Our long-awaited daughter, Emilia Lavruk, was born on February 23, 2022. From the very beginning, her arrival into this world was anything but ordinary. Her birth was extremely difficult. She became stuck in the birth canal, emerging without breathing, blue, and with broken clavicles. I did not hear her first cry. I could not hold her. I could not even look at her. The medical team immediately rushed her to intensive care, connecting her to life-saving machines. I remember standing in the corridor, heart pounding, unable to grasp the gravity of what had just happened. The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of monitors, the hurried footsteps of nurses—it all felt unreal, like we had stepped into a nightmare we could not wake from.
The initial diagnoses were terrifying. Doctors explained that Emilia had suffered severe damage to her central nervous system, brain edema, congenital aortic stenosis, narrowing of the larynx, and microcephaly. The prognosis was uncertain. They were unsure whether she would survive at all. Because of the severe brain injury and swelling, her tiny body was cooled for three days—a procedure designed to protect her fragile brain. Emilia lay on a cold mattress, a tiny body wrapped in tubes and wires, fighting for every breath. All I could do was pray that she would open her eyes, that her lungs would finally take the life-giving air they so desperately needed. Those three days were the longest, most agonizing moments of my life. Every second felt like an eternity.
Even after the first critical period passed, the challenges were far from over. Soon, Emilia was diagnosed with a complex congenital heart defect. In an urgent transfer, we were taken to another hospital, where a renowned cardiac surgeon performed a long and extremely difficult operation. This surgery, lasting several hours, saved Emilia’s life. I remember pacing outside the operating theater, hands trembling, tears streaming down my face, silently pleading with God, with fate, with anyone who might be listening, to bring my child back to me.
But the nightmare continued. Post-surgery complications emerged immediately—sepsis, pneumonia, and the need for multiple blood transfusions. The doctors quietly suggested that we consider baptizing Emilia, a terrifying sign of how serious her condition was. I looked at this fragile, barely two-month-old body, entwined in wires and tubes, and I could not imagine life without her. My heart broke with every beep of the monitor, every alarm, every moment she seemed to struggle for life. Outside the hospital stood a statue of the Virgin Mary. Each day, as I came and went, I prayed fervently, silently begging for a miracle.
And then, slowly, the miracle came. Day by day, Emilia’s condition began to stabilize. Her breathing improved, her vital signs strengthened, and she began to respond to stimuli. The doctors no longer spoke of impending loss but of a possibility—a chance at life, at growth, at hope. It was the first time in weeks that I dared to hope again.
Emilia’s survival, however, was just the beginning. Today, at three years old, she faces a daily struggle against numerous health challenges. She has epilepsy, cannot eat or drink on her own, and her entire nutrition is administered through a gastrostomy tube. She has a congenital narrowing of her aorta, laryngeal stenosis, microcephaly, vision impairment, hearing loss in both ears, cataracts, glaucoma, and a history of ischemic brain disease. Each of these conditions requires constant attention, specialized medical care, and ongoing therapy.
Every day is a meticulous routine of rehabilitation. Emilia participates in multiple therapies, including physical therapy, occupational therapy, and sensory stimulation exercises. Her progress is incremental but significant; each small movement, each attempt to lift her head or grasp an object, feels like a victory. Her development is slow but deliberate, shaped by countless hours of patient work, perseverance, and the unwavering support of her family.
Despite the improvements, Emilia is still very fragile. She cannot walk, feed herself, or communicate clearly with words. She shows awareness of her surroundings and can indicate preferences through gestures, but every task requires guidance and assistance. Her world is confined, yet we strive to make it as rich and fulfilling as possible. She interacts with her family, responds to voices, and reacts to music and touch. Each smile she shares is a testament to her resilience, a beacon of hope in the face of overwhelming adversity.
The financial burden of Emilia’s care is immense. Specialized rehabilitation equipment, medications, regular consultations with neurologists, cardiologists, ophthalmologists, and therapists—all of it comes with an enormous cost. The expense is ongoing, daily, and urgent. Without the community’s support, we cannot provide Emilia with the resources she needs to develop her strength, coordination, and independence.
We are asking for help—not because we have given up hope, but because we refuse to allow this miracle child to be limited by circumstances beyond her control. Every contribution, every shared message of support, every act of kindness allows us to continue Emilia’s journey toward recovery. It is a chance to give her life the quality it deserves, a chance to let her laugh, explore, and grow despite the challenges her body presents.
Emilia is more than a patient—she is a fighter, a young warrior whose spirit refuses to be broken. Her eyes shine with curiosity and determination. Her laughter, when it comes, lights up the room, reminding us all why we fight. She teaches us daily the value of resilience, the meaning of unconditional love, and the power of hope.
We cannot change her diagnosis. We cannot undo the damage done before she took her first breath. But we can shape the world around her. We can provide her with therapy, care, and the tools she needs to reach her fullest potential. We can ensure that every day counts, that every small step forward is celebrated, and that she feels the warmth and support of a community standing behind her.
Today, Emilia continues her daily fight for independence. She has survived the unimaginable, and now she strives to reclaim her mobility, her autonomy, and her place in the world. She is surrounded by family who love her fiercely, by therapists who push her gently to achieve more, and by friends and strangers whose generosity sustains her progress.
Please join us in giving Emilia the life she deserves. Every donation, every word of encouragement, every share of her story brings her one step closer to walking, playing, and thriving. We cannot change her past, but together, we can shape her future. Emilia deserves to see the world, to feel the wind on her face, to reach for her dreams.
