“Oluś’s Journey: A Child’s Hope in the Face of Cancer”.2324

The Hospital Became Our Home: Help Us Save Oluś

We were so relieved to return home for a brief respite. The feeling of being back in familiar surroundings, even for just a short while, was a gift. But now, once again, we are back at the hospital. And every night, as I tuck my son in, he looks up at me with worried eyes and asks, “Mom, will everything be okay?” All I can do is reassure him, telling him that together we will defeat this monster.

It all began when Oluś, my precious boy, was rushed to the emergency room with severe stomach pain. What we thought would be a simple checkup turned into a nightmare. The doctors immediately decided that he would need a blood transfusion. After a few days, we were supposed to begin his next round of chemotherapy. But the fever and stomach pains threw everything off course, and our treatment plan was delayed once again.

The Battle Continues: A Mother’s Heartache

Oluś could no longer eat anything on his own. The pain from feeding through a tube was unbearable, causing him to vomit constantly. It was heartbreaking to see my little boy struggle so much. The doctors made the difficult decision to start intravenous feeding through a port that had been placed in his chest. But even that came with its own challenges. We had to quickly resolve the inflammation that had developed in his body before we could proceed with the 6th cycle of chemotherapy.

Every day feels like a fight for survival. I watch as my son’s strength wanes, his energy slipping away with each passing hour. And yet, despite everything, there is a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. I can see that he’s growing up in ways I wish he didn’t have to. He knows the hospital is our temporary home, but that doesn’t make the constant pain, the endless treatments, and the never-ending uncertainty any easier to bear.

Oluś misses his normal life—his friends, the games he used to play, the laughter and joy that used to fill his days. He often asks me when he will be able to play again. My heart aches, and I’m left wondering how much more I can say. How can I explain that we don’t know? That we just have to keep fighting, hoping, and praying that the next day will be better?

A Mother’s Worry: The Wait for Results

What worries me most is that we still haven’t received the results from the histopathological test. The uncertainty is unbearable. The waiting, the not knowing—it eats away at us. I try to stay strong for Oluś, but sometimes the fear of what the results may reveal is overwhelming. We’ve been here before—waiting for answers, hoping for good news, but knowing deep down that this battle will not be easy.

We’ve been in this fight for what feels like an eternity, but every day brings new challenges. The emotional toll on us as parents is unimaginable. But I can’t let Oluś see my fear. I have to keep going, for him. He’s the reason I get up every day, even when everything inside me wants to collapse.

The Importance of Your Support

Every bit of support we receive is a lifeline. The donations, the messages, the thoughts and prayers—they make all the difference. It’s easy to feel isolated in this fight, but knowing that there are people who care, people who are rooting for Oluś, makes us feel less alone. Each act of kindness, no matter how small, helps us keep going.

We know the road ahead is still long. The treatment is harsh, and the uncertainty is terrifying. But we have to hold on to hope. For Oluś. For his future. For his laughter. For his dreams. And with your help, we can continue to fight, to keep pushing forward, and to give him the chance he deserves.

Our Journey and the Battle Ahead

The hospital has become our second home, but it’s not the place we want to be. It’s not where we want to stay forever. Oluś longs for the day when he can leave this place behind, when he can run, play, and be a child again. But right now, we have to face this battle together. His fight is not just about surviving—it’s about living, about fighting for the life he deserves.

We are still waiting for results. We are still waiting for the moment when we can say, “It’s over, you’re going to be okay.” But until then, we will keep fighting. We will keep moving forward, step by step, and together, we will defeat this.

Please, help us. Every bit of support means the world to us. We need your strength, your prayers, your hope. Together, we can give Oluś the future he deserves. Thank you for standing with us. Thank you for being part of this fight.

With your help, we will continue to fight for Oluś’s life, for his future, and for the joy he deserves to experience.

A Mother’s Promise

I will not give up. For my son, I will keep fighting, no matter how hard it gets. I will stay by his side through every moment of pain, every setback, and every victory. Because I know that if we stand together, we can overcome anything. Together, we will win this fight.

Please help us keep the hope alive for Oluś. Thank you.

22 Chemo Sessions, 27 Radiations – One Brave Boy.1263

This is childhood cancer.

