By Karu Jayasuriya
It was exactly 50 years ago today that I held my daughter Indira in my arms for the first time. As I write these few words for her, I cannot put into words the pain I feel in my heart at this moment. I do not know if there can be a more painful experience for a father than having to celebrate the birthday of his child on a day when that child is no longer beside him. Especially when that child was someone who shared love, kindness and sensitivity throughout her life, the emptiness she left behind is even greater.
From a very young age, Indira was a loving child who filled our little home with kindness, compassion and love. She loved not only people, but also animals that could not express their pain through words. If she saw a dog or a cat alone on the road, she never simply walked past. If she saw an injured animal, it became her problem. If she saw an animal that was hungry, she could not find peace of mind. She brought them home. She nursed them back to health. She gave them food. She loved them.
To her, they were not merely animals. She believed that they too were living beings made of bones, flesh, blood and veins, beings who could feel pain. That was my daughter. Her heart was extremely sensitive. She saw things that others did not see. She felt the pain of another person that others could not feel. From a young age, she had a deep bond with art. She firmly rejected measuring the value of people based on race, religion or caste. She considered people with human compassion to be the truly worthy ones.
She married a foreigner who had a kind heart and was engaged in social service. She was also deeply devoted to the Dhamma. She believed in karma and believed that every action we take in life has a meaning. When I think about the final chapter of her life, what amazes me most today is that understanding.
In the name of motherhood, she sacrificed her life for an unborn child. When she unfortunately developed cancer, her little son Dylan had been conceived and was growing inside her womb. According to medical advice, the medicines used for treatment could have affected the baby. Because of this, she refused to undergo treatment. Perhaps seeing the little smile of the son growing inside her, who had not yet seen the light of this world, was more important to her than her own life. Perhaps a mother’s love had awakened within her, and the desire to give life to an unborn child had overcome everything else.
Whatever the reason, in the end she was fortunate enough to see her little son with her own eyes. Although she began treatment afterwards, as it gradually became clear that the treatment was failing, the weight I felt in my heart as a father cannot be put into words. Yet even knowing this, she did not give up on life.
She did not live thinking only about her own pain. She thought about her children and her husband. She thought about what their lives would be like after she was gone. She planned their future. She wrote those plans down. Even though she knew that she would no longer be with them, she tried to fulfil her responsibilities as a mother until the very last moment. That was the extent of the love in my daughter’s heart.
There is an incident that I still cannot forget. A phone call I once received still weighs heavily on my heart with pain. It was the call informing me that the final moments of her life were approaching. I stayed beside her during her final days. She was becoming weaker. Yet her thoughts were still about other people. With trembling lips, she kept saying, “Kettle, kettle,” trying to invite her sister who had come at that moment to have a cup of tea. A loving sister who, even in the face of death, was trying to invite another sister to have a cup of tea. I will never forget that moment.
In the end, we reached the moment that no father ever wishes to face. I was holding her hand. It was my daughter’s hand. The way she had held onto my little finger with her tiny hand as a child and tried to walk, the way she had brought a helpless cat home from the road and pulled me by the hand to show it to me, and the times we spent together with happiness and love all began appearing in my mind like scenes from a film, one after another.
My elder daughter was there too. Her eyes were filled with tears, but as a doctor she was somewhat calm. Yet I could see that she was under a kind of pressure I had never seen her experience before. She looked at her younger sister, then looked at me and said to me with great pain: “Thaththa, now let Nangi go…” I heard those words. How can a father’s heart ever be ready to let his child go. I did not want to let go of that hand. How could I? It was the hand of my daughter, who had been a part of my life for 40 years. But in the end, I had to let go of that hand.
The moment I let go of her hand, she left this world. When I let go of your hand that day, I did not know that I would never be able to hold that hand again. Even today, my hands are empty. But within those empty hands, your memory, your smile, your kindness and the warmth of your hand have never left my memory. If only I had been given another moment to hold your hand, if only you could have lived, I would have held your hand and never let it go. But I know that reality was not to be. I was holding her hand. The next moment, she was no longer there.
People say that time heals all pain. But there is something I have learnt. Time does not heal some pain. Time teaches us to live with that pain.
Indira’s memory still lives in our home today. Whenever I see a helpless dog or cat on the road, I remember her. I remember her when I see a painting, hear music or think about the karma she believed in. But Indira did not leave us only with the pain she suffered. The pain she endured became a mission to reduce the suffering of other children. When a child suffers from cancer, we came to understand that for a family, fighting the disease alone is not enough. They need many other things.
It was from that understanding that the Indira Cancer Trust was born. On that journey, my beloved elder daughter Lanka made a great sacrifice. What began in a small room became, within a short period, a “Suwa Arana” that provides shelter to children suffering from cancer across the country, with the generous support of donors and the kindness of people. With the support of embassies and various donors, many services are carried out through the Trust, from providing solar power systems to supplying necessary household equipment.
Providing travel expenses for patients travelling to and from clinics and the Apeksha Hospital, providing food and necessary medicines, assisting families who cannot afford the funeral expenses when a patient dies, trying to bring smiles back to children suffering from cancer through hair-donation programmes, and supporting their education through the parent-sponsor system are among those services.
Suwa Arana also provides accommodation, daily meals, sanitation facilities and emotional support for children receiving treatment and their families. It coordinates with hospitals and clinics to provide the support needed for treatment. It provides medical equipment, clothing and other essential items. It provides scholarships and school supplies so that children can continue their education.
Through cancer awareness programmes, health screening programmes and community outreach programmes, it also works to increase understanding of the disease and encourage early detection. These are only the services that can be mentioned in a list. Behind every one of those services is the same idea. “Not allowing another child to suffer alone the pain that she herself suffered.”
My elder daughter Lanka is leading that mission. She is a doctor. But to me, before she is a doctor, she is my daughter. Perhaps that is why, sometimes, when I look at her, I see Indira. The things Indira could not do are being carried forward by Lanka, my daughter, in memory of her. One daughter left us, but her love flows through the hands of another daughter to thousands of people today. As a father, I have a humble sense of pride in that. But within that pride there is pain. The roots of the tree called the Indira Cancer Trust grew from the pain of my daughter.
To my Indira… Even though ten years have passed, time cannot reach the place a daughter holds in her father’s heart. The day you left us, it was only your breath that stopped. Your love did not stop. That love has today become the shade of a Suwa Arana. It has become a smile on another child’s face. It has become hope shining in a mother’s eyes. It has become strength for a helpless family. So, my daughter, Although your life was short, your love had no end. You left us. But you never left our hearts. To me, you are still my youngest daughter.
If you were here with us, you would be 50 years old. I would have kissed your forehead and wished you a happy birthday. We would have brought the whole family together and had dinner with little Dylan and little Thilini. But today, all I have left to do is speak to you through my memories. My daughter, That cruel cancer may have stopped your breath, but it could not kill your love.
But I could never say goodbye to you from my heart.
You are still alive today in the compassionate hand that wipes away the tears of a helpless child, in a mother’s hope, in the comfort that comes to a father’s silent pain, and in the hand extended to save another life.
Happy birthday, my daughter Indira.
(The author, Sri Lankabhimanya Karu Jayasuriya is a former Speaker of Parliament)