But now, Sarah and her family are walking through a crisis no one is ever prepared for.

On November 15, 2025, Sarah’s father—Elijah—suffered a sudden fall while trying to get to the washroom. That fall caused a massive brain bleed and he is in Winnipeg in critical condition. The initial prognosis was devastating. Doctors told the family that surgery wouldn’t help and that he likely wouldn’t survive. He was intubated and placed in ICU, unresponsive.

From that moment on, the Qavvik family’s world changed.

Sarah immediately became the point person—communicating with doctors, updating family members across Nunavut, and trying to make medical decisions no child ever wants to face. Despite being exhausted, sick, stressed, and trying to care for her own children (some of whom have now become ill as well), she has been at the hospital every day, often from morning until late at night.

Through her Facebook updates, Sarah has shared what this emotional rollercoaster has felt like: the hope when her father briefly opened his eyes, the heartbreak when he cried seeing his family, the fear during seizures, the exhaustion from sitting beside him for hours while balancing her responsibility to her baby at home. She tries to stay strong around everyone, but she admitted publicly that she cries when she’s finally alone—a feeling many of us know too well during grief.

As the days went on, her father was moved to SICU. There were moments of improvement, followed by setbacks. New scans, pneumonia, pain management, sedation, seizures, and the continuous uncertainty of whether treatment would help or simply prolong suffering. Eventually, doctors reconsidered surgery. Despite initial fears that it offered little hope, his signs of responsiveness made them re-evaluate. On November 18, he underwent brain surgery to remove the accumulated blood.

The surgery went well—but the complications remained severe. He continued to have seizures. He remained sedated. His collarbone was discovered to be broken from the fall. His brain had suffered significant damage. Day after day, the family waited, hoping for even small signs of progress, but updates gradually became more concerning. On November 24, the medical team prepared the family for the possibility that he may not survive much longer.

Through all of this, Sarah has not been able to work. She has been sick with bronchitis, her older son fell ill, and now even her baby is getting sick. She is not sleeping. She is emotionally stretched to the edge, physically depleted, and trying to hold space for her father, her mother, her siblings, her aunt, and her children—all while trying to keep her home running.

Family members have been flying in from Sanikiluaq to be with them, relying on community fundraisers, 50/50 draws, and the kindness of friends to cover airfare, food, transportation, and daily necessities. Inuit families support one another in deep, collective ways, and this family has been doing everything they can to stay together through this crisis. But with so many relatives arriving, with meals to prepare, travel costs, taxis, hospital trips, and the realities of supporting five children through grief and the holidays, the financial weight is overwhelming.

Sarah has not asked for a fundraiser herself. In fact, one of her recent posts was her shyly asking if someone could lend her $20 for an Uber and coffee so she could get back to the hospital. Knowing the pride and humility of many northern families, I can only imagine how hard it was for her to even post that.

That is why I am making this GoFundMe.

I am calling on everyone who knows the Qavvik family—people who worked with Sarah in Sanikiluaq, people who know how much she gave to the community, and anyone who feels moved by their story—to help lift them up during this painful time.

Funds will be used for:

The Qavviks are a strong, beautiful, deeply connected family. They have carried their share of hardships with courage and unity. Right now, they need help—not because they are helpless, but because no one should have to choose between feeding their family, caring for their children, and sitting beside a dying parent.

Every contribution, big or small, will make a direct impact on their ability to navigate the coming days with dignity, stability, and support.

Thank you for reading, for caring, and for giving Sarah and her family the strength to keep going.