Light for Gniewko — A Little Warrior’s Fight to Save His Sight.2234

He is fighting to see — to open his eyes to the world he may not have much time to live in.
How long that time will be, no one knows.

Little Gniewko Pasiak was born with half a heart.
And now, on top of that, he is slowly losing his sight.

His mother says it softly, with a mix of exhaustion and fierce determination:


“I will do everything to help my son see — to let him watch the world and fulfill at least a few of his childhood dreams.”

A Dream Ten Years in the Making

Gniewko was not just a child.
He was a miracle that came after a decade of waiting, of heartbreaks, of whispered prayers that never seemed to be answered.

His parents had tried for ten long years to have another baby. They had almost given up hope when the news finally came — they were expecting again.

The joy that filled their hearts was overwhelming. His older sister, Oliwia, talked every day about the little brother who would soon be her best friend.

But then came the day that changed everything.

During a routine prenatal visit, the doctor’s expression shifted. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. Then came the words that would carve themselves into their hearts forever:

“You need to go for additional tests. Your child will be born very sick. We don’t know if he will survive.”

Born with Half a Heart

Further tests confirmed the unimaginable — a series of complex and critical heart defects:
AVSD, TGA, isomerism, and a single-ventricle heart.

In simple terms, his heart was built differently — fragile, incomplete.
The doctors said he would need multiple surgeries just to survive.

When he was finally born, the room filled with both relief and fear. His parents saw their baby for the first time — tiny, pale, fragile — and realized their fight had only just begun.

Thirteen days after birth, Gniewko underwent his first life-saving surgery. His parents held their breath as the doctors worked for hours. When it was over, the surgery had been a success — their baby was alive.

But something else was wrong.

He wasn’t responding to light. He didn’t blink when the lamp shone in his eyes.
Days passed. Weeks. Still nothing.

At first, doctors thought it was a temporary complication from the operation. But time proved them wrong.

Gniewko couldn’t see.

Their little boy — the one they had prayed for, waited for — was trapped in darkness.

The Long Road of Hope

The diagnosis was devastating. Yet, they refused to give up.

Slowly, rehabilitation began. With gentle therapy and stimulation, tiny sparks of improvement appeared.
At first, he noticed light.
Then, the vague outline of shapes.

It was progress — slow, fragile, but real.

And then came another heart surgery.

Once again, the operation saved his life… but took his sight. The world went dark for him all over again.

That was when his parents learned about

stem cell therapy — a breakthrough treatment available in Bangkok that had shown promise for cases like his. It was a desperate hope, but the only one left.

With the help of donors, they made it to Thailand.

After the first transplant, a miracle happened — Gniewko began to see again. His mother remembers that day vividly:

“He turned his head toward the light. Then he smiled. We both cried. For the first time, he could see us.”

Hope Interrupted

But fate was not finished testing them.

The little boy still needed one final heart surgery — the most dangerous of them all.
They knew it had to be done; without it, his heart would fail.

The operation succeeded, but his fragile body couldn’t handle the trauma. Slowly, his sight began to fade again.

Doctors had no comforting words this time. They said the optic nerves were dying — and that once gone, they could never regenerate.

But his parents refused to believe “never.”

Once again, they reached out for help, and once again, the world responded. They returned to Bangkok, praying for another chance.

The Second Miracle

This time, the stem cell therapy worked even better.

The cells began to rebuild the damaged nerves, and Gniewko’s vision — once completely gone — began to return.

He could now see more light, more color, more detail. He started reacting to movement, recognizing his family’s silhouettes.

The joy in their home was indescribable. For the first time in months, hope felt real again.

“Stem cells are working,” his mother says. “They are rebuilding what was destroyed. But we need to continue the treatment… without help, it will be impossible.”

Each round of therapy in Bangkok costs more than the family can afford. The rehabilitation that follows is essential, but equally expensive. Every month, they face the same impossible question: how to keep paying for the treatment that keeps their son’s world alive.

A Boy with Big Dreams

Despite all he’s endured, Gniewko dreams big.

He wants to be a doctor when he grows up — “so I can help children like me,” he once told his mother, his tiny voice full of sincerity.

He already knows what courage looks like. It’s in the needles, the surgeries, the endless hospital corridors. It’s in his parents’ tired smiles and sleepless nights.

He knows what hope feels like — it’s the warmth of sunlight returning after months of darkness.

But he also knows how fragile life can be. His heart condition remains incurable. No one knows how long he has.

That’s why every moment matters. Every bit of progress, every small victory, every extra day of sight — they are all miracles.

A Mother’s Plea

His mother’s words tremble with both gratitude and fear:

“Because of your help, my son can see again. But if we stop now, it will all disappear. The treatment must continue. Please, help us keep fighting for his vision — for his life.”

The plea is simple, human, and full of love.
A mother asking the world not to give up on the little boy who refuses to stop fighting.

Light in the Darkness

In the end, Gniewko’s story is not just about illness.
It’s about resilience, faith, and the unstoppable power of love.

He was born with half a heart, but it beats with more strength than most.
He was born into darkness, but his eyes still search for light.

Every time he looks toward the sun, he reminds us that even when life breaks us apart, hope can rebuild us — piece by piece, heartbeat by heartbeat, cell by cell.

And as long as there are people willing to help, there is still time for him to see the world he dreams of saving one day.

“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.