“Sasha’s Last Breath: Held in Love Until the Very End”.2296
Sasha — The Light That Wouldn’t Go Out 🕊️💛
This morning, the world stood still.
Our sweet, extraordinary Sasha took her last breath — wrapped in our arms, held by the hands that had loved her through every battle.
She looked at us, whispered for us to hold her tight — and then tighter — and we did, until her chest rose one final time.
And just like that, the bravest heart we have ever known was still.
The silence that followed was deafening.
It felt as if the world itself had stopped breathing with her.
The air in the room turned heavy, pressing down on our chests until every heartbeat hurt.
Walking out of that hospital without her — leaving her physical body behind — felt impossible.Every instinct screamed that she was still there waiting for us, that somehow, if we turned around, she would still be smiling, still calling our names.
After her soul left her body, we stayed beside her.
We lay next to her as her small frame began to change, still warm, still our baby.
We stayed through every minute we were allowed, holding her until the moment she had to be prepared — just to keep her close a little longer.
It was the last thing we could give her — our presence, our love, our hands refusing to let go.
Sasha had told us to fight — with everything we had, with every tool, every ounce of hope, every breath.
And we did.
We fought like warriors because that’s what she asked of us.
Chemotherapy.
New immunotherapy.
Integrative medicine.
Every option, every trial, every treatment that promised even a sliver of time — we took it.
But within days, her tumors grew.
We shifted course again — to a new targeted immunotherapy, and two new chemotherapies.
We held our breath, praying this time would be different.
But within a week, new scans came back — and the words that followed shattered us.
More tumors.
On her liver.
On her kidneys.
On her pancreas.
And her lymphatic system — spreading, wrapping tightly around her lungs, slowly squeezing them closed.
We watched the numbers on the monitor rise, her CO₂ climbing higher each day as her lungs struggled to keep up.
And then, something miraculous happened.
Her body, her brain — the same one that had endured so much pain — began to protect her.
As her CO₂ rose, her brain gently carried her away from the agony, away from the fear.
It shielded her from pain.
For the last week of her life, our girl felt none of it.
She came off almost all pain medications, resting peacefully, breathing softly.
And of all the ways we could have lost her, this — this gentle fading — was a mercy we didn’t know to hope for.
After all the nights of screams and tears and helplessness, we were blessed with a passing that was peaceful.
A release.
A soft goodbye after so many days of excruciating pain.
and will always be — a miracle wrapped in fragility.
Her body was delicate, but her spirit… her spirit could move mountains.
She smiled through pain.
She laughed through exhaustion.
She comforted us when we should have been comforting her.
There was something eternal in her — something too radiant for this earth.
Our children — all of them who walk this road — are the fiercest warriors the world will ever know.
They carry strength that adults can’t even begin to comprehend.
They endure what should break them, and somehow, they shine brighter through the cracks.
Sasha taught us that the soul’s strength knows no limit — that love can exist even in suffering, that courage can live in the smallest body.
But oh, how it hurts to live in a world without her.
There are no words to describe the sound of her absence.
The house feels too quiet, too hollow.
Her laughter still echoes in corners, her voice lingers in the air like music we can’t quite turn off.
We keep expecting to hear her call from the hallway, to see her peek around the corner with that mischievous grin.
Instead, there is silence — and an ache that fills every inch of space she once occupied.
And yet, even through this unbearable grief, a new fire burns inside us.
Because watching what Sasha endured — the treatments, the side effects, the limitations of therapies created in the 1950s — makes us realize something bigger.
It makes us angry.
It makes us ache for change.
Our children deserve better.
They deserve modern, targeted, compassionate medicine — not recycled protocols older than their grandparents.
If Sasha’s story can light even the smallest spark for progress, then her light will never go out.
Oh, my baby girl…
How do I keep breathing without you?
The clock no longer keeps time; it only measures the distance between us.
Every minute feels like a mile, every hour another reminder that you’re not here.I will count them all — every second — until the moment I see you again.
Until I can hold you tight — and then tighter — just like you asked me to.
You were love, in its purest form.
You were grace, strength, and laughter all wrapped into one small, shining soul.
And though your body is gone, your light — your beautiful, unstoppable light — will keep burning in every life you’ve touched.
Rest easy, my brave girl.
You fought harder than anyone should ever have to.
And now, you are free.
Until we meet again, Sasha.
We’ll keep fighting for you.
We’ll keep loving you.
And we’ll keep counting the minutes — until forever meets us again. 🕊️💛
"Lada’s Fight for Life: A Brave Three-Year-Old".2132
Lada’s Fight for Life
There are moments in life when the ground beneath your feet disappears, when fear becomes the air you breathe, and when every heartbeat of your child feels like a fragile miracle you are desperate to protect. For us, this moment came when we were told that our sweet little girl, Lada, only three years old, was fighting for her life.
