“Oluś’s Journey: A Child’s Hope in the Face of Cancer”.2324
The Hospital Became Our Home: Help Us Save Oluś
We were so relieved to return home for a brief respite. The feeling of being back in familiar surroundings, even for just a short while, was a gift. But now, once again, we are back at the hospital. And every night, as I tuck my son in, he looks up at me with worried eyes and asks, “Mom, will everything be okay?” All I can do is reassure him, telling him that together we will defeat this monster.
It all began when Oluś, my precious boy, was rushed to the emergency room with severe stomach pain. What we thought would be a simple checkup turned into a nightmare. The doctors immediately decided that he would need a blood transfusion. After a few days, we were supposed to begin his next round of chemotherapy. But the fever and stomach pains threw everything off course, and our treatment plan was delayed once again.
The Battle Continues: A Mother's Heartache
Oluś could no longer eat anything on his own. The pain from feeding through a tube was unbearable, causing him to vomit constantly. It was heartbreaking to see my little boy struggle so much. The doctors made the difficult decision to start intravenous feeding through a port that had been placed in his chest. But even that came with its own challenges. We had to quickly resolve the inflammation that had developed in his body before we could proceed with the 6th cycle of chemotherapy.
Every day feels like a fight for survival. I watch as my son’s strength wanes, his energy slipping away with each passing hour. And yet, despite everything, there is a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. I can see that he’s growing up in ways I wish he didn’t have to. He knows the hospital is our temporary home, but that doesn’t make the constant pain, the endless treatments, and the never-ending uncertainty any easier to bear.
Oluś misses his normal life—his friends, the games he used to play, the laughter and joy that used to fill his days. He often asks me when he will be able to play again. My heart aches, and I’m left wondering how much more I can say. How can I explain that we don’t know? That we just have to keep fighting, hoping, and praying that the next day will be better?
A Mother's Worry: The Wait for Results
What worries me most is that we still haven’t received the results from the histopathological test. The uncertainty is unbearable. The waiting, the not knowing—it eats away at us. I try to stay strong for Oluś, but sometimes the fear of what the results may reveal is overwhelming. We’ve been here before—waiting for answers, hoping for good news, but knowing deep down that this battle will not be easy.
We’ve been in this fight for what feels like an eternity, but every day brings new challenges. The emotional toll on us as parents is unimaginable. But I can’t let Oluś see my fear. I have to keep going, for him. He’s the reason I get up every day, even when everything inside me wants to collapse.
The Importance of Your Support
Every bit of support we receive is a lifeline. The donations, the messages, the thoughts and prayers—they make all the difference. It’s easy to feel isolated in this fight, but knowing that there are people who care, people who are rooting for Oluś, makes us feel less alone. Each act of kindness, no matter how small, helps us keep going.
We know the road ahead is still long. The treatment is harsh, and the uncertainty is terrifying. But we have to hold on to hope. For Oluś. For his future. For his laughter. For his dreams. And with your help, we can continue to fight, to keep pushing forward, and to give him the chance he deserves.
Our Journey and the Battle Ahead
The hospital has become our second home, but it’s not the place we want to be. It’s not where we want to stay forever. Oluś longs for the day when he can leave this place behind, when he can run, play, and be a child again. But right now, we have to face this battle together. His fight is not just about surviving—it's about living, about fighting for the life he deserves.
We are still waiting for results. We are still waiting for the moment when we can say, “It’s over, you’re going to be okay.” But until then, we will keep fighting. We will keep moving forward, step by step, and together, we will defeat this.
Please, help us. Every bit of support means the world to us. We need your strength, your prayers, your hope. Together, we can give Oluś the future he deserves. Thank you for standing with us. Thank you for being part of this fight.
With your help, we will continue to fight for Oluś’s life, for his future, and for the joy he deserves to experience.
A Mother’s Promise
I will not give up. For my son, I will keep fighting, no matter how hard it gets. I will stay by his side through every moment of pain, every setback, and every victory. Because I know that if we stand together, we can overcome anything. Together, we will win this fight.
Please help us keep the hope alive for Oluś. Thank you.
Clear Scans, Unbearable Pain: The Paradox of Cancer Treatment.1485
I’ve come to see the full weight of how cancer therapies both heal—and harm—all at once.
The irony is cruel. The very medicines that save lives can also break the body piece by piece. The same treatments that give hope often demand unbearable sacrifices. In this paradox, we’ve been living day after day with Sasha.
Right now, her pain has spread to both sides of her jaw. It’s not the kind of pain you can explain away or mask with distractions. It’s a raw, relentless kind of pain, the kind that strips away everything until all that’s left is willpower—just sheer determination to get through the next breath, the next hour, the next night.
