A Seventeen-Year-Old’s Battle for Tomorrow: Yerasyl’s Fight for Life

At seventeen, life is supposed to be full of firsts—first love, first concerts, first adventures with friends before adulthood quietly arrives. For Yerasyl Amangeldi, however, those dreams were abruptly replaced by something far heavier: a diagnosis that changed everything.

A year ago, in June, Yerasyl heard the words no one his age should ever have to hear—“You have cancer.” Lymphoma. He didn’t even know what it meant then. Now, every cell in his body understands.

The Summer That Never Came

It was supposed to be his last carefree summer before graduation. His exams were done, and the plans were simple—concerts, camping trips, long days at the lake with friends. Instead, his days became defined by fluorescent hospital lights and the slow drip of chemotherapy.

“I remember lying in that hospital bed,” he says softly, “watching the sunlight through the blinds, wondering how everything changed so fast.”

What he thought was a stubborn cold had turned into something far more sinister. His mother, worried by his constant shortness of breath, forced him to see a doctor. That decision saved his life.

“I still remember the look on my mother’s face when they told her,” Yerasyl recalls. “She aged twenty years in a moment.”

The Weight of a Single Word

The diagnosis shattered their world. Every plan, every laugh, every hope was crushed by one word—

cancer.

Then came the treatment. The first sessions weren’t too bad, but as the days stretched into weeks, the real war began—nausea, pain, exhaustion, hair loss. “The disease took everything from me overnight,” he says. “My school, my friends, my hair, my strength. But not my hope.”

He clings to that hope like a lifeline. “I want to live. I want to laugh again. I want to travel. I want to fall in love. I want to be someone who can say,

I made it.”

A Mother’s Strength, a Son’s Fear

In Kazakhstan, access to quality medical care is painfully limited. Yerasyl’s mother sold what she could, borrowed what she couldn’t, and took her son abroad—to Turkey—for a fighting chance.

Now, as he undergoes his fourth round of chemotherapy, the signs are encouraging. “After the second cycle, my doctors said the tumor had shrunk,” he explains. “My body is responding. They believe I can recover—but I need to finish treatment.”

His biggest fear isn’t death—it’s his mother’s heartbreak. “She doesn’t sleep,” he says. “She prays, she cries, she worries. I’m afraid she’ll get sick herself from the stress.”

At home in Kazakhstan, his little brother waits with their father, too young to understand why his mother and brother are gone for so long. “He’s so small,” Yerasyl whispers. “It must be so hard for him.”

The Price of Survival

Hope, unfortunately, comes with a cost—a financial one far beyond what Yerasyl’s family can afford. The treatments that are giving him a second chance at life cost more than his parents could ever dream of paying.

“That’s why I’m writing this,” he says. “To ask for help. Not for luxury, not for comfort—but for life. For a tomorrow I’m afraid I might not see.”

He doesn’t hide his vulnerability. His words are simple, pure, and heartbreaking in their honesty. “I never asked for this fight. But I can’t fight it alone.”

Finding Meaning in the Pain

Despite the fear and exhaustion, Yerasyl somehow radiates gratitude. “It may sound strange,” he admits, “but I think this happened for a reason.”

He has learned, through suffering, about the kindness of strangers. “Every message, every donation, every prayer—it reminds me that the world still has good people. That compassion is real.”

He smiles faintly, his voice steady. “Maybe this is my lesson. A test, like in school. A test of strength, faith, and love.”

A Promise for the Future

When asked what he dreams of once this nightmare is over, Yerasyl doesn’t hesitate. “I want to help other children who are fighting like me,” he says. “No one should feel alone in this.”

He is a believer, and his faith is unshakable. “Thank you, God,” he whispers, “for reminding me what life is worth.”

For Yerasyl, every sunrise is now a gift. Every morning he wakes up breathing, he feels lucky. “Being healthy,” he says, “is happiness itself.”

His story is not just one of illness—it’s one of courage, hope, and the quiet strength that comes from believing in tomorrow.

