The moment the word cancer left the doctor’s lips, time stopped.
I remember the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, the room spinning as if the world itself had cracked open beneath my feet. Tears streamed down my face before I even understood what was happening. All I could think was this: I need to take my son and run. I need to protect him. I need to make this disappear.
But you cannot run from cancer.
My son Maksym—my little boy, my only child—was suddenly fighting a disease no child should ever face. In that instant, life lost all meaning. The future I had imagined for him vanished. Birthdays, school days, laughter, dreams—everything felt fragile, like glass about to shatter.
Maksym was always full of life. He laughed easily, loved to play, and filled our home with warmth. That is why the first signs didn’t alarm me. It began with a slight pain in his legs, a weakness that appeared mostly at night. Like any mother, I assumed it was nothing serious—perhaps he had fallen while playing, perhaps growing pains. Children are always running, jumping, falling.
Still, something felt wrong.
I took him to the hospital, searching for reassurance. The doctor examined him and told us he was fine. We went home, trying to believe those words. But the pain did not disappear. It returned stronger, deeper, more persistent. Maksym cried at night. I lay awake beside him, listening to his breathing, my heart filled with fear I couldn’t explain.
I knew we had to try again.
We went to another hospital in Kyiv. More tests. More waiting. More silence. When the doctors finally spoke, their faces told me everything before their words did. I walked out into the hallway, saw my son sitting there waiting for me, and collapsed into tears.
They said he had a tumor.
The days that followed were unbearable. We waited for biopsy results, clinging to the fragile hope that there had been a mistake. That hope died on October 21, 2018.
Maksym was diagnosed with stage IV Ewing’s sarcoma. The cancer had already spread. Metastases were found in the sacrum of his spine. The tumor was inoperable. Doctors told us the truth no parent wants to hear: in Ukraine, they could only offer treatment to prolong his life—not save it.
I felt like my heart had been torn out of my chest.
Still, I refused to give up.
Maksym endured 15 rounds of chemotherapy and 30 sessions of radiotherapy. His small body suffered through pain, nausea, weakness, and exhaustion. Each hospital visit felt like walking into a battlefield. I watched my child grow thinner, quieter, weaker—and yet, he kept fighting.
I held his hand during treatments. I smiled when he smiled. I cried when he slept.
But despite everything, the tumor continued to grow.
That was the moment I knew we had to leave our country to save him. I searched endlessly for clinics abroad, reading stories, sending messages, begging for help. Finally, we received an answer from the Memorial Clinic in Turkey. They agreed to treat Maksym. For the first time in years, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. The cost, however, was overwhelming—far beyond anything we could afford. And then something extraordinary happened. People we had never met opened their hearts. Strangers donated. They shared our story. They believed in my son.
Because of them, Maksym is alive today.
On July 15, 2021, he began a new treatment plan in Turkey: 12 cycles of chemotherapy followed by a stem cell transplant. This treatment was our last and best chance.
The journey has been incredibly hard.
After each cycle, Maksym’s condition worsens. His immune system collapses. Infections appear. Unexpected complications force long hospital stays. Sometimes he is too weak to stand. Sometimes he cries quietly, trying not to scare me.
But even in his pain, he is brave.
He smiles at the nurses. He jokes when he can. He tells me he will be okay—as if he is the one comforting me. His strength is something I cannot put into words. He fights not just for himself, but for our future together.
Today, doctors say the words I once thought I would never hear: the cancer is almost gone.
Almost.
There is still a small part remaining. To eliminate it completely and prevent relapse, Maksym must finish two final chemotherapy cycles and the stem cell transplant. These final steps are critical. Without them, everything we have fought for could be lost.
But the costs have increased. Unexpected hospitalizations, complications, and medications have drained every resource we had. A new bill has arrived, and I am terrified.
We cannot continue alone.
Stopping now would mean risking my son’s life when we are so close to saving it. As a mother, I cannot accept that. I will not accept that.
Maksym is not just a patient. He is a child who loves life. He deserves a future without hospital walls, without needles, without fear. He deserves to grow, to laugh, to dream, to live.
I am asking—begging—for help.