At first, we thought it was just a passing side effect. But when the swelling extended to the other side of her jaw, when her face grew tender to the touch, we knew we had to look deeper. And all signs pointed to her medication—Cabo.
Cabo isn’t just another pill. It’s a potent anti-cancer therapy, one of the most advanced weapons in the arsenal. Its design is brilliant in its simplicity: cut off the blood supply that tumors depend on. Starve them so they cannot grow.
And for Sasha, it has worked. Her scans remain clear—beautifully, miraculously clear. No visible disease. Every clean scan is a victory, a moment where we exhale after holding our breath for weeks.
We celebrate those scans fiercely. We cling to them. We replay the words “no visible disease” in our minds like a hymn of survival.
They remind us why we fight, why she endures, why every painful injection, every nauseating infusion, every sleepless night is worth it.
But the truth we cannot escape is this: cancer medicine rarely fights gently.
Cabo has been powerful, yes, but not selective. And so, while it starves the cancer, it also starves other parts of the body—nerves, tissues, cells that aren’t the enemy but get caught in the crossfire.
When nerves lose oxygen, when they are deprived of blood and nourishment, they don’t just fade quietly. They scream.
That’s what we’re seeing now. The screaming of nerves, the aching of bone, the swelling that mocks us with its persistence.
So we’ve made a hard choice. We’ve decided to pause Cabo. Not because it failed—it didn’t. It did its job. But because we are listening—to her body, to her pain, to the biology that is telling us something has to shift.
This is the rhythm of cancer treatment. It’s never a straight path. It’s not a simple “one drug until the end” story.
It’s a constant pivot, a dance of strategy where you trade one weapon for another, always weighing benefit against cost, hope against harm.
For Sasha, the next step is Ifosfamide. High-dose chemotherapy, designed to attack any cancer cells that may still lurk unseen, hidden beyond the reach of scans.
It’s a heavy-hitting drug, one that comes with its own price tag of side effects. But right now, it gives her body a break from Cabo while still pressing forward in the fight.
And so, we pivot. We brace ourselves for another round of chemo, another wave of challenges, another recalibration of what “normal” means in our household.
In the meantime, we wait. We manage. We breathe through the hours. We hold tightly to each small moment of relief, each stretch of laughter, each glimpse of Sasha’s smile.
We’ve learned that waiting is its own kind of endurance. It’s not passive. It’s active—full of small, deliberate choices.
Choosing to soothe her pain in every way possible. Choosing to focus on the beauty of a clear scan instead of the cruelty of swollen nerves. Choosing to see not just what’s been taken, but what remains.
Because healing is not linear. We’ve repeated this truth to ourselves over and over again, until it’s etched into our bones.
Healing is a winding road, a messy journey. It rarely looks like progress on a chart. Sometimes, it demands letting go of one tool in order to reach for another. Sometimes it demands surrender—not to the disease, but to the process of shifting strategies and trusting that science and faith will carry us forward.
Through it all, we celebrate.
We celebrate the victories that still shine brightly in the dark. We celebrate clear scans—the evidence that cancer has been pushed back, that Sasha’s body is still fighting, that the medicine has done its work.
We celebrate the strength in her eyes, eyes that tell us she is not giving up, not even for a moment.
We celebrate the community that surrounds us, the circle of people who carry us when we feel like we cannot take another step.
The prayers whispered in the quiet, the messages that show up at just the right time, the meals dropped off, the shoulders offered—these are not small things. They are the very scaffolding holding us up.
And perhaps most of all, we celebrate the belief that even in pain, there is purpose. Pain is not meaningless
. It shapes us, deepens us, forces us to see what matters. It strips away the unnecessary and leaves behind the essential: love, faith, and the determination to endure.
This is where we are. A family caught between the blessing of clear scans and the burden of relentless side effects. A child whose laughter breaks through her pain, reminding us what resilience looks like in its purest form.
A journey that demands both strategy and surrender, both science and spirit.
The world may see only the harsh edges—the swelling jaw, the endless pills, the hospital corridors. But we also see the light that cuts through.
The way Sasha reaches for a hand when the pain spikes. The way she smiles when someone makes her laugh. The way her eyes shine, fierce and unyielding, even when her body feels weak.
These are not small things. These are miracles in motion.
So we move forward, day by day. Not unscarred. Not untouched. But still here, still fighting, still celebrating.
Because cancer may take much, but it cannot take everything. It cannot take love. It cannot take faith. And it cannot take the fire in Sasha’s spirit that refuses to be extinguished.
And so, we press on. Holding to hope. Trusting in science. Leaning on community. Resting in faith.
Healing may not be linear. But it is happening—moment by moment, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat. And with Sasha, we will walk this road as long as it takes.
