In the fourth month of pregnancy, we heard words that shattered the very foundation of our lives. Doctors told us that our daughter, Blanka, was terminally ill, and the list of diagnoses sounded like a sentence no parent should ever hear. Complex, inoperable heart defects, multiple systemic hypoplasia, and inverted organ placement suddenly turned our world silent and unrecognizable.
Fear gripped us so tightly that it felt hard to breathe, yet in that moment of shock, one truth became clear. We would do everything in our power to save our child, no matter how impossible the road ahead seemed. From that day forward, every single second of Blanka’s life became a fight.
Blanka was born on September 16, 2025, and almost immediately, she was placed into a medically induced coma. Tubes, cables, and machines surrounded her tiny body, keeping her alive while we watched helplessly from a distance. She remained in that coma until October 20, suspended between life and fear.
On the third day of her life, doctors took our newborn daughter into surgery for the Norwood procedure. Her heart was so large and swollen that the surgeons could not close her chest, covering it only with gauze. Knowing our baby lay there so vulnerable was agony beyond words.
Every other day, we drove 300 kilometers each way just to see her for a brief moment. We were not allowed to stay overnight, so each visit ended with us walking away, terrified it might be the last time we saw her. We lived in constant fear of a phone call no parent ever wants to receive.
Then, on October 20, something extraordinary happened. Blanka opened her tiny eyes for the first time and smiled softly, as if whispering, “Mom, Dad, I’m here, and I’m fighting.” That single moment filled us with strength we didn’t know we had.
On November 26, we were finally allowed to bring Blanka home. It should have been a moment of pure joy, but it came with new fears and responsibilities. Our daughter returned home connected to a nasogastric tube, dependent on medication, constant observation, and medical equipment.
Every breath matters now. Any rapid breathing, regurgitation, or shortness of breath can signal danger, so we monitor her vital signs around the clock. Our home has become an extension of the hospital, filled with vigilance and quiet anxiety.
Blanka’s journey is far from over. She still faces two more extremely serious heart surgeries that will determine her future. The Glenn procedure is planned for the spring of 2026, and the Fontan surgery when she is around three years old.
Only through these surgeries does Blanka have a chance at a better life. They aim to create a single circulation, improve oxygenation, and reduce the strain on her fragile heart. Without them, survival would not be possible.
Complicating everything is the fact that Blanka’s internal organs are inverted, like mirror images. Her heart lies on the right side of her chest, not the left, making every test and every medical decision far more dangerous. Doctors must carefully reorient themselves each time, knowing that even small mistakes carry greater risk.
Because Blanka spent so long in a coma, her development is delayed. She is currently too weak to qualify for rehabilitation, leaving us anxious about what this means for her future. We live with the fear that time is slipping away faster than her strength can grow.
Blanka is not our only child. We also have two other children who need us, love us, and depend on us every day. Balancing their needs alongside Blanka’s constant care feels overwhelming and heartbreaking.
My wife watches over Blanka day and night and is herself under medical care, as the emotional weight of this diagnosis has taken a severe toll. Meanwhile, I work two shifts as a driver to pay the mortgage and provide for our family, even as worry follows me every mile. I come home from work and immediately run to the monitor, just to be sure our daughter is breathing calmly.
Blanka’s condition remains extremely serious and unpredictable. Any day can bring complications, and her care requires immediate response and constant readiness. The costs of treatment, medication, equipment, travel, and private consultations continue to rise.
This is not a short fight, but a multi-year battle with many stages still ahead. Expenses are spread over time, and we are waiting for consultations with highly specialized and costly doctors. The financial burden grows alongside the emotional one.
We are deeply grateful to everyone who has supported us so far. Your kindness has carried us through moments when fear threatened to overwhelm us completely. Knowing we are not alone gives us strength to keep going.
We still face a long, exhausting road filled with uncertainty. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but we know one thing with absolute certainty—Blanka deserves life. She deserves a chance to grow, to laugh, and to be held without wires and probes.
We ask you from the depths of our hearts to continue supporting us. Every donation, every share, and every kind word gives our little daughter another chance. A chance not just to survive, but one day to run into our arms and live the life she is fighting so hard for.