Born at 24 Weeks and 770 Grams — This Tiny Baby Was Never Supposed to Survive . Hyn
At her 20-week scan, Aisling expected reassurance and blurry photos to keep forever.
Instead, she was told her cervix was open and her pregnancy was slipping out of control.
Doctors explained the membranes had already begun funneling.
There was no cerclage they could place, no simple fix, no guarantees.
From that moment on, time changed shape.
Every day felt like a countdown she couldn’t see.
She was told reaching 28 weeks would be a miracle.
She clung to that number like a lifeline.
When 23 weeks arrived, hope flickered.
It meant her baby could at least be given a chance.
Then, just days later, her waters broke.
At 23 weeks and 5 days, fear flooded in.
Aisling called her midwife immediately.
They rushed to the hospital with hearts racing.
Scans showed the baby was still holding on.
But Aisling was told she would need to stay admitted indefinitely.
Either labor would begin.
Or infection would force an emergency.
The next day, the nightmare escalated.
There was no more waiting.
At 1:03 a.m. on July 20, 2021, Remi was born by emergency C-section.
She arrived at just 24 weeks and 3 days.
She weighed 770 grams.
Smaller than most people can imagine.
She was immediately intubated and rushed to the NICU.
There was no time for tears, no time to process.
When Aisling first saw her daughter, her mind struggled to comprehend the size.
Remi’s skin was fragile, translucent, almost unreal.
Wires covered her body.
Tubes breathed for her.
Aisling couldn’t hold her right away.
She was told gently this would be a long journey.
“There will be good days and bad days,” they said.
“We’ll be here with you.”
Those words became a quiet anchor.
Because nothing else felt stable.
For days, Aisling recovered from surgery while her partner Sharmin stayed by Remi’s side.
Updates were relayed secondhand, moment by moment.
Being separated from her newborn was agony.
Every instinct screamed to hold her child.
On Day 4, Aisling finally held Remi skin-to-skin.
Her tiny body rested against her chest.
Those few minutes became everything.
They were fuel to keep going.
The first month in the NICU was brutal.
Progress never came in straight lines.
Remi came off the ventilator.
Then she was re-intubated from exhaustion.
She battled severe jaundice and dangerously low platelets.
Feeding was a constant struggle.
But small victories appeared.
Her kidneys began to improve.
She started to gain weight.
By Day 38, she reached one kilogram.
By Day 51, she moved onto CPAP.
A milestone that felt enormous.
The days blurred together.
Alarms, sterile smells, and fear became routine.
Aisling and Sharmin barely left the NICU.
Life outside felt irrelevant.
Nurses became family.
Doctors became voices of hope and honesty.
Even in fear, there were moments of light.
Moments that kept them human.
For Aisling’s birthday, nurses made a card with Remi’s footprints.
They held a tiny dance party beside the incubator.
On Halloween, Remi wore a scuba diver costume to match her CPAP mask.
Laughter broke through the fear.
At Day 87, Remi came off CPAP.
She moved onto Optiflow.
By Day 100, she was on low-flow oxygen.
Another step forward.
Then came the first trip outside.
Fresh air touched her skin for the first time.
Aisling cried holding her daughter under the open sky.
It felt like reclaiming something stolen.
Then came devastating news.
Doctors said Remi’s liver disease was severe.
They warned there was nothing more they could do.
The words hit like a collapse.
And then, against every expectation, Remi fought back.
Her liver began to heal.
Jaundice markers dropped.
Hope returned, cautious but real.
After 109 days in the NICU, Remi came home.
Just one day before her due date.
She was still on oxygen.
She still had a feeding tube.
But she was home.
And that changed everything.
The NICU staff cheered as they left.
A moment Aisling will never forget.
Home life brought new challenges.
Tube feeds, medications, constant appointments.
But it also brought firsts.
First nights without alarms.
First giggles.
First uninterrupted cuddles.
Remi learned to breastfeed without the tube.
She learned to sleep through the night.
Each milestone felt unreal.
Each moment felt earned.
Today, Remi is one year old.
She is thriving.
She crawls, cruises, claps, and gives the best cuddles.
Her laughter fills the house.
She is happy.
She is strong.
The NICU journey nearly broke them.
But it also reshaped everything they believed.
Aisling now understands gratitude differently.
She understands resilience intimately.
She shares Remi’s story for parents still sitting beside incubators.
For those counting breaths and days.
Miracles don’t always arrive loudly.
Sometimes they arrive weighing 770 grams.
Remi was never supposed to survive.
And yet, here she is.
Her story is proof that hope can be smaller than fear.
And still win.
Four Times Cancer Came Back — And a Seven-Year-Old Girl Is Still Fighting for Her Life
Agata Golovchenko is only seven years old, yet her life has already been shaped by battles most adults will never face.
Her childhood has not unfolded in playgrounds or classrooms, but in hospital corridors, oncology wards, and rooms where the air feels heavy with fear and hope existing side by side.
While other children her age count birthdays, school breaks, and playdates, Agata measures time differently.
