Dear Donors,
I want to share new and hopeful information about my son’s health, and at the same time speak to you from the deepest place in a mother’s heart. Thanks to your support, we have completed the main stage of treatment at a clinic in Istanbul. Our oncologist has now prescribed medications to help maintain remission, and for the first time in a very long while, we are cautiously breathing again.
Today, my son needs constant monitoring to stay alive and safe. Every month he must undergo blood tests, and every three months we travel back to the clinic in Turkey for detailed consultations with specialists. These visits are not optional. They are essential to make sure leukemia does not return, because this disease never truly lets go without a fight.
My son has regained his former energy. He has more strength, his hair has grown back, and life has returned to his eyes. Every time I see his smile now, my heart trembles as I remember the cruel moments when tears of pain streamed down his face, when he could barely endure another injection or another day of chemotherapy.
I know with absolute certainty that I must do everything in my power to prevent the leukemia from coming back. I am endlessly grateful to every person who has helped us reach this point. It is thanks to you that my son is alive today. Unfortunately, funds are still urgently needed to pay for essential tests, medications, and repeated travel to the clinic.
I am begging you with all my heart—please don’t leave us now. My child still needs treatment in order to live.
My son, Muslim, is nine years old. I dreamed of his birth and imagined a happy, peaceful future for us. I never thought our lives would be reduced to fighting for each day, each breath, and each blood result. I am raising him alone, and the thought of losing him is unbearable.
Our struggles began long before cancer entered our lives. When Muslim was just one and a half years old, he stopped responding to his name, lost eye contact, and developed behavioral difficulties. After years of rehabilitation, constant effort, and searching for specialists, he was diagnosed with autism. I had to give up work completely in order to care for my son.
In 2020, Muslim started school in an integrated class, where he studied for two years. Just as life began to feel stable, another tragedy struck. On June 21, 2022, he developed a very high fever that would not go down. We visited numerous doctors, but none could give an accurate diagnosis or effective treatment.
His lymph nodes became enlarged, he stopped eating, lost a significant amount of weight, and grew weaker with each passing day. Medications did not help. A maxillofacial surgeon performed an ultrasound and diagnosed lymphadenitis, assuring us there was no serious infection.
Two weeks later, we were rushed by ambulance to the Children’s Hospital for Infectious Diseases in Astana with an extremely high fever. After a week, Muslim was diagnosed with mononucleosis and prescribed very strong antibiotics. On July 15, 2022, we were discharged, believing the worst was behind us.
For a brief moment, life felt normal again. We even managed to enjoy a short vacation together. But in September, when Muslim started third grade, his health deteriorated rapidly. He began suffering from nosebleeds, extreme fatigue, leg pain, frequent vomiting, and growing weakness.
On September 10, his temperature rose to nearly 40 degrees Celsius. Nothing helped. He was hospitalized immediately. His hemoglobin levels dropped dangerously low, and doctors recommended a blood transfusion along with urgent tests at a private laboratory.
Three days later, our world collapsed. Based on the test results, the doctor diagnosed lymphoblastic leukemia. We were transferred to the pediatric oncology ward, where fear became our constant companion.
I made the decision to seek help in Turkey. After a bone marrow biopsy, doctors delivered an even more devastating diagnosis—acute myeloid leukemia, a very aggressive form of blood cancer. Muslim’s condition worsened rapidly, and any delay meant risking his life.
So far, my son has undergone five rounds of chemotherapy and received twelve bone marrow injections. There have been countless tears, severe side effects, and moments when his small body seemed too weak to continue. But Muslim is incredibly strong. He is coping, and the treatment is helping.
We are now on maintenance therapy. My son receives chemotherapy in four-day blocks every month and continues taking medications at home. Doctors say he has a real chance to defeat this terrible disease—but only if treatment is not interrupted.
Cancer is ruthless. It does not wait.
My son wants to live. He wants to return to school, to smile without pain, and to have a future not defined by hospitals and needles. He is already more than halfway through this fight, and his doctor gives us a good chance of recovery.
Please help us continue this battle. Your support can give my only child the chance to live, to grow, and to dream again. I cannot do this alone.
With all my hope and gratitude,
A mother fighting for Muslim’s life
The Day Daisy’s Wait Was Over.145
For two long years, my husband was deployed overseas — two years of quiet dinners for one, two years of sleepless nights, and two years of a golden retriever named Daisy waiting faithfully by the door.
Every night was the same.
At the sound of footsteps outside, her ears would perk up, her tail wagging hopefully. She would run to the window, pressing her nose against the glass, her eyes shining with anticipation. But every time, it was just the wind, or the neighbor, or a passing car.
Then she’d return to me, her head heavy on my lap, sighing in that deep, sorrowful way that only dogs can. I’d stroke her fur and whisper, “Maybe tomorrow, sweet girl.”
Days turned into months. Seasons changed. Daisy grew a little older, her once-boundless energy tempered by patience and longing. Yet she never stopped hoping. Every door creak, every car in the driveway, every jingle of keys — it always made her believe this could be it.
And then, one ordinary afternoon, everything changed.
I was in the kitchen when I heard the front door open. The sound was different this time — not the tentative turn of a key, but the confident swing of someone who belonged there. Before I could react, Daisy froze. Her ears lifted, her body stiffened, and her tail stopped mid-swing.
Then she heard his voice.
“Hey, girl.”
In an instant, her stillness exploded into motion. She barked once — loud, desperate, unbelieving — then launched herself across the room like lightning. Her paws slipped on the tile, claws clicking wildly, her entire body trembling with joy.
He barely had time to kneel before she collided into him, burying her face into his chest, whining and crying and licking his face as if to say, You’re real. You came back. You didn’t forget me.
My husband wrapped his arms around her, laughing through tears. “You waited for me,” he whispered, his voice breaking. And she pressed herself even closer, her golden fur shaking with happiness, as though she could fuse her heartbeat to his.
For a long time, neither of them moved. It was as if time itself had stopped — two souls finding each other again after being separated by an eternity. I stood by the doorway, tears streaming down my face, watching love in its purest form unfold right in front of me.
That night, Daisy refused to leave his side. Wherever he went, she followed — her eyes never leaving him, her tail softly brushing against his legs. When he sat on the couch, she curled up against him. When he went to bed, she climbed up beside him and rested her head on his chest, her eyes closing in utter peace.
I don’t think she slept much those two years. But that night, she finally did.
Her breathing was steady, her body still. She was home.
And in a way, so were we.
Because Daisy had been the bridge that kept love alive through distance — a heartbeat that waited when everything else felt uncertain. Her faith had been unwavering, her loyalty unshaken. She didn’t count days. She didn’t need promises. She just believed.
Watching her that night, I realized something profound: love doesn’t always speak. It doesn’t always write letters or say “I miss you.” Sometimes, it just waits — quietly, faithfully, with eyes that never stop searching for home.
When dawn broke, sunlight spilled across the floor. Daisy lifted
