“Fighting for Karol’s Heart — A Family’s Race Against Time”

We first learned that something was wrong with our baby boy’s heart when I was still pregnant — during a routine ultrasound in the 29th week.

The doctor grew silent, her face tightening as she stared at the screen.
Then she called in a cardiologist, and those words — the ones that change everything — fell like stones:

“Your baby has a severe heart defect. You must prepare for the worst.”

I remember gripping my husband’s hand so tightly that it hurt.
Our son hadn’t even been born, yet we were being told to brace for goodbye.

Tears blurred my vision as I whispered silently, “No. He will live. We will fight.”

From that moment on, every heartbeat inside me felt like a countdown — fragile, uncertain, precious.

The Birth of a Fighter

Our little boy, Karol, was diagnosed with an extremely rare congenital heart defect — Ebstein’s anomaly.
It occurs in less than 1% of all cardiac malformations.

In simple terms, it means the tricuspid valve — the one that separates the heart’s right chambers — didn’t form correctly.
The result: his tiny heart was struggling to pump blood properly.

We were told the safest place to give birth was a specialized hospital in Warsaw, 300 kilometers away.
So when the day came, we packed our bags, trembling with both fear and hope, and drove to the capital.

But after a routine check, the doctors said:

“The contractions haven’t started yet. You can go back home and return later.”

So we did — and that’s when fate played its cruel trick.

The very next morning, labor began.
Too soon.
Too far from the planned hospital.
Too dangerous.

Karol was born by emergency C-section in a small provincial hospital halfway to Warsaw.

The doctors there were as terrified as we were.
They knew how delicate his condition was.
But our son was stronger than anyone imagined.
His heart — broken though it was — began to beat.
Weakly. Unevenly. But it beat.

The First Battles

Within hours, Karol was transported to Warsaw.
He was immediately placed on oxygen and connected to machines that kept him alive.
For the next

six weeks, we were allowed to see him only two hours a day.
Those 120 minutes became our whole world.

At nine days old, he underwent his first surgery — an attempt to repair the tricuspid valve.

The doctors warned us it was risky, but we clung to the word hope.
The operation failed.

Ten days later, a sudden internal hemorrhage forced another emergency surgery.
This time, the doctors had to place a small patch on his heart to stop the bleeding.

We watched, numb, as our newborn son once again fought for his life.

But somehow — against all odds — he made it.
When we were finally allowed to hold him again, I pressed my cheek to his chest, feeling the soft, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the scar.

Every thump was a victory.

Still, the sight of our baby covered in tubes and wires was unbearable.
Each time we had to say goodbye at the end of visiting hours, my heart broke all over again.

I left the hospital crying every night, terrified that I might never see him alive again.

Home, But Never Truly Free

After a month and a half, we were finally allowed to bring Karol home.

It should have been a joyful day — but joy was mixed with fear.
Our home was filled with medical supplies, oxygen, and a constant sense of fragility.
Every cough, every irregular breath sent us spiraling into panic.

Every six weeks, we return to the hospital for check-ups and hospital stays.
Each visit brings both hope and dread.
We’re grateful he’s alive, but we live knowing that the danger is far from over.

The cardiologists in Poland now say that Karol’s heart may not be able to function as a normal two-chambered heart.
Their solution? A single-ventricle circulation system, or even a heart transplant.
Both are options that could keep him alive — but at a terrible cost.
A single-ventricle heart means a lifetime of restrictions, complications, and the risk of failure.
A transplant would mean a lifetime of medications, fragile immunity, and uncertainty.

We don’t want that future for our son.
We want him to live — not just survive.

A Ray of Hope Across the Ocean

Desperate for answers, we reached out to specialists abroad — a team of world-renowned pediatric heart surgeons in Pittsburgh, USA.
We sent them Karol’s medical files, scans, and surgical reports.
They reviewed everything carefully.

Then, finally, came the words we had been praying for:

“We can help him. We can save his second ventricle.”

The doctors in Pittsburgh believe they can repair his tricuspid valve, close the septal defect, and preserve both chambers of his heart.
This would mean Karol could live with a fully functioning two-chambered heart — without needing a transplant.

It was the first time in months that we dared to believe our son might have a normal life.

But this window of hope is closing fast.
Doctors in Poland plan to perform a Glenn procedure — a step toward making his heart single-chambered — in just two to three months.
If that happens, the Pittsburgh surgery will no longer be possible.
We have to act now.

A Race Against Time

We’ve already sent all the medical documentation to Pittsburgh and are waiting for the final cost estimate.
But we know one thing — the price will be enormous.
A sum far beyond anything an ordinary family like ours could ever afford.

We are terrified of losing our chance.
Terrified of losing him.
Because if we don’t gather the funds in time, Karol’s future will be sealed — not by choice, but by circumstance.

Every day, we look at him — his little chest rising and falling, his tiny fingers clutching his toy bear — and we know we cannot give up.
He’s already fought too hard to have his future decided by money.

From One Heart to Another

Sometimes at night, when I watch him sleep, I place my hand over his chest.
I feel the faint, uneven rhythm — the reminder of how fragile, yet how determined his heart truly is.
I think back to those words from the cardiologist before he was born: “Prepare for the worst.”
And I realize — we are already living the best possible outcome.
He is alive.
He is fighting.
And now, he just needs one more chance.

We are asking for your help — not for ourselves, but for our son.
Every donation, every share, every prayer brings us closer to saving Karol’s heart.
We believe that together, we can give him the future he deserves — one where he can run, play, and grow without limits.

Please, help us make that possible.
Help us keep his heart beating — not half, but whole. ❤️