On the morning of my birthday, our world changed forever.
Our little Wladek woke up sick — headache, fever, vomiting.
We rushed to the hospital, hoping it was something minor.
It wasn’t.

Tests revealed the unthinkable: acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
In a heartbeat, we went from balloons and cake to hospital walls and chemo drips.
Months of treatment followed.
We clung to hope, and finally, the word “remission” came.

But the nightmare wasn’t over.
In 2022, relapse struck.
We took him abroad for life-saving care.
He endured isolation, pain, and a bone marrow transplant.
He fought bravely and survived — again.

Now another hurdle stands before him.
The Ommaya reservoir in his head must be removed before it harms his growing brain.
We must travel back for surgery this summer, so that on September 1st he can start first grade — a milestone leukemia has already tried to steal.

Wladek dreams of school, of friends, of a normal life.
We dream of the day this fight will finally end.

Please, help us give him that chance.
Every share, every prayer, every donation brings him closer to his first day of school.
Full story in the comment

One Word That Broke Her Heart: Leukemia

A Birthday That Changed Everything: Wladek’s Journey

It was my birthday.
June 2nd.
Everything was ready for the guests — the table set, the cake waiting, the decorations shimmering softly in the morning light.

I went to wake my little boy so we could get him dressed for the party.
He didn’t want to get out of bed.

“Mama, I don’t feel well,” he cried.

He said his head hurt.
He felt sick to his stomach.
When I touched his cheek, it was burning hot.
He tried to stand up but immediately vomited.

I called the guests from the car, telling them I was canceling the party.

We were on our way to the hospital with Wladek.
Somewhere deep inside me, my mother’s intuition was screaming that something was terribly wrong — but I still had no idea how wrong.

At the hospital, the doctors didn’t know what was happening.
His bloodwork looked normal.
There were no signs of poisoning or infection.
It seemed, on paper at least, as if everything was fine.

Finally they diagnosed acute gastritis and told us to follow a strict diet and make sure he drank plenty of fluids.

We went back home, trying to believe them, trying to breathe.

But Wladek didn’t get better.
Not even a little.
Days went by during which I didn’t close my eyes once.
Instead of improving, he was slipping further away.
He grew weaker, as though the life were leaking out of him.

He could hardly sit up.
I scooped him into my arms and this time took him straight to the capital hospital.
I suspected some hidden inflammation.
I hoped maybe these doctors could help us.

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I had no idea what we were about to face.

When the doctor called me aside, asked if I was Olga, Wladek’s mother, and invited me into a private room, time slowed.

His face was serious, kind but unyielding.
“I’m afraid everything points to acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” he said.
The words landed like stones.
I listened and couldn’t believe it.
It felt as if this wasn’t about me or my child at all, but a film playing about someone else’s life.

Just weeks ago Wladek had been laughing, running, full of energy.
I couldn’t keep up with him.
And now — leukemia?
Now he might die?

When the brutal truth finally pierced through my disbelief, I thought I would die of grief myself.

It was like a wave of pain and terror so big it crushes the air out of your chest.
The thought that I could lose my precious child, that I might never see him again.

But there was no time to process, no time to adjust, because the disease didn’t give us time.
We were thrown straight into a fight for life.
Our new home became the pediatric oncology and hematology ward.

We had tried so long for a child.
Negative pregnancy tests, tears, the creeping fear that it would never happen for us.
And then Wladek came — our miracle, our beloved son.

From the first moment I thought of him, I was obsessed with love.
The idea that cruel fate had given him to me only to take him away again was impossible to comprehend.

In those crushing days, it was my son who gave me strength.
His body responded remarkably well to treatment.
Slowly, he began to smile again.
I began to understand that this disease was a challenge — a terrible one, but one we could overcome together.

Hope returned.

“Remission.”
After several months, the word we had dreamed of finally came.
Check-ups.
Then another, and another.
Joy came back into our days.
We tasted ordinary life again.

Until…

February 2022.
I walked into the doctor’s office with my son.
I saw the look on his face before he even spoke.
I knew what he would say.
“Relapse.”
One word, and with it we were thrown back into darkness.
The leukemia was back.

I was terrified, beyond terrified.
I stopped eating.
I couldn’t sleep.
I scoured the earth for help.
For the first time, I swallowed my pride and asked for assistance.
We took our boy to a hospital in Israel, where some of the toughest pediatric cancer cases are treated.
Another face of leukemia revealed itself to us — separation and loneliness.
We were alone in a foreign country.
But none of that mattered.
The only thing that mattered was my son.
His life.

Wladek underwent treatment for the relapse.
With a bone marrow transplant he received a second chance at life.
We fought.
This time we were more vigilant, because we knew how cunning and deadly leukemia could be.
We wouldn’t let it catch us off guard again.

But the journey is not over.
Ahead of Wladek lies another stage of treatment.
He has an Ommaya reservoir in his head for administering chemotherapy.
It has to be removed, because his head is growing and the device could damage his brain — it could even cause bleeding or a stroke in the future.
We are preparing for another trip back to Israel for surgery and hospitalization.
We must do it during the summer, because on September 1st Wladek is supposed to start first grade.
Leukemia has already stolen almost his entire preschool years.
I pray it will not take this milestone from him too.

Wladek is excited about starting school.
Even though he is still weak and often sick, he is full of hope that the worst is behind him.
I too cling to that hope, though I still wake up screaming from nightmares about children’s cemeteries.
It has been like this for four years, since my son first fell ill.

I am asking you: please, help us end this nightmare.
You are our only hope.

—Olga Siemienowa, Wladek’s mom