“Fighting for Noemi — A Little Girl’s Battle Against Neuroblastoma”.2317

Some days, I still wake up hoping this is all just a bad dream.
That I’ll open my eyes, walk into Noemi’s room, and see her sleeping peacefully — without tubes, without scars, without pain.


But reality crashes in quickly.
Because for months now, our lives have revolved around hospitals, test results, and the slow, grueling rhythm of cancer treatment.

Our daughter Noemi is only three years old.


And she’s fighting a monster no child should ever have to face — neuroblastoma, one of the most aggressive childhood cancers.

The past few weeks have been some of the hardest we’ve ever endured.


There were days when I thought I couldn’t watch her suffer anymore — when her tiny voice whispered, “Mommy, it hurts,” and I had no words, only tears.
And yet, somehow, in the middle of all this fear and exhaustion, there’s finally a little light shining through.

Because the chemotherapy — the endless, brutal chemotherapy — is working.
The tumor has shrunk.
Her bone marrow is clear.
And soon, my little girl will face her next big step — surgery.

I am terrified.
Terrified of what could happen, of what the doctors might find, of what she might have to endure next.
But I know this is the path we must take.


It’s the only way forward — the only way to keep her alive.

Every day of treatment is a war.
Noemi’s body is covered in tiny bruises from injections.
Her once strong, rosy face is now pale and tired.


Steroids make her fragile bones ache, and her little teeth are starting to decay.
Her blood counts drop so often that she needs frequent transfusions just to keep her strength up.
There are times when she’s too weak to sit up, too tired to play, too sick to smile.

And yet, she keeps fighting.
With every breath.
With every heartbeat.
She faces each needle, each bandage, each dose of medicine with more courage than I’ve ever seen in anyone.

When the nurses come to change her dressings — an agonizing process that would make most adults cry — she squeezes my hand, looks up at me with tear-filled eyes, and whispers,

“I’m okay, Mommy. Don’t cry.”
She’s three years old.
Three.
And somehow, she’s the strongest person I know.

Recently, Noemi had to undergo a series of painful tests to see if a

stem cell transplant could be possible.
The doctors had to surgically insert a catheter into her femoral vein.
She was scared, trembling, her tiny body shaking as they prepared her for anesthesia.
I held her hand until she drifted off, whispering over and over, “Mommy’s here. I won’t leave you.”

The waiting was unbearable.
Every minute felt like an hour.
But when the doctors finally came out, there was good news — news that made every tear worth it.

Her blood contained enough stem cells for an autologous transplant — meaning her own cells could be used.
It’s rare. It’s precious.
It means she has a real chance to keep fighting.

We are home now for a few days, trying to rest, trying to feel normal before the next round begins.
She sits on the couch, wrapped in her favorite pink blanket, clutching her stuffed bunny.


For a moment, she looks like any other little girl.
But I can still see the fatigue in her eyes, the way her hands shake when she reaches for her cup, the way she winces when she moves too fast.

These quiet moments — the few we get together at home — are everything to us.
They remind us of what we’re fighting for: her laughter, her freedom, her future.

But the road ahead is still long.
After surgery, Noemi will face more chemotherapy, more hospital stays, and one of the most important stages — the anti-relapse vaccine.

It’s a treatment that could prevent the cancer from coming back, giving her a real shot at life without fear.
But it’s incredibly expensive.
And that’s what terrifies me most.

We’ve already spent everything we have — every savings, every bit of help from family and friends.
And yet, the bills keep coming.
Every scan, every transfusion, every medication — it all costs more than we can afford.

I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much longer we can keep going.
How much longer we can fight before the money runs out.
Because in this battle, running out of money means running out of time.

But I can’t — I won’t — give up.
Not when my little girl still wakes up every morning and says, “Mommy, can I draw today?”
Not when she still smiles, still dreams, still wants to live.

She deserves the world.
She deserves a childhood filled with laughter, not hospital walls.


She deserves to grow up, to run, to learn, to love.

And that’s why I’m asking — begging — for your help.
Because no parent should have to watch their child fade away simply because they can’t afford the next step in treatment.

Every donation, every share, every kind word makes a difference.
Every bit of support gives us one more day, one more chance, one more reason to keep believing.

To everyone who has already helped us — thank you.
You are part of Noemi’s fight now.
Your compassion is what keeps her story going.

And to those reading this for the first time — please, join us.
Help us give this brave little girl the chance to live the life she was meant to have.
Help us turn fear into hope, pain into healing, and struggle into survival.

Because right now, somewhere in a small hospital room, a three-year-old girl is fighting with everything she has.
And with your help — she can win.

“The Boy Who Beat Death Twice — Jaś’s Fight for a Whole Heart”.2352

💙 Jaś’s Heart — The Little Boy Who Defied Death Twice 💙

We cried in the oncology ward as our three-month-old son endured yet another round of chemotherapy.
Every day felt endless — an eternity of fear, prayers, and sterile hospital light.

