Meet Ishan Gala
The Life of a Special Child and Gift From God
Ishan's story as told by his Father Mayank Gala
Ishan Gala was our son, our joy, and the reason this foundation exists. His two years on this earth left a mark on everyone who knew him — and his legacy continues to change the lives of children and families fighting childhood cancer every day.
The joy of life before diagnosis...
Our son was born on August 28th, 2006. He was a special child. I remember when I first laid eyes on him after he came out of his mother's womb. Tears flowed uncontrollably as my heart was so full of love for this child that God had blessed us with. Instantly, those fatherly instincts became apparent. Our lives would never be the same. I remember Sejal and I praying over him and thanking the Lord for this precious gift in our life. I had to leave the hospital once for a few hours and I just replayed pictures of him on my phone as tears of joy streamed down my face. I couldn't believe how blessed we were. Life was perfect!
I recorded everything my son did — his first bath, the first time he rolled over, his first step. This little bundle of joy brought so much happiness to my wife and me that we were so content just being a family. I even took a back seat in my business because I loved waking up every morning with him. I loved smelling his soft baby hair. I loved being there for every new thing that he did. Curiosity was his middle name. He was so mechanical — he loved opening the tops of pens and putting them back on. He loved to play hide and seek, and his giggles were the music that ran through our house. Life was perfect!
He was also a very giving child. If you opened your mouth he would joyfully offer you his food. He had no favorite toys — he only had his parents, whom he adored. The one thing he was truly attached to was his mother's hair. As she would hold him in her arms, he would slide one hand into her hair, his little fingers twirling its strands — and you could see how much it comforted him. He brought smiles to everyone he came in contact with. He said "hi" to everyone, no matter whether they were welcoming or not. He was a bundle of happiness that touched everyone around him. His spirit was so pure. His nature was that of a saint. Sejal and I would often look at each other and think how favored we must be by the Lord to have such a beautiful little boy.
We moved into a new house in May 2007. I remember painting his playroom. I remember my mom painting a mural of the beach in his bedroom. We were so happy. I felt so complete. We celebrated his first birthday with close friends and relatives — about 50 people at our home over Labor Day weekend of 2007. Our little boy was one year old! The memory of that weekend is etched into my heart. After the party, we went hiking the next day. I remember strapping him into the harness as I carried him up the mountain — such a feeling of security. He radiated love and compassion. Later that day we went to the pool, and he enjoyed the water so much. Sejal and I would spend hours talking about how we wanted to raise him and what we wanted to provide for him. He filled our lives with so many dreams.
The journey begins...
In December 2007, we decided to take a trip to India. My grandparents were still alive, and we thought it would be a good time to take Ishan to visit family. But our trip did not go as planned, and we had no idea it would be the beginning of our lives changing forever.
On December 17th, we went to a restaurant with family, and when we got home Ishan vomited. No big deal, we thought — he probably ate something that didn't agree with him. But from that point until January 2nd, when we left India, the vomiting, diarrhea, and fevers came and went. We took him to doctors there thinking he had picked up some kind of virus, but there was no explanation. On the day we left, Ishan started running a low-grade fever. I was just relieved we were heading home, convinced that once we saw our local pediatrician, everything would be fixed. It's amazing how much faith we put into the medical community.
The fevers persisted throughout January. We must have been to the pediatrician four times that month. Test after test came back with no answers. Finally, on January 24th, Sejal called to tell me they had found Salmonella. I was so relieved — we had found the problem. They put him on antibiotics and I thought we were done with this nightmare, not realizing it had only just begun.
On January 30th, his fever still hadn't broken. We insisted on seeing an ID Specialist at the University of Virginia Hospital. He examined Ishan and couldn't find anything obviously wrong — but the look on his face was one I will never forget. I could tell something wasn't right. We left mid-day to get some lunch, and before we could reach the restaurant, we got a call from UVA. They wanted us to take Ishan to Martha Jefferson Hospital immediately for a CT scan. Something about the urgency of that request felt strange. Back we went to another hospital.
We stayed there the entire afternoon. Ishan was getting cranky and wanted to go home — and I couldn't blame him. After the scan, they kept us there for several more hours. Finally, at 6 pm, they asked us to go to our pediatrician's office to discuss the results. I didn't understand why they couldn't just tell us there. As we drove, I knew something was wrong. My mom was with usand she was very quiet — she was a doctor; she had to know something. The office was already closed, but Dr. Michaels was waiting for us. He brought us into one of the examining rooms and told us the news.
