My name is Sabavath, and I am dying of cancer. I already have polio in my left leg, yet I spent my whole life working—even when people refused to hire me because of my limp. I balanced on a bamboo stick, pushed through pain, and somehow kept my family alive. But today, as cancer eats away at me, it is my 13-year-old daughter who is holding this broken home together. The child who should be studying and playing now cares for me like a parent.
She is only 13… but she has become the mother of this house
Ever since their mother left more than a year ago, my eldest daughter has taken over every responsibility I can no longer manage.
She wakes up before her siblings. She cooks whatever little we have. She cleans my wounds, helps me stand, helps me dress. She takes her younger sister and brother to school, comes back to check if I’ve taken my medicine, and then sits quietly outside medical shops hoping someone will help us with a discount. She has stopped asking for anything—not books, not clothes, not toys. Her only fear is losing me. She knows that if something happens to her father, she will be left alone to raise her little brother and sister.
No 13-year-old should have to live with that truth.
She has given up her own childhood so her siblings can keep theirs for a little longer. She hides her tears so the smaller ones don’t get scared. On days when I cannot move from pain, she whispers, “Nanna, I’m here… don’t worry,” even though she herself is terrified. Some nights she pretends she isn't hungry because she knows my medicines work only if I eat. Her hands shake when she changes my dressings, but she still does it—slowly, carefully, like an adult who has no choice.
She has grown years beyond her age
I lost my father the same way… and now the same fate may fall on my children. I buried my own father far too early in life. Now cancer threatens to leave my children fatherless in the same cruel way.
That is the fear that keeps me awake at night.
My body is giving up… but I want to fight for them
The tumour inside me keeps growing. It tears my old stitches open and sends waves of pain that make breathing difficult. Chemotherapy has become my routine—session after session, week after week—draining whatever strength I have left. I urgently need surgery to save my life. But, I've exhausted my funds. I don't have any means to earn as well. Neighbors and relatives look at me with pity or say things behind my back that reach my ears anyway. They say that a crippled man could never make his wife happy, that no woman would stay with someone who is both handicapped and dying. I no longer go to family functions. I do not want my children to hear what people say about me.
There are days I can’t lie down without screaming. Days when we skip meals to afford my medicines. Days when my daughter watches me in fear, wondering if this is the day she loses her papa and becomes both sister and mother to her siblings.
I have lived a life full of hardship, but I have never begged before. Today, I am begging… not for myself, but for my children. I want to live long enough to see them grow. I want to protect them for as long as my body allows. I want my daughter to finally be a child again—not a caregiver, not a parent, not a warrior forced to grow up too soon.
Please help me fight cancer one last time. I cannot do this alone.
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