A Fragile Heart, A Brave Boy: Eryk’s Fight for Life.

Eryk looks like any other boy at first glance. He laughs freely, cracks little jokes, dreams big dreams, and fills our home with the kind of energy only children can bring. But behind the brightness of his smile lies a fragile truth: he was born with HLHS — Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome — one of the most severe congenital heart defects known to medicine.

For most people, the heart is something they rarely think about. It beats faithfully, quietly, allowing life to unfold without interruption. But for Eryk, every beat is a struggle, every day a triumph against the odds. His tiny heart is incomplete, missing the strength to pump blood in the way it should, and because of this, his life depends on surgeries, procedures, and constant medical care.

I often look at him, so full of life, and wonder how such a small child can carry so much on his shoulders. He does not understand fear the way we do as adults. He does not dwell on statistics, risks, or mortality. He simply lives, with a courage that humbles me every day. But I, his mother, carry the weight of that fear. Every appointment, every test result, every new hospital date feels like a storm cloud hanging over us.

The reality of HLHS is brutal. Children like Eryk require a series of complex surgeries, staged carefully to give them the best chance at survival. These procedures do not cure the defect — there is no cure — but they create a way for the heart to function as best as it can. Each step along this path is filled with uncertainty, risk, and the constant question no parent ever wants to face:

will my child make it through this one?

The next step in Eryk’s journey is imminent. At the end of October, he is scheduled for another heart catheterization — a delicate and dangerous procedure. On paper, it is described clinically: the insertion of a catheter into the heart, the measuring of pressures, the possibility of interventions to widen narrowed vessels or improve blood flow. In reality, it is a moment where everything hangs in the balance. It is a procedure that could bring relief and stability, but also carries the risk of complications that could change everything.

When I think about that day, my chest tightens. I imagine sitting in the waiting room, staring at the clock, counting every minute that passes, praying with all my strength for good news. Parents of heart children know this feeling too well — the helplessness of handing your child over to surgeons, the silence of waiting, the surge of relief when you hear the words,

“he is stable.”

Eryk, of course, faces it differently. He knows he is going to the hospital, but for him, it is simply another adventure, another step he must take. He does not tremble like I do. He does not cry the way my heart cries. Instead, he holds my hand with that same innocent trust he has always had and reminds me, without words, that he is braver than anyone I know.

But courage alone cannot save him. He needs procedures, he needs specialized care, and these come with costs that our family struggles to meet. Every day feels like a race against time — raising funds, arranging appointments, preparing for the unknown. We do everything we can, but the truth is painful: the money we have is not enough.

This is why I write these words. Because as much as I want to be strong enough to carry this burden alone, I cannot. No parent can. The truth is, without help, we cannot give Eryk the fighting chance he deserves.

Each contribution, no matter how small, makes a difference. Each act of generosity adds another brick to the foundation of hope we are building for him. When people donate, they are not just giving money — they are giving time. Time for Eryk’s heart to keep beating. Time for him to laugh, to play, to dream. Time for us, his family, to hold him close and watch him grow.

It is difficult to put into words what it means to be the parent of a child with a condition like HLHS. There are moments of indescribable joy — the sound of his laughter, the sight of him playing like any other child. But there are also moments of unbearable fear — the alarms of hospital monitors, the sterile smell of the ICU, the waiting rooms where hope and despair mingle in silence.

Through it all, Eryk teaches us what it means to live bravely. He teaches us that strength is not about never feeling pain, but about facing it with courage. He teaches us that joy can exist even in the shadow of fear. And he teaches us that life, no matter how fragile, is precious beyond measure.

We want to give our son a future. We want him to be able to chase his dreams, to grow into the boy and man he is meant to be. But to do that, we need help.

I imagine the day when Eryk looks back on his childhood and understands what he went through. I imagine telling him about the people who stood with us, the strangers who became part of his story, the kindness that carried us when our strength was gone. I imagine his smile when he realizes that he was never alone — that a whole community of people believed in him, prayed for him, and helped him fight.

And so, I ask from the depths of my heart: please, stand with us now. Help us give him the chance he deserves. Help us cover the costs of his upcoming procedure, the follow-up care, the medications, the countless expenses that come with a heart as fragile as his. Help us so that when the day of the catheterization comes, we can focus not on bills and numbers, but on holding his hand, praying for his safety, and waiting for the moment when we hear the words,

“he is stable.”

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading our story. Thank you for caring about Eryk, for seeing not just his illness, but the boy he truly is: brave, joyful, and full of dreams. Thank you for being part of our fight, for turning fear into hope, and for reminding us that in this battle, we are not alone.

Because no child should ever have to fight alone.
Because every heartbeat matters.
Because together, we can give Eryk a tomorrow filled with smiles, laughter, and love.

With love and gratitude,