Six-year-old Kubuś had always lived in bright colors. His world was painted with playground laughter, muddy shoes, and drawings taped proudly to the refrigerator door. He was the kind of child who ran everywhere instead of walking, who believed every day held a little magic, and who thought tomorrow would always be better than today.
But in November 2023, tomorrow changed.
It began with something small — a tiredness that didn’t go away, a swelling his mother couldn’t explain, a pale look in his eyes that didn’t belong on a child so full of life. She brushed his hair from his forehead one evening and felt her heart tighten with a fear she couldn’t yet name.
The doctors gave that fear a name: Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
A rare and aggressive cancer.
A battle no child should ever have to fight.
In the silent room where the diagnosis was spoken, the air felt heavy, as if the world itself had paused. His mother couldn’t breathe. His father held her hand so tightly it left marks. And in the middle of it all sat little Kubuś, swinging his legs off the exam table, unaware that childhood had just shifted into something far more fragile.
Within days, the hospital became their new home.
White walls replaced playgrounds.
IV lines replaced crayons.
Soft beeps replaced laughter.
Daily chemotherapy began. The kind that makes adults tremble at the thought. But Kubuś—tiny, brave, and stubbornly hopeful—met each session with the same question:
“Will it make me better?”
His parents smiled for him, even when their hearts were breaking.
“Yes, kochanie,” they would whisper.
“It will help you fight.”
He learned to measure days not in hours but in treatments. Nurses became friends. His favorite stuffed animal, a faded bear with one crooked ear, stayed tucked under his arm through every scan, every needle, every sleepless night.
Some days were good — good enough for a shy smile or a joke whispered to his dad.
Some days were unbearable, stealing his appetite, his energy, his hair.
But even on the darkest days, he refused to give up.
His courage didn’t look loud.
It looked like showing up.
It looked like breathing through the fear.
It looked like holding his mother’s hand when she held back tears.
Through it all, his family fought beside him — researching, hoping, praying, refusing to let despair win. And then came the hardest truth: chemotherapy alone wasn’t enough. The disease was spreading too quickly, slipping into the spaces where hope struggled to reach.
He needed a bone marrow transplant.
The kind that changes everything.
The kind that carries both risk and possibility.
The procedure came with weeks of isolation, weeks where he could only see his parents covered in masks and gowns, weeks where every small movement hurt. But he endured it, whispering to his bear every night:
“Just a little more. Just a little braver.”
Now, everything hangs on one date: December 12th — the day of the MRI.
One scan that will tell his family whether the transplant is slowing the disease…
or whether they must prepare for another heartbreak no parent should ever face.
The waiting is the hardest part.
Long nights.
Short breaths.
Fragile hope flickering like a candle in a storm.
But even now, their home is filled with soft prayers, messages from friends, drawings from classmates, and small acts of kindness from strangers who learned about Kubuś and couldn’t turn away. Hope has a way of multiplying when shared.
His parents hold onto that hope with both hands. They listen to his quiet dreams about going home, playing in the snow, riding his bike again. They picture the day he can eat ice cream without nausea, the day he can run without tubes, the day he can grow up.
Because that’s what they’re really fighting for —
not just survival, but childhood.
Kubuś’s journey is far from over.
There are more battles ahead, more storms to endure, more nights when fear will sit heavy in the room.
But he is not fighting alone.
Every prayer whispers strength into his story.
Every thought of him adds another layer of hope.
Every person who holds him in their heart becomes part of the light guiding him forward.
And so tonight, as his mother tucks him in, smoothing the blanket around his fragile body, she leans close and whispers the same words she’s said every night since November:
“You’re strong, kochanie. And you’re not alone. We believe in you.”
For now, that’s enough.
For now, faith carries them.
For now, they wait for a miracle.
Please keep little Kubuś in your thoughts and prayers.
Hope is powerful — especially when shared.
Lenny: A Tiny Fighter Against All Odds 184
I never imagined I’d become pregnant with an IUD in place. It felt impossible, and yet here I was, carrying a tiny life I hadn’t planned but already loved deeply. For the first 22 weeks, I held on to hope, cherishing every flutter and every moment that reminded me she was growing inside me. But then, everything changed.
It started with bleeding—light at first, but insistent. Then came the cramping, growing sharper with every hour. That night, I woke to pain so unbearable I could hardly breathe. We rushed to the hospital, hearts pounding, fear settling deep into my chest. I was barely 22 weeks along when doctors examined me: 3 centimeters dilated.
The words of the NICU nurse hit me like a lightning bolt: “Do you want us to try to save your baby?” I froze. My mind couldn’t process the impossible decision before me. Save her… or accept the unthinkable? Tears blurred my vision as the weight of reality pressed in.
At 23 weeks, my tiny Lenny arrived—just 14 ounces, a body so small it seemed almost weightless in my trembling hands. Her skin was translucent, veins like delicate threads, and her lungs too immature to function without help. Machines immediately surrounded her, ventilators and monitors humming, alarms ready to sound at the slightest dip in her oxygen. Nurses moved with practiced urgency, their hands gentle but swift, as if every second could tip the balance between life and loss.
For hours, I sat beside her incubator, unable to touch her, afraid my warmth might be too much, or too little. Every tiny beep from the monitors was a reminder of the fragility of her existence. Doctors whispered updates, their voices careful, precise. Words like “critical,” “unstable,” and “hour by hour” echoed in my mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.
Lenny fought. Every breath she took, every movement of her fragile limbs, was an act of courage I could barely comprehend. She endured intubation, IVs, and countless procedures that no baby should ever face at such a tender age. And through it all, the nurses became more than caregivers—they became our lifeline, guiding us, supporting us, and quietly cheering for every small victory.
The days and nights blurred together. Some moments brought fleeting hope: a steady heart rate, a slight improvement in oxygen, a tiny twitch of a hand reaching toward a glimmer of light. Others were devastating: sudden drops in oxygen, infections, alarms that made our hearts stop for just a moment too long. Every hour, every day, felt like a battle fought not just by Lenny, but by all of us—her family, the medical team, and even the strangers whose prayers and messages reached us in waves of quiet strength.
We learned to celebrate the smallest triumphs: a heartbeat sustained for longer than before, a breath taken without the ventilator’s help, a slight gain in weight. Every gram she gained was a victory; every movement, a miracle. Hope became a fragile but persistent thread, weaving through our fear and exhaustion.
Even now, weeks into her NICU stay, Lenny’s journey is far from over. She depends on ventilators, IVs, and specialized care that continues around the clock. But she is alive. She is fighting. She is a reminder that courage doesn’t wait for perfection, and love doesn’t measure the size of the body that carries it.
Holding her tiny hand for the first time, feeling the warmth of her fragile body against mine, I understood something profound: Lenny is more than her medical struggles. She is resilience in its purest form, a fighter whose very presence defies the odds. And as her mother, I am learning to fight alongside her—to hold onto hope even when fear whispers louder than faith.
Every day with Lenny is a lesson in patience, strength, and the miraculous power of life. She reminds everyone around her that even the tiniest fighter can leave the largest mark, that love can carry us through unimaginable fear, and that miracles are not always sudden—they are stitched together, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Lenny’s story has only just begun. And while the road ahead is long, every step is a testament to the courage of a baby who arrived too early but refuses to let the world define her limits. She is our tiny fighter, our miracle, our heartbeat made visible.
Her journey is a reminder that even in the darkest nights, light persists. And for every parent, nurse, and stranger holding hope in their hearts, Lenny proves: even the smallest life can shine the brightest.