We were admitted that night to UVA Hospital, where we spent the entire month of February. That first night felt like an eternity. Why us? How could he have this? He was perfect. My mind wouldn't stop. It was like silent torture. I had no idea that the next seven months of our lives would be spent fighting for our son's life.
Neuroblastoma — a rare childhood cancer that takes the lives of 50% of those diagnosed. A cancer with no known cause, no reason. I didn't even know children got cancer until it happened to my son. In mid-February, Ishan was diagnosed with Stage IV Neuroblastoma with NMYC amplification. All I wanted to know was that my little boy was going to be okay. Of course, no one could give me that guarantee.
Why us, God? As some of the reports came in, I repeated to myself over and over: "I'm not moved by what I see. I'm not moved by what I hear. I'm only moved by what I believe — and I believe he is healed." Sejal and I held on to the promise that God would heal Ishan and restore him to perfect health. In mid-March, we moved from UVA to Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York City. We wanted the best for Ishan, and that's where we were told to go.
Our fight...
How do you summarize seven months in a few paragraphs? Two major surgeries. Seven cycles of chemotherapy. An arsenal of antibiotics and anti-nausea medications. Scan after scan under anesthesia. Bone marrow aspirations. Pain medications. Antifungal medications. Fevers and infections. Inpatient and outpatient. Late nights and early mornings. Good days and bad days. One medication needed for the side effects of another. We spent every hour of every day — like so many parents before us — trying to make our son's life as normal as possible. The hospital became our home. The doctors and nurses became our family. And we did it with joy, believing that in the end, everything would be okay, and that God's plan would be perfect.
On August 28th, 2008, our little Ishu turned two. That morning, Sejal and I pushed him in his stroller along the familiar route from 73rd Avenue to 68th Street for his routine check-up. We were talking about where we wanted to take him to celebrate — he loved the Bronx Zoo. But once we arrived at the hospital, it was clear he wasn't feeling well. The doctors and nurses tried coming in to sing happy birthday, but he wasn't interested. Dr. Modak examined him and felt another scan was needed. We were taken up to the 9th floor — where we had spent so many nights — for what would become another few days in the hospital.
On August 29th, we were told the words no parent should ever hear: "We're sorry. There is nothing else we can do."
Sejal and I cried until our hearts hurt. We walked back to Ishan's room and made a decision together — we were not giving up. We were going to take him home. Faith is a powerful thing, and hope should never be lost. But Ishan continued to decline. He was placed on oxygen for respiratory distress, and his condition worsened.
The process of letting go...
On September 3rd, the hospital arranged an ambulance to bring us home from New York City to Charlottesville. I remember that ride. We still believed with everything in us that Ishan would be okay.
We arrived home and it didn't feel real. Just a short time before, we had been playing in his playroom, reading books, dancing to music, kicking a ball in the driveway. Now he was being carried in on a stretcher, connected to oxygen. Hospice was there. The medical supply company was there. I felt like it was chaos. I just wanted everyone to leave so we could be a normal family again.
Ishan spent three days at home. You could tell he was tired. He kept pointing to different parts of the room, as if he could see something — someone — waiting for him. He pulled at his tubes, as if letting us know he no longer needed them. It seemed as if he was only staying for us.
At 5:00 am on September 6th, after only a few hours of sleep, I woke to find my mom and Sejal trying to help Ishan breathe. I saw in my mom's eyes that this was his last morning. I held him in my arms and felt the fluid filling in his body. He didn't cry or complain — he just sat in my lap, content, as if he had no fear in the world. He looked up at me twice, as if asking for permission to go. He always wanted to make us proud. And he did.
"Mom and dad are so proud of you. It's okay to go now and be with the Lord."
Five minutes later, I felt Ishan's spirit leave his body. The little boy we were blessed with on August 28th, 2006 went home on September 6th, 2008. As I held him and wept, I felt a strange and quiet peace — knowing he was no longer suffering.
If you are a parent reading this, I know you cannot help but have tears on your face. I know you share in this pain. But I also want you to know that Ishan's legacy lives on — and it has ignited in me a burning desire to make a lasting impact in the fight against childhood cancer. There is acure, and it will be found.
The Ishan Gala Foundation exists because of him. Every family we support, every care package we deliver, every child we help fight this disease — that is Ishan. That is his spirit continuing to give, just as he always did. I ask you to join us. Help us so that more parents can go home with their children, back to a normal life. When God closes one door, He opens another.