From the very beginning, nothing about this journey has been easy. Since our arrival in Israel, Lada has already endured three cycles of aggressive chemotherapy. Each one has been like a storm sweeping through her tiny body, leaving her weaker, more fragile, and drained of strength. Her blood counts dropped so low that she needed not one, not two, but nine separate transfusions of platelets and blood just to keep her going. Imagine a child so small, already hooked up to tubes and machines, receiving life from others in order to survive. It is a reality no parent should ever witness, and yet it has become our everyday.
We are living through the hardest days of our lives. Never in our darkest nightmares could we have imagined that we would be fighting this kind of battle for our child’s very survival. Lada is only three years old — just a toddler — and yet she has endured more suffering than many adults face in a lifetime.
On August 27th, our world stood still again. That was the day of Lada’s surgery — a resection to remove the tumor lodged in her left buttock. The operation was complex and delicate. It involved muscle and nerve tissue, which meant the surgeons had to be extremely careful, step by step, to avoid long-term damage. We were terrified. We sat in the waiting room for hours, praying, crying, begging for the strength to hear whatever news the doctors would bring.
By God’s grace, the surgery went as planned. The tumor was removed, and the doctors managed to preserve most of the muscle. When we first heard the words, we could finally breathe again, if only for a moment. But the relief was mixed with sorrow. Our little girl was in pain, and we knew this was just one chapter of a very long and painful story.
The first day after surgery, Lada could hardly move. She lay still, heavily medicated with strong painkillers, her little face pale and tired. Seeing her that way broke us. But on the second day, despite the tears and the sharp pain that coursed through her tiny leg, she began to move little by little. Each step, each attempt to lift herself up, was an act of bravery that humbled us as her parents. The doctors reminded us that even though part of her muscle had been removed, it was essential for her to keep moving, to exercise, to rebuild her strength. And so, with trembling hands and tear-filled eyes, she tried.
We have learned something powerful through all this: children carry a resilience that defies understanding. Though she fears the pain, though she cries out when her leg aches, Lada keeps fighting. She faces each new day with a courage far greater than her age. And we, in turn, find our strength in her.
Now, we wait. In two weeks, we will receive the histopathological results from her surgery. Those results will determine the next steps of treatment, the next path we must walk. For now, the treatment protocol outlines four additional rounds of chemotherapy, eight sessions of radiation, and then a long course of maintenance therapy. If all goes according to plan, this means another eight months of fighting — eight months of hospitals, procedures, and the constant shadow of uncertainty.
But here is the part that keeps us awake at night: this plan only works if we can afford it.
We gave everything — every resource we had, every savings, every ounce of security — just to come here, just to begin this fight for Lada’s life. And now, as we stand in the middle of her treatment, we are running out of means. The costs of hospital stays, surgeries, medications, and therapies are overwhelming. Without continued financial support, we cannot keep paying for the care that is keeping our little girl alive. And that is the most terrifying truth we face: that our daughter’s future might not be determined by medicine or miracles, but by money.
The thought of losing her — not because her illness cannot be treated, but because we cannot afford the treatment — is unbearable. It is a nightmare that haunts us every single day. We cannot allow it to happen. We cannot lose her.
That is why we are here, humbly and desperately, asking for your help.
Please, if you are reading this, know that even the smallest contribution matters. Every donation, every act of kindness, every shared word of support carries us further down this road. Each euro, each dollar, each coin you give is not just money — it is time, it is hope, it is life. It is the chance for Lada to grow, to laugh again, to live without pain.
We know times are hard. We know there is so much suffering in the world. And yet, we also know that goodness exists — that people, even strangers, can come together to save a child’s life. We have already witnessed it. We have already felt it. And we believe, with all our hearts, that it can happen again.
Lada is only three years old. She should be playing with toys, drawing with crayons, dancing clumsily in the living room, and falling asleep in the safety of our arms without fear of hospitals or needles. Instead, her childhood has been stolen by sickness, by treatments that hurt more than anyone should endure, by the endless cycle of procedures and recovery. But even so, she smiles. Even so, she whispers words of love. Even so, she shows us every day why this fight is worth everything.
We, her parents, cannot give up. We will never give up. But we cannot do it alone.
Please, stand with us. Please, help us carry this burden. Please, help us save our little girl.
One day, we hope to look back at this chapter and say: it was the hardest fight of our lives, but we won. One day, we hope to watch Lada run freely, her laughter ringing in the air, her childhood finally hers to enjoy. One day, we hope to tell her about the countless people who chose to help, who stood with her, who gave her a chance to live.
But that day can only come if we make it through today.
So, from the depths of our hearts, we ask: please, do not let money be the reason our daughter loses her chance. Please, help us keep fighting.
For Lada. For her life. For her tomorrow.
With gratitude, hope, and love,
Lada’s Parents
