“Three Hours After Birth, They Said: ‘Your Baby Has Leukemia’”.2351

💔 Marysia’s First Battle — A Life That Began with Cancer 💔

When most mothers hear their baby’s first cry, they feel joy.
I felt fear.

It was only three hours after giving birth

when the doctors came to me — their faces pale, their voices tense.
They suspected leukemia. 

In that moment, my world stopped.
The room blurred, the lights dimmed, and the only thing I could hear was the pounding of my heart.

This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
Instead, it became the most terrifying.

The Diagnosis That Stole Our First Moments

When they placed my tiny daughter in my arms, she was covered in small bruises and purple blotches.


Her skin — fragile and pale — already bore the marks of something monstrous.

They told me they had to take her away for tests.
I kissed her forehead, whispering her name —

Marysia — as if it could protect her.
The doctor asked me to sign papers for a blood transfusion, explaining that her platelet count was dangerously low.

Hours later, the diagnosis came:


Congenital acute lymphoblastic leukemia — cancer of the bone marrow, developed while she was still inside my womb.

How can a mother understand something like that?
How can you accept that your baby — a few hours old — is already fighting for her life?

A Hospital Instead of a Home

I never got to experience those first soft mornings at home, the quiet feedings, the joy of dressing her in tiny clothes.
Instead, our world became a hospital ward filled with the smell of disinfectant, machines, and the cries of children too young to understand pain.

While other mothers planned photoshoots and decorated nurseries, I sat beside an incubator, praying for numbers on a monitor to stabilize.

The first days were the hardest.
Marysia received steroids, then her first round of chemotherapy — a word that should never belong in a baby’s story.

Her veins were so small, her skin so thin, that every needle felt like a wound in my own heart.
I held her little hand as she screamed, and I screamed silently with her.

Four Months of Pain, Courage, and Miracles

It’s been four long months now.
Four months of tears, transfusions, infections, and sleepless nights.

There were days I thought she wouldn’t make it until morning.


Days when her body went limp in my arms and I could only whisper her name, begging her to stay.

But Marysia — my tiny, four-month-old warrior — never gave up.


She fights with a strength that defies reason.
Her smile returns, even between treatments.
Her eyes, still full of light, look at me as if to say, “Don’t cry, Mom. We’re still here.”

Every small victory — every stable blood test, every giggle between sobs — feels like a miracle.

The Next Step: A Bone Marrow Transplant

Now, the doctors say there’s hope.


Marysia has a genetic twin — a donor match.

But before the transplant can happen, she must receive a life-saving drug: Blinatumomab (Blincyto).
It’s her only chance to keep the cancer from returning before the transplant.

Without it, there’s no point in proceeding — because the leukemia will almost certainly come back.

The drug is expensive.
Unbelievably expensive.
And not covered by public insurance.

We have only

until May 28th to buy it.
Just a few days to raise the funds.

Without it, my daughter will die.

A Mother’s Plea

Sometimes I still find myself touching the small bundle of baby clothes folded neatly at home — the ones she’s never worn.


I wonder if I’ll ever see her in them.
I wonder if I’ll ever watch her take her first steps, say her first word, blow out her first birthday candle.

I’ve waited my whole life to become a mother.
And now, I’m begging for the chance to keep being one.

Marysia knows only the hospital — she’s never seen the sky without a window between her and the light.
She doesn’t know what home feels like.

But I do.
And I dream of the day I can finally bring her there.

The Countdown

Every minute matters now.
The donor is ready.
The doctors are ready.
Marysia is ready.

But without Blincyto, all of it means nothing.
We are out of time — and out of options.

So I’m doing the only thing a mother can do:
I’m asking the world for help.

Please — help me save my daughter.
Help Marysia receive the medicine that stands between her and death.

I’ve seen her fight with everything she has.
Now I’m fighting for her.

Because even though her life began in pain, I believe it can still become a story of survival.

💔 Please, don’t let it end here. Help me give Marysia a chance to live.
💛 Read more and join our fight in the link below. 💛

“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?