Asia’s Story: A Little Girl’s Battle Against Leukemia
I am writing these words from the hospital ward, with my daughter lying next to me. Asia, my little girl, is only five years old, yet her small body has endured more pain than most adults could imagine. Right now, she is exhausted, weakened by her ongoing fight against leukemia.
The cancer has returned—stronger, more aggressive, more merciless than before.
Because of her condition, she has to be fed intravenously. The doctors had no choice but to introduce parenteral nutrition after Asia began vomiting blood. It turned out to be caused by painful stomach ulcers, just one more cruel complication in this endless battle. Sometimes it feels as though her whole body is shutting down, refusing to keep going.
Not long ago, she was fighting pneumonia. Now, painful sores have appeared in her mouth, making it hard for her to eat, drink, or even smile. I ask myself constantly—why must Asia suffer this way? Why my child? I would take her place without hesitation if it meant she could be spared this pain. But life doesn’t work that way. All I can do is sit beside her, hold her hand, and pray that one day she will be healthy again.
We are clinging to hope, even though it is fragile. We wait for the treatment to start working, we wait for the doctors to bring us better news, we wait for the day when leukemia will no longer define our lives. For more than three years, we have lived at the mercy of this disease. Each time we thought the worst was behind us, the nightmare came back.
Asia has already lost her hair three times because of chemotherapy. Every time it grows back, we celebrate, hoping it means she is winning the fight. But each time, we are forced to watch it fall out again, another cruel reminder that the battle is far from over. Now, the doctors say she will need a bone marrow transplant. At this very moment, a search for a suitable donor is underway. Our only hope is that somewhere out there, a stranger’s kindness can give my daughter a second chance at life.
Nights are the hardest. We lie in the hospital bed together—mother and daughter, holding onto one another. We cry together, missing home, missing a normal life. And together, we beg the world for help. Because right now, we cannot do this alone.
The Beginning of a Nightmare
Not long ago, I dreamed about Asia’s future in an entirely different way. I wondered what she would be like in school, what subjects she would enjoy, what kind of person she might grow up to be. I thought about her teenage years, her adulthood, her dreams. I treasured every moment of her childhood, never realizing how fragile it all was.
Then everything changed.
It started with a pain in her little leg. At first, I thought it was just something minor—maybe she had bumped it while playing, maybe it was just growing pains. But then came the fevers, the weakness, the bruises that seemed to appear out of nowhere across her tiny body.
On March 11th, I took her to the doctor. I was scared, but still, I didn’t expect anything more than a temporary illness. The doctor immediately referred us to the hospital. Tests showed her lymph nodes, spleen, and liver were enlarged. The diagnosis came quickly and shattered our lives:
acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
Our world collapsed. I couldn’t stop asking myself why. Why my daughter? Why Asia? She was so innocent, so full of joy. She loved drawing, painting, solving puzzles. She loved being around other children, running and laughing. In the blink of an eye, her vibrant childhood was stolen from her, replaced with pain, hospitals, and endless treatments.
Her questions broke me inside.
“Mommy, why are we in the hospital? What’s wrong with me? How many more needles? When will I go back to preschool? When can I play with my friends again?”
I answered as best as I could, always trying to reassure her. “Just a little longer, sweetheart. Soon we’ll go home. Soon you’ll play again.” But deep inside, I was terrified.
When her hair started falling out, when her appearance changed so drastically, I felt utterly helpless. How do you explain something like that to a child so young?
The Endless Fight
Chemotherapy is harsh. It drains her energy, strips away her strength, and leaves her vulnerable to every infection. Asia’s immune system is so fragile that even a simple cold could put her in danger. She has already battled pneumonia and other infections that delayed further treatment. Each delay feels like giving the disease more power.
I am only 29 years old, but every day in this hospital makes me feel so much older. I have given up my job to be with her full-time. There is no other choice. She needs me every moment—through the pain, the fear, the endless procedures. I stay by her side through every injection, every transfusion, every long night when she cannot sleep because of the discomfort.
The costs are overwhelming—transportation, treatments not covered by insurance, specialized food, and, in the future, rehabilitation to help her recover from the toll of this disease. Every day brings new expenses that are far beyond what I can manage alone.
But I will never stop fighting. Asia is my little princess, and I promised her that everything will be okay. That promise is what keeps me going, even on the hardest days.
A Plea for Help
No parent should ever have to watch their child suffer this way. No child should have to spend her early years in hospital rooms instead of playgrounds, hooked to IV lines instead of holding crayons. Yet this is our reality.
Right now, what we need most is hope—and help. Your support can give Asia access to the treatments she desperately needs, the bone marrow transplant that could save her life, the therapies that will help her recover.
Even the smallest donation can make a difference. Every act of kindness brings us one step closer to a future where Asia can go back to being the joyful, playful little girl she was before this nightmare began.
Please, help us save her.
Together, we can give Asia a chance not just to survive, but to live.
With gratitude and hope,
Marta, Asia’s mother
