“Twice Broken, Still Fighting — Timofii’s Battle Against Leukemia”.2315
There are moments that divide life into a before and an after.
For us, that moment was March 20, 2017 — the day our world collapsed.
The day we were told that our two-year-old son,
I remember standing in that sterile hospital room, staring at the doctor’s lips as the words fell out, but not really hearing them.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
I died quietly inside.
From that moment on, nothing else mattered — not work, not plans, not dreams.
Only one thing: saving our child.
The first months were a blur of fear, exhaustion, and endless hospital corridors.
Our little boy, barely tall enough to reach the bedrail, endured treatments that would break even an adult.
Rounds of chemotherapy.
Needles.
Transfusions.
Scans.
Days and nights filled with machines beeping softly in the background — the soundtrack of every parent’s nightmare.
And yet, through it all, Timofii never gave up.
Even when his tiny body was weak and his veins were bruised, he smiled.
Even when he lost his hair, he would tell the nurses, “It’s okay, it will grow back.”
He fought like a warrior — brave, gentle, unstoppable.
After a year of grueling treatment, something extraordinary happened: remission.
The cancer retreated.
We finally heard the words we had been praying for — “He can go home.”
That day felt like the first breath after drowning.
We laughed, we cried, we hugged every nurse and doctor who had cared for him.
For the first time in a long time, we dared to dream again.
Life slowly returned to something close to normal.
Timofii went to school.
He fell in love with dinosaurs and books.
He made friends, laughed easily, and ran through the yard like any healthy boy.
For a few beautiful years, we lived as a family again — whole, happy, and free.
But cancer is cruel.
It hides.
It waits.
And sometimes, it comes back.
On October 23, our nightmare returned.
One phone call, one sentence, and everything fell apart again.
Relapse.
The leukemia was back — this time, stronger and more aggressive.
All the familiar feelings came rushing in: the fear, the helplessness, the heartbreak.
But this time, it was worse.
The treatment wasn’t working.
His condition deteriorated rapidly.
Swelling in the brain.
Uncontrollable pain.
Doctors whispered words like “critical,” “unstable,” “prepare for the worst.”
Our boy — our beautiful, kind, curious boy — was standing once again on the edge of life and death.
Desperate, we searched the world for hope.
And we found it — in a specialized clinic in
We packed our bags, left everything behind, and flew out on December 16.
It was our only chance.
The next months were hell.
Five cycles of chemotherapy.
A transplant that almost took his life.
For nearly four months, Timofii lay in bed, unable to move, connected to IV lines twenty-four hours a day.
There were moments when his heart rate dropped, when his breathing slowed, when I thought I would lose him forever.
But he didn’t give up.
He fought.
He always fights.
Slowly, miraculously, his strength began to return.
He took his first steps again, small and shaky, but full of determination.
We allowed ourselves to believe that maybe — just maybe — the worst was finally behind us.
I started dreaming of the day I would hear the words: “Timofii is healthy.”
But fate wasn’t finished testing us.
A few weeks ago, the blood tests began to show irregularities.
His platelets dropped dangerously low, and bilirubin — the measure of his liver function — began to rise.
Then came the bleeding.
We rushed him back to the hospital, fearing another relapse.
What we heard next felt like a cruel joke from the universe.
A new diagnosis: microangiopathic hemolytic anemia — a rare and severe condition where red blood cells are destroyed within days instead of months.
Imagine that.
The very cells that carry oxygen through his body — that keep him alive — are dying too quickly.
Without them, his organs begin to starve, his body weakens, his strength fades.
Now, every day, he receives blood components and medication to stabilize him.
He undergoes photopheresis, a blood purification procedure meant to restore oxygen to his tissues.
It’s his only hope — but it’s painfully expensive.
The clinic has sent us a bill for over 50,000 dollars.
We don’t have that kind of money.
After two years of living abroad for treatment, we’ve sold everything we could.
We’re emotionally and financially drained, but we can’t give up.
Because Timofii hasn’t given up.
Because he still wakes up every morning, smiles at us, and whispers, “I’m going to get better, Mom.”
He dreams of going home — of sleeping in his own bed, playing with his friends, and going back to school.
He talks about dinosaurs again, about wanting to become a paleontologist one day.
He talks about life.
And that’s what we’re fighting for — life.
We’re asking — begging — for help.
For kindness.
For hope.
Every dollar, every message, every prayer helps us keep fighting for our son.
The costs are overwhelming, but the alternative — losing him — is unthinkable.
He’s already beaten leukemia once.
He can do it again — if only we can afford to keep going.
Please, don’t let money be the reason his fight ends.
Please, help us give Timofii the chance to live, to laugh, to grow.
He’s only nine years old.
He’s already survived the unthinkable twice.
He’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.
But even the strongest child can’t fight alone.
💛 From the bottom of our hearts — thank you.
For standing beside us.
For believing in miracles.
For helping us fight this war that never seems to end.
Because one day soon, I want to hold my son’s hand and hear those words again —
“He’s healthy. He’s free.”
“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.