When we finally found a bone marrow donor and thought we could breathe again, fate struck us once more.
Another diagnosis.
Another nightmare.

This time, it was his heart.
A rare, deadly defect — the kind that few doctors in the world had ever seen.

At night, we woke again and again, terrified to check if his tiny heart was still beating.
Every breath, every flutter under his ribs, felt like a borrowed miracle.

Now, after everything — the chemo, the transplant, the months of hospitals — Jaś has survived the first stage of heart treatment.
Only one last operation stands between him and a healthy, normal life.
Just one step… and yet, for us, that step is everything.

We are so close to the end of this nightmare — to the day our son can finally just live.
But we can’t do it alone.
We need help to reach that final miracle.

When the World Fell Apart

Before Jaś came into our lives, we were just an ordinary family.
Hospitals were places we associated with new beginnings, not fear.
We knew nothing about congenital heart defects, genetic disorders, or chemotherapy schedules.
That was before we learned what real fear feels like — the kind that settles into your bones and never leaves.

During pregnancy, everything seemed fine at first.
We imagined his first steps, his laughter, his birthday candles.
But at the halfway ultrasound, everything changed.

The doctor frowned, then grew quiet.
He spent an hour examining our baby’s heart before finally looking at us and saying the words that shattered our world:

“Your son has a very serious heart defect.”

A defect so rare it occurs in just 0.5% of all heart conditions.

In Jaś’s heart, the chambers were reversed — a condition called L-TGA (levo-transposition of the great arteries).
He also had Ebstein’s anomaly, a severe valve defect, and episodes of rapid, life-threatening arrhythmia.

In the ninth month of pregnancy, we were told not to expect him to survive.
We broke completely.
If we could have, we would have given him our own hearts just to keep his beating.

And yet, against all odds, he was born — crying, breathing, living.
That sound, his first cry, was the most beautiful thing we had ever heard.

The First Battle — Cancer

For a brief moment, his heart seemed stable.
But his pale, chalk-white skin worried us.
We thought it was related to the defect.

We were wrong.

Jaś was diagnosed with aplastic anemia — a failure of his bone marrow to produce blood cells.
A disease so rare it happens in one in a million children.

Our world collapsed again.

Chemotherapy began immediately, followed by transfusions — bag after bag of blood keeping him alive.
We watched as nurses pierced his tiny arms again and again, as tubes ran from his body, as life itself seemed to slip away from him.

We cried helplessly beside his bed.
And then, a miracle: a donor was found.

On April 21st, Jaś underwent a bone marrow transplant — his first victory against death.

The Second Battle — The Heart

After leaving oncology, the heart trouble began.
The defect worsened.
Doctors warned us that if nothing changed, only a heart transplant could save him — and hearts for babies are almost impossible to find.

We couldn’t accept that.
We began writing to hospitals around the world, sending reports, pleading for help.

Everywhere — rejection.
The defect was too rare, too complex.
No one would operate.

Except one man:
Professor Pedro J. del Nido, at Boston Children’s Hospital — one of the best pediatric cardiac surgeons in the world.

He reviewed Jaś’s files and said,

“Bring him here. There is hope.”

It was the first time in months we could breathe.

The First Operation — A Miracle in Boston

The doctors in Boston proposed a two-stage treatment plan.
The first — a banding procedure to control his circulation and prepare his heart.
The second — a full double switch surgery, which would completely correct his heart’s anatomy.

The odds of success? 98%.

But the cost… enormous.
Still, what parent could say no to saving their child’s life?

We turned to the kindness of strangers — people like you.
And you answered.
With your help, we raised the funds.

On February 25th, we flew to Boston.
On March 8th, Jaś’s surgery began.

For two long hours, we sat in silence, unable to move, unable to breathe.
And then — the words we had prayed for:

“The operation was successful.”

Jaś woke up two days later.
Within a week, he was walking through the hospital halls, laughing, tugging his suitcase behind him at the airport.
Our miracle boy.

The Final Step

Now, Jaś is preparing for his final surgery — the one that will make his heart function like any other child’s.
It will involve the full double switch, corrections of blood flow, and an ablation to stabilize his rhythm.
If needed, a pacemaker will be implanted.

If all goes well, Jaś will live without any medication.
No more tubes.
No more hospital beds.
Just life — real life.

But before that can happen, we must once again raise the funds to return to Boston this October.

The Plea

We’ve spent the last two years fighting death — and twice, our little boy has won.
He’s not even two years old, yet he’s survived more than most adults ever will.

At home, we call him our little warrior.
Every time he smiles, we find the strength to keep fighting.

But we can’t do this last step alone.
We need you again — his family of thousands who have loved him from afar.

Please, help us finish what we started.
Help us give Jaś the chance to live without pain, without fear, without machines.

We’ve seen what your kindness can do.
Now, we ask one last time — will you help us save our son’s heart?