When I learned I was going to be a mother, my world brightened. I envisioned the first cries, her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, the warmth of her skin against my chest. And when that moment finally arrived, everything felt perfect. The delivery was smooth, and little Elizka was born — rosy, serene, beautiful. Healthy, or so we believed.
For two days, I lived in a dream — the soft coos, the midnight feedings, the sense that everything was just as it should be. Then, during a routine check, the doctor placed a stethoscope on her chest and paused. His expression shifted. He listened again. Then he quietly said, “I’m detecting something unusual — a murmur. We need to examine her heart.”
That moment shattered me.
At the cardiologist’s office, the words came quickly — unfamiliar, frightening. “Your daughter has a congenital heart defect.” My husband and I stared in disbelief, as if those words were from another realm. We were instructed to go to a specialized cardiology clinic in Poznań for further evaluation.
There, the complete diagnosis was revealed: defects of the heart septum, an atrioventricular septal defect, second-degree mitral valve regurgitation, first-degree tricuspid valve regurgitation, and a small aneurysm.
It felt as if the ground had disappeared beneath us. I kept wondering — how? How could this happen? My pregnancy had been flawless. Every ultrasound showed a strong heartbeat. Every checkup was routine. No one had warned us, no one had prepared us for this.
But when I looked down at her — this tiny girl with her delicate features and gentle breaths — I knew one thing for sure: I would not let her down.
For months, we held onto hope. We adhered to every instruction, every medication, every appointment. But in May, everything changed again. Eliza’s condition suddenly deteriorated. Her lips turned pale, her breathing became shallow. The cardiologist’s voice quivered as he told us, “She needs surgery. Now.”
Before they took her to the operating room, we baptized her. I remember holding her tiny hand, whispering prayers through tears, pleading with God to let me see her open her eyes again.
The surgery lasted for hours. The waiting room clock barely moved. When the doors finally opened, the surgeon approached us — weary, but smiling. “We managed to close several of the defects,” he said. “She’s stable now.”
Relief washed over us like a wave. Our daughter had made it through.
Yet even in our triumph, shadows lingered. The aneurysm could not be removed. It was too risky. We were informed it would need to be monitored closely, and that another surgery might be required someday. No one could predict when. No one could assure us how this story would conclude.
Now, each day is a careful balance between gratitude and fear. Eliza’s condition has stabilized, but her life relies on constant medical oversight. She requires regular visits to the cardiology clinic, medications, and ongoing tests. The expenses are overwhelming — travel, hospital stays, specialized care — each one another mountain we must scale.
And yet, she smiles.
When she wakes, her eyes sparkle like sunlight breaking through clouds. She laughs, she plays, and in those moments, it’s easy to forget how fragile her heart is. But when night falls, and I hear the soft rhythm of her breathing, I can’t help but listen for anything unusual — a pause, a struggle, a sound that might signal a return to the hospital.
Sometimes I still find myself whispering, “Please, God, let her heart keep beating.”
We don’t know what the future holds — whether another surgery will be necessary or what challenges await us. But I know this: my daughter is a warrior. She has already faced battles that most adults never will.
That’s why I’m reaching out for help.
Every donation, every shared message, every kind word means more than I can ever articulate. Your support gives Eliza a chance — a chance to grow, to run, to live without pain.
From the depths of my heart, I thank you for every act of kindness, for every prayer, for every hand reaching out to hold ours in this struggle. Because beyond all the medical jargon and procedures, this is what remains: a mother’s love, and a little girl’s brave, beautiful heart — still beating, still fighting, still full of hope.