She counts it in chemotherapy cycles, MRI scans, blood results, and long nights when sleep refuses to come because pain or anxiety will not let go.
This is not her first fight with cancer.
It is her fourth.
When doctors confirmed that the disease had returned yet again, hope and dread arrived together, tangled and inseparable.
There was no time for hesitation, no room for uncertainty. Agata was immediately placed on the RIST chemotherapy protocol, one of the most aggressive treatment plans available, reserved for cases where options are running out.
This is not a protocol chosen lightly.
It is chosen when there is almost no margin left for error.
Agata has already endured five full cycles.
Now she is beginning her seventh.
Of the six cancerous lesions found in her body, five have responded to treatment.
Only one remains.
It sits in her thigh, unmoving, unyielding, stubbornly resistant to chemotherapy.
Doctors have explained that eight cycles is the absolute maximum allowed under this protocol.
There will be no ninth.
No extension.
After the seventh cycle, Agata will undergo another evaluation, followed by detailed imaging. Every scan now feels like a verdict waiting to be delivered. Every result has the power to change everything.
The remaining metastasis must be examined closely, because it has stopped responding the way doctors hoped it would.
This single lesion now carries enormous weight.
One more cycle remains.
And after that, the next decision could determine whether Agata has a future at all.
With every round of chemotherapy, the treatment takes more from her small body.
What once felt manageable has become almost unbearable.
Severe nausea follows her daily.
Her legs ache constantly, sometimes so intensely that standing feels impossible.
She has lost weight again and now weighs just 19 kilograms — far too little for a child her age.
She turned seven recently, but her body feels far older, worn down by years of relentless treatment.
There are days when her temperature rises without warning, a quiet signal that her body is under constant strain.
For now, she is still holding on.
But each cycle leaves her weaker than the last.
Agata often complains of stomach pain and headaches.
She has lost her appetite completely, and with it much of the energy and joy that once belonged naturally to childhood.
Chemotherapy is no longer something that comes and goes.
It is almost constant.
For two weeks, she takes oral chemotherapy.
Then come five days of intravenous treatment in the hospital.
After that, chemotherapy twice a week.
Every two cycles, there is another check-up.
Another long wait.
Another emotional reckoning that her family must face together.
Despite everything, Agata understands a truth that no child should ever have to accept.
She cannot give up.
She is tired.
She cries more often now.
Some days, fear overwhelms her, and the pain feels unbearable.
There are moments when the weight of it all feels far too heavy for a seven-year-old heart.
But even through tears, Agata knows that continuing treatment is her only chance to live.
This is the fourth recurrence.
Doctors have been honest with her parents — this treatment is the last chance.
Without it, her story would almost certainly end the way so many stories of children with neuroblastoma do.
Her mother speaks of a fear that never truly leaves.
It wakes her in the night.
It sits quietly beside her during the day.
They are currently in Spain, far from home, pursuing treatment that offers hope where all other options have been exhausted.
Getting there was not easy.
The journey was filled with sleepless nights, constant anxiety, and moments when fear stole even the ability to eat.
And in the middle of it all stood Agata — tiny, fragile, and unbelievably brave.
Agata has now completed immunotherapy and entered a short, two-week break.
It is a delicate pause, meant to give her body a brief chance to recover from the physical and emotional toll of months of treatment.
But this is not rest in the way most people understand it.
It is simply the calm before the next storm.
Soon, radiotherapy will begin.
For four weeks, radiation will target any remaining cancer cells that may try to grow during this fragile window of recovery.
Each session brings hope — and risk.
If the MRI at the end of radiotherapy shows no signs of disease, Agata’s treatment in Spain will finally come to an end.
For a moment, there will be relief.
But the fight will not truly be over.
Neuroblastoma is notorious for returning.
It is relentless.
And for a body as exhausted and damaged as Agata’s, another recurrence would almost certainly be fatal.
There is only one remaining option to protect her future.
A specialized vaccine designed to prevent recurrence.
It is available only in the United States.
And it must be administered quickly — ideally no later than March.
Time, once again, is the enemy.
The cost is overwhelming.
The total expense can exceed one million zlotys, a sum far beyond the reach of one family already stretched by years of medical care, international travel, and lost income.
There is no luxury of waiting.
No space for delay.
Agata’s life now depends on how quickly help can arrive.
Her parents are not asking for miracles.
They are asking for a chance.
A chance for their daughter to grow up without hospital walls as her permanent backdrop.
A chance for her to know a life where pain is not routine and fear does not shape every tomorrow.
They have already come so far thanks to the kindness, generosity, and compassion of others.
Strangers who chose to care.
People who believed her life mattered.
Now, as the clock ticks louder than ever, they ask the world to stand with them once more.
Agata has already beaten the odds more times than anyone expected.
She has faced cancer four times and refused to let it define her ending.
She has endured pain, fear, and loss that no child should ever have to carry.
Yet she continues to fight — not because she is fearless, but because she wants to live.
Her story is not about pity.
It is about courage.
It is about a seven-year-old girl who refuses to disappear quietly.
Agata must win.
Agata must live.
And right now, her future depends on whether the world chooses to fight with her.
