“Boiling Water, Broken Hearts — Saving Little Amelka”.2314
Two-year-old Amelka was the kind of child who could light up an entire room.
Curly-haired, always smiling, full of laughter and energy — the kind of little girl who made everyone around her believe in the simple joy of life.
Her parents often said she was their “tiny sun,” their reason to smile even on the darkest days.
But on March 26, in the blink of an eye, that sunshine turned into a nightmare that no parent should ever have to witness.
It was supposed to be a beautiful day.
The family was gathered at a restaurant for a small celebration — the christening of a relative’s baby.
Laughter filled the air, and Amelka, dressed in her favorite little dress, ran around between the tables, playing with her cousins.
She was happy.
She was safe.
Or so everyone thought.
Then it happened — a split second that changed everything forever.
A boiler used to heat water for coffee and tea suddenly leaked.
Before anyone could react, a stream of boiling water spilled — and Amelka was standing right there.
The scalding liquid drenched her tiny body — her head, face, arms, and chest
Her scream tore through the air.
It was the kind of sound no parent should ever hear — raw, desperate, filled with agony.
Her mother ran to her, tearing off her soaked clothes, her hands trembling, crying out for help.
The restaurant fell silent, then chaos broke out.
Someone called an ambulance.
Her father tried to comfort her, holding her tiny, trembling body, his own tears mixing with hers.
It was all over in seconds.
But the pain — the pain will last much longer.
At the hospital, doctors quickly assessed the damage: over 30% of her body was covered in burns.
They were
The doctors called it “life-threatening.”
Amelka was rushed to the Center for Burn Treatment in Ostrów Wielkopolski, where she was immediately placed under intensive care.
The first 48 hours were critical.
She was connected to monitors, IV drips, and pain pumps.
Her tiny fingers, once so quick to grab her toys, were now wrapped in thick white bandages.
Her eyes, once full of curiosity, were filled with silent tears.
Each dressing change was torture — not just for her, but for everyone watching.
The cries of a two-year-old in pain echo differently.
They pierce your soul.
Her mother couldn’t stay in the room for the first few procedures.
Her father tried to stay strong, holding her hand whenever he could, whispering over and over,
Amelka has already undergone several surgeries and skin grafts.
Doctors say her condition is stable, but the road ahead is long, uncertain, and painfully difficult.
Her healing will take months — maybe longer.
There will be more surgeries, more grafts, more rehabilitation.
And when the wounds finally close, there will still be scars — physical and emotional — that will take years to fade.
The family now travels back and forth to the burn center every few days.
The expenses are overwhelming: hospital bills, medication, wound care, skin graft materials, and therapy sessions.
Even the simple supplies — special creams, sterile dressings, and compression garments — cost more than they can manage.
And yet, no matter how hard it gets, they refuse to give up.
Because when you’re a parent, you fight — no matter what it takes, no matter how impossible it feels.
The emotional toll is just as heavy.
Amelka’s parents live every day between hope and heartbreak.
They replay that moment in their minds again and again, asking themselves the same questions:
“Could we have stopped it?”
“Why her?”
There are no answers — only the reality that their daughter’s life will never be the same.
Every night, they sit by her hospital bed, stroking her bandaged hands, whispering stories from before the accident — about playgrounds, bubbles, and bedtime songs.
They want her to remember the laughter, the light, the joy that filled her life before pain took over.
They want her to believe that one day, she’ll smile again without fear.
The doctors are cautiously optimistic.
They say her young age works in her favor — that her body has the resilience to recover, if given time, care, and the right treatments.
But those treatments are expensive.
The cost of every surgery, every graft, every therapy session feels like another mountain to climb.
Her parents are doing everything they can — but it isn’t enough.
That’s why they’ve reached out for help.
They’re asking the world — people like you — to join their fight for Amelka’s future.
Because every donation, no matter how small, is a step toward giving her life back.
Every share of her story spreads awareness, compassion, and hope.
When you see a picture of Amelka now — wrapped in bandages, her face hidden behind layers of protective gauze — it’s hard to imagine that just weeks ago, she was twirling in her dress, laughing with joy.
But beneath those bandages is still the same little girl — the same spark of life, courage, and love.
Her parents dream of the day she can run again.
Of the day she can look in the mirror and see herself, not the scars.
Of the day she can live like every other child — carefree, fearless, and happy.
They know the road is long.
They know the pain won’t vanish overnight.
But they also know that with faith, love, and the kindness of strangers, miracles can happen.
To everyone reading this:
Please, don’t look away.
Don’t let this little girl’s fight go unheard.
Amelka’s life has changed in a moment — but with your help, it can change again.
This time, for the better.
✨ Every donation, every share, every prayer matters.
Help her parents give Amelka the chance to heal, to grow, to laugh again.