It’s not the glossy, heartwarming images you see in commercials — the bald, smiling kids clutching a teddy bear with bright eyes that seem to say,

I’m okay. No, it’s not that. Childhood cancer is the raw, unfiltered reality that shatters every expectation, every sense of normalcy, every ounce of parental hope.

It’s two one-inch needles sticking out of his tiny chest. And then there’s the screaming — not a quiet, bearable whimper, but a full-throated, soul-shaking scream that rips through the room, through the walls, through every nerve in your body.

“PLEASE, mama! Dada, PLEASE make it stop! Please, please, PLEASE make it stop! Mama, dada, PLEASE don’t do it!”

I’ll never forget that sound. The desperation in his voice, the tears streaming down his cheeks, the way his little body shook with fear and pain.

There’s nothing, nothing you can do to make it better. You hold him, you rock him, you whisper words of comfort, but the needles stay, the treatment goes on, and the world feels like it’s crumbling around you.

People think they understand childhood cancer. They think it’s the occasional sad news story or the brief video clip shared on social media. But those glimpses — those fifteen-second clips — show maybe ten percent of the truth.

They show the cheerful Bryson, giggling and smiling despite everything. But the other ninety percent? That’s the heart of the battle. That’s the ugly, unrelenting reality. That’s the days when you see your child’s pain and there’s literally nothing you can do.

Childhood cancer is not just the needles, the chemo, the radiation. It’s the silent grief that sits beside you every day. It’s watching your child’s innocence, their laughter, their boundless energy, being chipped away, bit by bit, by a disease they never asked for.

It’s the quiet despair of knowing that a future you dreamed of with them — graduations, birthdays, first loves, milestones you can’t even imagine — might never happen.

Childhood cancer is picturing a world without them. It’s the unbearable thought of never hearing their voice again. It’s mourning their life before it has even fully begun. It’s grieving the future, the possibilities, the unique charm and intelligence they carry in their small body.

 It’s planning, subconsciously, for a funeral you should never have to plan. It’s the cruelest thief, taking away moments you can’t reclaim, and leaving you with helplessness as your only companion.

We’ve been on this journey for 861 days. Eight hundred sixty-one days of uncertainty, of fear, of fleeting victories and devastating setbacks.

 In that time, Bryson has endured 22 rounds of chemotherapy, 27 sessions of radiation, and countless invasive procedures that no child should ever face. Yet every single day, he amazes me. He amazes us all. He fights with a courage and resilience that no words can fully capture.

There are moments of hope, of course. Small, precious victories — a laugh, a smile, a day where the pain subsides enough for him to run around, even for just a few minutes. Those moments are golden.

Those are the moments we hold on to, the ones we photograph, the ones we share, because they are glimpses of the life we wish could be uninterrupted. But even in those moments, the shadow of the disease lingers.

We’ve cried together. My partner and I have held each other in the dark, sobbing silently, because there is nothing else to do.

There is no anger that can chase this away. No pleading that can make the needles disappear. Only the embrace of love, fierce and protective, as we wait for the storm to pass. But the storm is always there, always looming.

Childhood cancer is unfair. It doesn’t care about birthdays, or homework, or favorite toys. It doesn’t care about school plays or soccer games or family vacations. It doesn’t care about the dreams you had for your child, the life you imagined. It is cruel, relentless, and merciless.

And yet, in the midst of all this pain, there is light. Bryson’s laughter still pierces through the darkness. His resilience teaches us something profound every single day: that courage isn’t the absence of fear or pain, but the determination to keep going despite it.

That hope is not a naïve dream, but a conscious choice in the face of despair. That love — the love of family, of friends, of those who care — can be a lifeline even when everything else seems lost.

We share his story not for pity. We share it to shine a light on the reality of childhood cancer — the days of unbearable pain, the sleepless nights, the fear, the grief, and the courage. Because while it’s uncomfortable to watch, it is real. And real is what needs to be seen, understood, and acted upon.

Bryson’s journey is far from over. Each day is a battle, each procedure a challenge. But he is a fighter, a little warrior whose spirit refuses to be dimmed. And as long as he has breath in his lungs, we will fight alongside him. We will cry, we will pray, we will hope, and we will love with every fiber of our being.

Because childhood cancer is a thief, but it will never steal our love. And it will never steal our pride in the bravest little boy we know.