Talking about it helps them in their healing and coming to terms with their loss,’ says Dr Fadhilah Zowyah Lela Yasmin Mansor.

An old saying goes, ‘We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give’. Meet a lady who lives by this ethos.

WHO’S next?”

Without waiting for my answer, the photographer peered over my shoulder at the name list. “Datin Dr. Fadhilah Zowyah Lela Yasmin Binti Mansor. Chief National Transplant Procurement Manager & Donor Coordinator. Ooh, Datin, huh?”

I shrugged indifferently.

I had interviewed my fair share of people with titles. Suffice it to say, not everybody who has one behaves like they deserved it.

The lady who walked through the door 10 minutes early was not only bare of makeup, but refreshingly free of branded bling. I sat her down and ran through the usual rigmarole.

“In the article, shall I address you as Datin or ...?” I began.

“Do you have to?”

I glanced up from my notebook, surprised.

“Just call me Lela. Or if you need to put a title,” she rolled her eyes, “call me Dr Lela.”

I grinned, liking her already.

“Besides, Datin is something I gained by virtue of my husband, not something I earned myself,” said the good doctor whom I was interviewing because she had been nominated for a public service award.

“It’s very difficult to talk about organ donation, even for doctors. Here a family is grieving about a loss, so how can we take from them? But I see it from a different perspective. I say we are presenting the chance to the

family to carry out the person’s wish.

“Talking about the person and reminiscing about the person’s goodness can add positivity to the negative experience of losing someone. Talking about it helps them in their healing and coming to terms with their loss,” she said.

You could hear a pin drop in the studio.

“Let me tell you a story,” Dr Lela said.

“One night in 2007, I got a call from a farmer from Pahang who had signed up as a pledger. His 17-year-old son died in a road accident. He wanted to donate but his relatives objected strongly. I said give me two hours, and I’ll be there with my team.

“We sat there with the man’s family. An old man in a ketayap. A makcik in her sarung. Nine to 10 of his siblings, and my team of doctors, nurses, paramedics, religious officers, counsellors.”

“And how did you broach the topic?” I asked.

“First, I thanked them for the opportunity. Explained what brain death meant. This is something for them to consider only if they are reda (willing). It’s not paksaan (by force). I told them what the process involved, what happened to the body. The body would be handled with respect and dignity. I also used the word donate, not take.

“At 4pm, it was done. All the aunties hugged me and said thank you. I felt so humbled. Here they were giving, and they were the ones thanking me. Later, the father wanted to see the recipient but I said I couldn’t give away the information. In the end, he said he’d pray for the recipient to recover faster.”

At the end of the interview, there wasn’t a dry eye in the studio. I gave her a hug.

As expected, she won in her category. Watching her go up to receive her award, I wondered if we would keep in touch. One day, I got an email from her out of the blue.

“I came across your article about your experience aboard the houseboat cruise. I saw the houseboat while I was in Tasik Kenyir, but being a creature of comfort and not particularly liking leeches, I thought I was too old for all that. But you have convinced me otherwise.”

From then on, we would write each other from time to time. In one of these occasional emails, she asked me if I would like to attend Bicara Hati (Heart-to-heart Talk), a ceremony to commemorate donor families during Organ Donation Week.

On the appointed day, I saunter into the foyer of Institut Jantung Negara. “So whose navel have you looked at lately?” Dr Lela says by way of greeting.

It’s full house, and the only seat available is next to a woman fiddling with her cameraphone.

“Hello,” I seize the opportunity to strike up a conversation. “Are you from the donor or receiver camp?”

“Donor,” she says.

“Ah, first time here?” I ask absent-mindedly, too distracted by all the activity around me – the kompang signalling the arrival of VIPS, the reporters from both news and TV channels flitting about – to notice the expression on her face.

“Yes, I wasn’t sure if we could handle it.”

Only then does it hit me. She must have lost someone precious. The three children and man sitting next to her must be her family. Who could she have lost? A sibling? An aging parent, maybe?

There is no time to put two and two together as the event kicks off. Speeches are followed by a ceremony to award a certificate to the donor families. The master of ceremonies Erma Fatimah introduces the donors one by one, and a member representing the family would come up on stage to receive an award and take a photo next to the Health Minister.

“The first to receive is Kartini. She was 25 years old. She was a fine member of her community and youth leader...”

They actually went to the trouble of personalising each description? I marvel. I remember what Dr Lela said – she hoped they could conduct the ceremony with full dignity.

“Our next donor was very special,” announces Erma. “Ahmad Azmi was only 25 days old ...”

I feel, rather than see, the man rising from the chair next to the lady that I was just speaking to.

Shock fills me as I realise, that she is the mother of the infant. I suddenly remember her struggling with her phone just now.

“Would you like me to take the photo of your husband receiving the certificate of recognition?” I whisper.

Her eyes widen with surprise, but she nods gratefully.

I feel ridiculously happy when I bluetooth the blurry photo back to her. I watch silently as she drapes a loving arm around her children. Her family is the picture of the ideal Malaysian family. By looking from the outside, you can never tell how much pain somebody is carrying inside.

As soon as the awards are over, reporters swarm the family. I quietly slip away to see Dr Lela.

“How was it?”.

“Beautiful. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming,” she beams, and then says apologetically. “I have to go. PR duties.”

As I look after her disappearing figure, I wonder what story I could write.

A scoop on the family of the young infant? True, I sat next to the mother, but I just didn’t feel like treating them like circus animals after what they had gone through. Besides, I was leaving with nothing except a poorly lit cameraphone photo that everybody else would have anyway.

Then, write about Dr Lela’s cause?

To be honest, I’ve met my fair share of social activists, philanthropists and the like, and not all impress me. There have been some who profess to champion the rights of the underprivileged, but in reality, turn out to be more self-glorifying egotist than altruist.

But Dr Lela was different. I make up my mind. She didn’t ask me to write anything, but it’s about time her story gets told.

Alexandra Wong (www.bunnysprints.com) has changed some details in the story to protect the privacy of certain individuals. Visit agiftoflife.gov.my to find out more about organ donation.

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