I am almost 80 years old, and for nearly four decades, my life has revolved around one mission: keeping my daughter, Monika, alive and as comfortable as possible. She is 35 now, but her journey has been defined by struggle since the first week of her life. Born frail, she survived sepsis in those early days, a cruel twist of fate that set the stage for a lifetime of medical battles.

Monika never spoke. She never walked. She never had the independence that most of us take for granted. Her world is confined to a bed, a small room, and the constant presence of caregivers. She has no logical verbal communication, requires round-the-clock care, and suffers from epilepsy. Every seizure, every spasm, every involuntary twitch is a reminder of how fragile her body is, and how relentless this disease is.

For decades, I shared her care with my late wife. We learned every nuance of her needs, every signal she could give, every subtle indication of pain or discomfort. But now, I am alone. My body grows older, my strength wanes, and the weight of her care feels heavier with each passing day.

Monika’s body is a battlefield. She is permanently dependent on a PEG tube for nutrition and carries a stoma bag to manage waste. Her muscles are stiff, twisted by spasticity. Her spine is deformed, bent into extreme “C” and “S” curves, making simple movements agonizing. Even a minor shift can trigger sharp pain. Every day, I struggle to keep her comfortable, to move her safely, to maintain her hygiene without causing further suffering.

Despite her condition, Monika is alive, resilient, and present. Every small sign — a blink, a twitch, a fleeting smile — is a victory. But these moments of life and awareness come at a tremendous cost. Rehabilitation is essential to prevent her body from deteriorating further, to relieve her constant pain, and to maintain the tiny fragments of mobility she has.

The truth is harsh: I cannot do this alone. My body is tired, my joints ache, and my own health is fragile. Yet, every morning, I rise to face the day because Monika depends on me. Every therapy session missed is another moment of suffering. Every day without proper care risks undoing years of struggle.

Monika suffers from relentless epilepsy. Seizures strike without warning, locking her muscles, shaking her frail body, and sometimes threatening her breathing. I have spent countless nights holding her, powerless to stop the spasms, praying she will come through another day. Each episode leaves me physically exhausted and emotionally drained, yet I cannot leave her side.

Over the years, we have faced hospital after hospital, specialist after specialist. Each appointment is a journey of hope and fear. Every intervention — a therapy, a medicine, a new procedure — is a lifeline. And yet, the cost is staggering. Years of out-of-pocket expenses, specialized medical equipment, therapy sessions, and daily care have pushed our family to the brink.

Monika has never known the freedom of childhood. She has never run in a park, laughed freely, or learned to feed herself. But she has small victories that mean the world. A head lifted to acknowledge me, a hand that moves slightly, a blink that tells me she is aware. These fragments of life are precious, but fragile. They require constant support and care to maintain.

I am asking for help, not for myself, but for Monika. The resources needed to continue her rehabilitation, to provide specialized equipment, and to maintain her care are beyond what I can manage alone. Every contribution is not just a donation — it is hope, relief, and life itself.

I have spent almost 40 years dedicated to my daughter. I have given everything I can physically, emotionally, and financially. But my strength is fading. I need the generosity of others to ensure she can continue to live with dignity and as much comfort as possible.

Every day is a fight against time. The longer Monika goes without intensive care, the more severe her deformities become. Her pain increases. Her potential for small progress diminishes. This is not just a matter of comfort — it is a matter of life, of preserving what humanity she has and the ability to experience even the smallest joys of existence.

Monika deserves a chance at life with dignity. She deserves to be comfortable, to avoid the unnecessary suffering caused by her body’s condition, and to maintain whatever mobility and awareness she can. Her life, as confined and challenging as it is, holds meaning and value that cannot be measured by health statistics alone.

I cannot turn back time, and I cannot make her body heal on its own. But with support, we can provide her the care she needs. Every therapy session, every specialized device, every medication counts. Each one keeps her alive, eases her pain, and preserves her dignity.

I am almost 80, and I am human. I cannot do this forever. My hands ache, my back hurts, and I fear the day I may not be able to care for her. I worry constantly about what will happen if I fall ill. Monika cannot be left alone; she cannot survive without round-the-clock care.

That is why I am reaching out. To you. To strangers. To anyone who can see the fight, the struggle, the life in front of them and feel compelled to act. Your support is not charity — it is lifesaving. It is the difference between days filled with pain and nights spent in agony, versus days of managed comfort and monitored care.

Monika has given me purpose, endurance, and lessons in love and patience that I could never have imagined. She has survived so much, yet her life is still threatened by pain, neglect, and the limitations of my aging body. We need help to sustain her, to continue her rehabilitation, to maintain the equipment that keeps her alive, and to ensure that she continues to experience even the smallest fragments of life that make it worth living.

Every donation, every share, every moment of attention helps. It is a gesture that transcends money. It is a gesture that says: “We see her. We see her struggle. We care.” And for Monika, that makes all the difference.

I am asking for your help today. Not tomorrow, not when it is convenient — today. Because every day without care is a day of pain, a day of risk, a day lost. For nearly 40 years, I have fought alone. Now, I ask you to join me in this fight.

Monika is my daughter. She is my life. She is my heart. She deserves a chance at dignity, comfort, and the smallest measures of freedom that her condition allows. She deserves to feel the warmth of care, the assurance of safety, and the touch of humanity.

Please, help us continue the fight. Support Monika. Stand with us. Give her the chance to live with dignity, to feel comfort, and to know love. Because without your help, I cannot do this alone. And without this support, she cannot survive with the life she deserves.

Every gesture counts. Every share counts. Every donation counts. And every act of kindness brings Monika closer to the care and comfort she has earned through decades of struggle and resilience.

She is my daughter. She is my heart. And now, more than ever, she needs you.

— Her Father