“Your help,” he concludes, “is more than money. It’s hope. It’s faith. It’s life.”

And for a seventeen-year-old boy who still wants to laugh, to grow up, and to live, that hope means everything.

A Wheelchair to the World: A Mother’s Plea for Her Brave Son, Matwej

I am the mother of Matwej Saldatau — my brave, warm, and sensitive boy. He is only ten years old, yet for most of his life, he has been fighting a cruel, unforgiving disease: spinal muscular atrophy type 2 (SMA).

We heard those words for the first time on September 15, 2016, and our world stopped. I remember every detail of that day — the doctor’s quiet voice, the sterile smell of the office, the way my hands trembled as I tried to hold my little boy close. That was the day life divided into “before” and “after.”

Before, we dreamed about bikes, playgrounds, and running through the park. After, we learned to live with fear — the kind that never leaves you.

A Life Defined by Courage

SMA is a rare genetic disease that slowly robs children of their ability to move, to walk, to even breathe without help. It weakens the muscles while the mind and heart remain perfectly strong. My son understands everything. He feels everything. He just can’t do what other children can.

Matwej can’t walk, run, or get out of bed on his own. His arms are weak, his legs even weaker. Lifting even the smallest toy takes effort. Yet despite it all, his spirit shines brighter than any shadow the illness has cast.

He loves Minecraft and Roblox, dreams of going to school every day, meeting friends, and living the life every child deserves — a life of laughter, freedom, and belonging.

Sometimes, when I look at him, sitting quietly by the window, I see both his strength and his pain. He never complains. Instead, he smiles and asks about the world — the one he longs to explore but cannot reach on his own.

A Move for Hope

We left our home in Brest to come to Poland, where Matwej could receive advanced treatment unavailable in Belarus. Here, he’s undergoing a complex and costly therapy that helps his body produce the missing protein his muscles need to survive. It’s not a cure — but it slows the disease and gives us time.

Every injection, every rehabilitation session, every hospital visit is another step in his battle for independence. The treatments are expensive, but they are keeping him alive — and for that, I would give up everything.

And I almost have.

Every spare coin goes toward his care. Every day is a calculation — between bills, medicine, and therapy. I’ve sold what I could, worked when I can, but some things are simply beyond my reach.

A Wheelchair That Means Freedom

Right now, Matwej’s greatest need is a new electric wheelchair. The one he has used for years has become too small and too worn to function properly. It breaks down constantly, its battery fails, and its frame no longer fits his growing body.

Without it, my son’s world becomes painfully small — confined to the limits of his bed and our apartment walls.

With it, he has legs again. A way to move through the world, to go to school, to visit friends, to feel the wind on his face. A wheelchair for Matwej isn’t just equipment — it’s independence, joy, and life itself.

But the cost of such a chair is staggering — far beyond what I can afford. I am already stretched thin from medical bills and rehabilitation expenses. I cannot do this alone.

A Mother’s Hope

As a mother, nothing hurts more than watching your child want something you can’t give — especially when that “something” is the simple ability to move, to live like others.

So I am asking, from the bottom of my heart: please help us.

Every contribution — every złoty, every prayer, every share — brings us closer to giving my son the freedom he deserves. You’re not just buying a wheelchair. You’re giving a child a chance to experience the world, to laugh with friends, to go to school, to live with dignity.

Sometimes, at night, when he’s asleep, I sit beside his bed and imagine him in his new wheelchair — racing down a sunny path, his laughter echoing through the air. It’s a small dream, but it’s everything.

You Can Give Him Wings

Matwej doesn’t need pity. What he needs — what he deserves — is a chance. A chance to see the world from beyond his window. A chance to be part of life, not just a spectator of it.

To everyone reading this — please, help us make that possible.

💙 Every gift brings my son closer to freedom. Every gesture brings him closer to joy.

For most of us, movement is something we take for granted. But for a boy like Matwej, it is everything — his hope, his independence, his life.

Let’s give him back the world — one wheel, one smile, one act of kindness at a time.