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

Just hours after birth, doctors whispered the unthinkable — leukemia.
My world shattered.

Tiny bruises covered her body.
Her skin was pale, her veins fragile.
Tests confirmed what no parent should ever hear:
Congenital acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
Cancer — before life had even begun.

Since that moment, Marysia’s home has been a hospital room.
Four months of transfusions, infections, and tears.
But through every storm, she fights — small, brave, and radiant.

Now, her only chance lies in a drug called Blinatumomab (Blincyto), needed before a bone marrow transplant.
It’s her lifeline — but time and funds are running out.

💔 “She’s never seen the sky without glass between her and the light,” her mother says.
💛 Help us change that.
👉 Full story in the comment

Sara’s Last Chance — A Mother’s Cry Against Time

💔 Sara’s Last Chance — A Mother’s Cry Against Time 💔

Sara fainted in my arms.
Another round of chemo burned through her veins, and cancer — cruel, merciless, relentless — showed us once again how powerful it could be.


There were days when only morphine could quiet her screams.

Four months ago, she should have begun antibody therapy — the final stage of treatment after her tumor surgery. But instead, we hit a wall.


A wall built not of medicine, but of bureaucracy.

Because of one technical rule, my daughter was “disqualified from the protocol.”
In Poland, that means no treatment, no continuation — no hope.

Now, after twenty rounds of chemotherapy, her veins are burned, her body exhausted.
The cancer could return at any moment.
Our enemy now isn’t only the disease — it’s also

time.
If relapse comes, Sara will die.

When Childhood Ended Too Soon

It’s been over a year and a half since our world collapsed.
Sara was just a happy little girl then — full of curiosity, laughter, and life. She loved playing outside, drawing, and cuddling her Mickey Mouse toy.


But one day, that bright world ended.

October 2015 — I remember the panic in the doctor’s eyes during her first ultrasound.
Her skin had turned pale, her belly was swollen, her energy gone.


We rushed to the hospital, believing it was something minor.

It wasn’t.

The doctor’s voice trembled:
“There’s a mass… fourteen centimeters… it covers three-quarters of her abdomen.”

I felt the world stop.

Diagnosis: Stage III neuroblastoma, an aggressive adrenal cancer — MYCN positive, meaning the tumor could grow and spread with terrifying speed.

I was told to prepare for my child’s death.

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And even though I had once worked in palliative care — surrounded by patients who were dying — nothing could prepare me for this.

When Sara fainted from pain, I broke.


At night, while she slept, I cried silently into my pillow.
During the day, I smiled for her — because if she saw me strong, she found her own strength too.

The Battle No Child Should Fight

Chemotherapy began.
Liters of poison poured into her tiny body, burning everything in its path — the cancer, yes, but also her childhood, her laughter, her strength.

Her veins blistered.
Her lips cracked.
She stopped eating, stopped drinking.

She lost her beautiful hair.
But she never let go of her Mickey Mouse toy.
Whenever footsteps echoed down the hospital corridor, she’d hide behind it — because footsteps meant needles.


And needles meant pain.

Eight rounds of chemo came and went.
Then six more — stronger, more aggressive.
Each one took something from her.

There were days when I thought she wouldn’t make it through the night.


Days when she whispered, “Mommy, it hurts,” and I had no words — only trembling hands and prayers whispered into the silence.

The Surgery That Could Have Been Goodbye

Nine months after diagnosis — fourteen chemo sessions later — the doctors decided it was time for surgery.

They warned me to expect the worst.
One wrong move, and my daughter could bleed to death.

Before they took her away, I kissed her soft head, clutching the tiny clothes she’d left behind.


I begged whatever power exists in this world to let her live.

Hours later — she did.
Sara survived.

But the doctors couldn’t remove the tumor completely.
A small mass remained — the part entwined with her arteries, too dangerous to touch.


A shadow that could, at any time, bring the cancer back.

The Cost of Survival

After surgery came megachemo — the strongest, most brutal treatment.
It destroyed her bone marrow, so she needed an autotransplant from her own cells, collected weeks earlier.

Her immune system crashed.
She was kept in isolation.
Even a single infection could have killed her.

She couldn’t eat or drink.
Her mouth and throat were burned raw.
She lived on IV nutrition, whispering weakly between bouts of fever and sleep.

But she fought.
Her tiny body — barely six years old — kept fighting.

After weeks, her blood counts started to rise again.
The doctors said her bone marrow was working.
Hope returned.

But radiation therapy couldn’t destroy what remained of the tumor.
And that residual mass — combined with the deadly MYCN gene — means one thing:
If the cancer returns, she will not survive.

The Unforgivable Word: “Disqualified”

Four months have passed since surgery.
Four months of waiting, praying, fearing.

Sara should have begun anti-GD2 immunotherapy, a treatment that destroys remaining cancer cells and prevents relapse.
But in Poland, she doesn’t qualify.

Why?
Because she received six extra rounds of chemo before her surgery.
Because her cancer is classified as Stage III, not Stage IV.
Because she “fell out of the protocol.”

She is a child — a living, breathing, smiling child — lost between medical definitions.

The only place that will take her is a clinic in Greifswald, Germany.
The treatment costs over 300,000 euros.

And now, more than pain, I cry from helplessness.
Because my daughter’s life depends on money and time — two things we are running out of.

A Mother’s Prayer

Sara spent both her fifth and sixth birthdays in the oncology ward.
I can still see her blowing out candles on a small hospital cake, whispering a wish I’ll never forget.
And I can’t help but wonder — will she live to see her seventh birthday?

She has endured twenty rounds of chemo, nine months in isolation, and more pain than any child should ever know.
Her little body can’t take much more.

If help doesn’t come soon, if treatment doesn’t start in time — the relapse will come, and it will take her from me forever.

The Plea

I am a mother whose child could die at any moment.
So I no longer ask — I beg.

Please.
Help me save my daughter.
Help me give her a chance to grow up, to dream, to live.

Because Sara still smiles.
She still believes.
And as long as she fights, so will I.

💛 Help us bring Sara to treatment before it’s too late. Read her full story and join her fight below. 💛