My name is Czarek, and for a brief moment after I was born, everything seemed normal. I arrived in this world like any other baby — healthy, pink, and full of promise. My parents believed that after months of waiting, fear, and hope, they could finally breathe. But just two hours later, their world collapsed.
Doctors discovered that my heart was missing its left ventricle — the chamber responsible for pumping oxygenated blood to the entire body. It was a diagnosis so rare that only about half a percent of babies are born with this condition. Within moments, the room filled with urgency. I was rushed away, transported to a clinical hospital where specialists fought to keep me alive. No one knew if I would survive the night.
My dad arrived just in time to see me. He stood beside my incubator knowing that this might be the only chance he would ever have to look at his son. Everyone believed I wouldn’t live until morning. My mom, meanwhile, was trapped in another hospital, unable to reach me. While other mothers held their newborns close, kissed their tiny fingers, and whispered lullabies, she cried alone — separated from her baby when he needed her most.
A healthy human heart is about the size of a clenched fist. Mine was smaller than that, fragile, brand new — and already failing. Before I had time to learn what the world was, I was taken into surgery. My first heart operation happened before I could even understand pain, yet my body felt it deeply.
After the surgery, I was finally allowed to go home. But “home” did not mean safety. My parents lived in constant fear. They took turns watching me day and night, barely sleeping, checking every breath, listening to every sound, watching the machines connected to my tiny body. They learned what every beep meant, what every silence could signal.
Then came the night that still haunts them.
An alarm pierced the quiet darkness. The monitor screamed. When my parents reached me, I wasn’t breathing. My skin had turned blue. Time stopped. Fear took over. They called for help with shaking hands, praying they wouldn’t lose me in their arms. By some miracle, the ambulance arrived in time. The paramedics acted fast. Because of them, I am still alive today.
But my journey didn’t stop there.
At just ten months old, I faced another open-heart surgery. Nearly half of my tiny torso was cut open. I screamed in pain, and my mother cried with me. Every bath hurt. Every diaper change felt unbearable. Dressing and undressing me was torture — not only for my body, but for my parents’ hearts. My mom whispered through tears that the pain would pass, that I was brave, that I had to keep fighting.
And so I did.
I fight because I have to. I fight because every minute I stay alive is a victory. My mother gave up her own life to care for me — every hour, every breath, every ounce of strength devoted to keeping me alive. My family has given me everything they have: their time, their love, their hearts. But love alone cannot buy medication. Love cannot replace rehabilitation, equipment, and specialized medical care.
I urgently need medicines to support my fragile heart. I need rehabilitation to help my body grow stronger. I need specialized equipment that allows me to survive day to day. Without these things, my future is uncertain. Every delay is dangerous. Every missed treatment carries a risk my heart may not survive.
I am still so small, but I have already fought battles that many adults never face. I have endured pain, surgeries, fear, and moments when life almost slipped away. Yet I am here. Breathing. Fighting. Holding on.
They say that a single drop of water can wear away stone. That even the smallest help matters. For me, that is not just a saying — it is the truth. Every act of kindness, every donation, every shared story gives me another chance. Another heartbeat. Another tomorrow.
Please help me live.
My name is Czarek. I was born with half a heart — but I am fighting with all of it.