Every gesture matters. Every moment counts. Stand with Emilia, and be part of the miracle that is her life.
Maria, Emilia’s mother
A Little Girl Whispered a Wish About Life — Days Later, the World Learned She Wouldn’t Get to Grow Up
There are moments so quiet that the world doesn’t understand what it has just witnessed until it’s already too late.
Moments that feel small while they are happening, ordinary even, only to later reveal themselves as a goodbye disguised as something gentle.
This was one of those moments.
This is the story of a little girl named Brielle.
A child whose body carried a battle it was never meant to fight.
A child whose final wish — spoken in a whisper barely louder than breath — would become the sentence that broke everyone who heard it.
It didn’t happen in an ICU.
It didn’t happen surrounded by doctors or alarms.
It happened during an activity meant to bring comfort and joy.
An innocent ritual.
A moment that should have been light.
Instead, it became sacred.
That night, the children were invited to take part in what was supposed to be the last activity before bed.
“Adopt an animal.”
A table was laid out with stuffed animals, soft and smiling, waiting to be chosen.
Each child was given a tiny fabric heart.
The instructions were simple.
Pick a toy.
Hold the heart.
Make a wish.
Then tuck the heart inside before the toy was stitched closed.
It was meant to make them laugh.
To spark imagination.
To let children be children for just a little while.
One by one, the kids stepped forward.
Rixton rushed through it, rolling his eyes, laughing, calling the whole thing silly as he shoved the heart into his tiger and ran off, already bored.
Lady pressed her heart dramatically to her lips and whispered that she wished for a real dolphin, the kind of dream only a child believes is absolutely possible.
Knox didn’t quite understand what was happening.
He drooled on the heart, stuffed it into his monkey, and smiled like he’d just accomplished something enormous.
Adults smiled.
This was normal.
This was harmless.
This was what it was supposed to be.
Then Brielle stepped forward.
She didn’t rush.
She moved slowly, carefully.
Her arms were thin.
Her body looked tired in a way no child’s body ever should.
Each breath felt deliberate, as if breathing itself required effort.
She lifted the small fabric heart with fingers that trembled, not with excitement, but with exhaustion.
Her mother watched.
The room watched.
Without anyone saying a word, everything went quiet.
Time seemed to lean in.
Brielle pressed the heart to her lips.
And then she spoke.
Her voice was so soft it almost disappeared.
Not playful.
Not shy.
But steady, shaped by pain and courage far beyond her years.
“I wish that my cancer will go away…”
She paused.
Took a breath.
“…that I’ll be able to walk again…”
Another pause.
Her chest rose and fell.
“…and that I’ll get to be a mom before I die.”
No one moved.
No one breathed.
The words didn’t come out dramatically.
There were no tears from her.
No breakdown.
Just honesty.
Raw and devastating.
A child wishing not for toys, not for magic, not for fun.
But for time.
For healing.
For a future she already knew might never come.
It was the kind of wish that rearranges a room forever.
The kind of sentence that adults carry with them long after the night ends.
Brielle gently tucked the heart into her stuffed kitten.
Her mother leaned down, wrapped her arms around her, and whispered, “That’s the perfect wish. I hope for that too.”
Moments later, Brielle fell asleep.
As if speaking the wish had taken the very last of her strength.
Her mother closed the opening on the back of the kitten, sealing the heart inside.
And then she cried.
Because inside that toy now lived a truth no parent is ever prepared to hold.
In the days that followed, the family clung to numbers.
Blood levels.
Lab results.
Anything that suggested her body was still fighting.
For a brief moment, there was hope.
A rise in hemoglobin that surprised doctors.
A sign, they told themselves, that maybe her body wasn’t done yet.
They called it a small miracle.
They let themselves breathe.
But cancer does not negotiate with hope.
It does not stop because a child wished hard enough.
Brielle’s body grew weaker.
The moments of strength became shorter.
The pauses between breaths grew longer.
Eventually, the fight that had defined her young life came to an end.
Brielle passed away.
Quietly.
Leaving behind a room full of memories that now hurt to touch.
The stuffed kitten with the fabric heart inside became something else entirely.
No longer a toy.
But a vessel.
Inside it lives her final wish.
A prayer stitched into fabric.
A reminder of a child who understood far too much about life and death.
Her mother keeps it close.
Because it holds the last thing Brielle ever asked for.
Not pity.
Not attention.
But a future.
There are no words big enough to explain what it means to hear a child speak about dying with that kind of clarity.
What it does to a parent.
What it does to a room.
What it does to anyone who hears it and realizes too late that it was a goodbye.
Brielle never got to walk again.
She never got to grow up.
She never got to become a mother.
But she left behind something just as powerful.
A reminder that courage does not always look loud.
That bravery does not always roar.
Sometimes it whispers.
Sometimes it sounds like a small voice asking for one more chance at life.
Her story has traveled far because it touches something universal.
Every parent sees their own child in her.
Every adult feels the injustice of it.
Every heart aches at the thought of a wish that could not be granted.
That night was supposed to be simple.
Stuffed animals.
Fabric hearts.
Childlike fun.
Instead, it became a memory that will never fade.
A moment frozen in time.
The night a little girl whispered a wish the world was never ready to hear.
And the night the world learned, too late, just how brave she was.