Help them bring light back into the life of this brave little girl.
From the bottom of our hearts — thank you for standing with Amelka.
Thank you for believing in her recovery.
Thank you for helping her dream of a future filled with sunshine, not scars.
“Fighting for Noemi — A Little Girl’s Battle Against Neuroblastoma”.2317
Some days, I still wake up hoping this is all just a bad dream.
That I’ll open my eyes, walk into Noemi’s room, and see her sleeping peacefully — without tubes, without scars, without pain.
But reality crashes in quickly.
Because for months now, our lives have revolved around hospitals, test results, and the slow, grueling rhythm of cancer treatment.
Our daughter Noemi is only three years old.
And she’s fighting a monster no child should ever have to face — neuroblastoma, one of the most aggressive childhood cancers.
The past few weeks have been some of the hardest we’ve ever endured.
There were days when I thought I couldn’t watch her suffer anymore — when her tiny voice whispered, “Mommy, it hurts,” and I had no words, only tears.
And yet, somehow, in the middle of all this fear and exhaustion, there’s finally a little light shining through.
Because the chemotherapy — the endless, brutal chemotherapy — is working.
The tumor has shrunk.
Her bone marrow is clear.
And soon, my little girl will face her next big step — surgery.
I am terrified.
Terrified of what could happen, of what the doctors might find, of what she might have to endure next.
But I know this is the path we must take.
It’s the only way forward — the only way to keep her alive.
Every day of treatment is a war.
Noemi’s body is covered in tiny bruises from injections.
Her once strong, rosy face is now pale and tired.
Steroids make her fragile bones ache, and her little teeth are starting to decay.
Her blood counts drop so often that she needs frequent transfusions just to keep her strength up.
There are times when she’s too weak to sit up, too tired to play, too sick to smile.
And yet, she keeps fighting.
With every breath.
With every heartbeat.
She faces each needle, each bandage, each dose of medicine with more courage than I’ve ever seen in anyone.
When the nurses come to change her dressings — an agonizing process that would make most adults cry — she squeezes my hand, looks up at me with tear-filled eyes, and whispers, “I’m okay, Mommy. Don’t cry.”
She’s three years old.
Three.
And somehow, she’s the strongest person I know.
Recently, Noemi had to undergo a series of painful tests to see if a stem cell transplant could be possible.
The doctors had to surgically insert a catheter into her femoral vein.
She was scared, trembling, her tiny body shaking as they prepared her for anesthesia.
I held her hand until she drifted off, whispering over and over, “Mommy’s here. I won’t leave you.”
The waiting was unbearable.
Every minute felt like an hour.
But when the doctors finally came out, there was good news — news that made every tear worth it.
Her blood contained enough stem cells for an autologous transplant — meaning her own cells could be used.
It’s rare. It’s precious.
It means she has a real chance to keep fighting.
We are home now for a few days, trying to rest, trying to feel normal before the next round begins.
She sits on the couch, wrapped in her favorite pink blanket, clutching her stuffed bunny.
For a moment, she looks like any other little girl.
But I can still see the fatigue in her eyes, the way her hands shake when she reaches for her cup, the way she winces when she moves too fast.
These quiet moments — the few we get together at home — are everything to us.
They remind us of what we’re fighting for: her laughter, her freedom, her future.
But the road ahead is still long.
After surgery, Noemi will face more chemotherapy, more hospital stays, and one of the most important stages — the anti-relapse vaccine.
It’s a treatment that could prevent the cancer from coming back, giving her a real shot at life without fear.
But it’s incredibly expensive.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
We’ve already spent everything we have — every savings, every bit of help from family and friends.
And yet, the bills keep coming.
Every scan, every transfusion, every medication — it all costs more than we can afford.
I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much longer we can keep going.
How much longer we can fight before the money runs out.
Because in this battle, running out of money means running out of time.
But I can’t — I won’t — give up.
Not when my little girl still wakes up every morning and says, “Mommy, can I draw today?”
Not when she still smiles, still dreams, still wants to live.
She deserves the world.
She deserves a childhood filled with laughter, not hospital walls.
She deserves to grow up, to run, to learn, to love.
And that’s why I’m asking — begging — for your help.
Because no parent should have to watch their child fade away simply because they can’t afford the next step in treatment.
Every donation, every share, every kind word makes a difference.
Every bit of support gives us one more day, one more chance, one more reason to keep believing.
To everyone who has already helped us — thank you.
You are part of Noemi’s fight now.
Your compassion is what keeps her story going.
And to those reading this for the first time — please, join us.
Help us give this brave little girl the chance to live the life she was meant to have.
Help us turn fear into hope, pain into healing, and struggle into survival.
Because right now, somewhere in a small hospital room, a three-year-old girl is fighting with everything she has.
And with your help — she can win.
