My Marysia was born at just 23 weeks of pregnancy. She weighed only 610 grams — barely more than half a bag of sugar. From the very first seconds of her life, nothing was as it should have been. She did not land in my arms, warm and crying, but was rushed straight from the delivery room to a hospital in Gorzów, fighting for survival. She was connected to a respirator, her tiny chest rising only because a machine allowed it. Doctors told me she had suffered a brain hemorrhage. Soon after, it became clear that her fragile body was also battling a dangerous bacterial infection, one that was extremely difficult to treat. My daughter’s life had barely begun, and already it was hanging by a thread. No words can truly describe the fear, despair, and helplessness I felt in those moments.
More than eight years have passed since that day, yet Marysia’s childhood is still defined not by carefree laughter, but by struggle. Her life has been shaped by suffering and constant medical battles. She lives with quadriplegia, which limits her ability to move and control her body. She has polycystic kidney disease, and doctors warn us that one day she may need a kidney transplant. She also suffers from severe vision problems — myopia and nystagmus — which distort her view of the world. In 2021, our already heavy burden grew even heavier when Marysia was diagnosed with symptomatic epilepsy, including complex epilepsy syndromes that cause unpredictable and exhausting seizures.
Marysia does not walk. She does not speak. She depends on help for nearly every daily activity. Each day requires patience, physical strength, and emotional endurance — not only from her, but from everyone who loves her. While other children run, play, and discover independence, my daughter experiences the world from a place of limitation, pain, and dependence. And yet, she is here. She is alive. And that alone feels like a small miracle.
Life, however, has not been kind to our family. I don’t want to complain, but the truth is that I am reaching my limits. We live in a small village called Gilów, in an old building that once belonged to a state-owned farm. The house is completely unadapted to the needs of a disabled child. There is no wheelchair ramp. Moving Marysia in and out of the house is a daily physical struggle. Even inside, maneuvering a wheelchair is difficult. Adding to this, my disabled mother — Marysia’s grandmother — lives with us and requires round-the-clock care. Our home is heated by a wood-burning stove in the kitchen, which means constant work just to keep the house warm in winter.
Despite all of this, we try to move forward. But there are limits to what love and determination alone can achieve.
We simply cannot afford the specialized equipment and rehabilitation that Marysia desperately needs to improve her quality of life. Our home does not allow for proper rehabilitation exercises. Even basic therapy is a challenge. We dream of rehabilitation camps that could give Marysia a chance to strengthen her body, reduce stiffness, and experience a better quality of life — even if only for a short time. She urgently needs a standing frame, which would help prevent further deformities and allow her to experience the world from a vertical position. We also need a specialized feeding chair that would make daily care safer and more comfortable for her.
The total cost of these needs is approximately 60,000 złoty. For our family, this amount is unimaginable.
As a mother, it breaks my heart to admit that I can’t manage anymore. I am doing everything in my power to care for my precious child, but I’ve hit a wall — financially, physically, emotionally. Asking for help is incredibly difficult for me. I feel ashamed. I always believed I should manage on my own. But the reality is that I have no other choice.
So today, I am asking — not for myself, but for Marysia.
Please don’t leave my daughter alone in this fight. Every day feels heavier than the last. Every small gesture of support matters more than you might imagine. Even the smallest act of kindness can bring hope where exhaustion has taken over. With your help, Marysia could receive better care, better positioning, better comfort. She could gain a little more independence, a little more dignity, and a little more joy in her life.
I want my daughter to have a chance at a better tomorrow. I want her to experience childhood not only through suffering, but also through moments of comfort and care. She deserves that chance — just like any other child.
Thank you for opening your hearts.
Magdalena, Marysia’s mother
