The Constant Shadow

I wish I could stop being afraid. I wish I could take one deep breath without the weight of terror pressing against my chest, a cold, heavy anchor that never leaves.

My name is Eliza, and ever since the day my son, Natan, was born, fear has been our constant shadow—growing stronger with each passing year, feeding on every new crisis. It began with prematurity. Then came hydrocephalus, the dangerous buildup of fluid in his brain. And now, the true monsters have arrived: Cancer and a failing heart. They are a cruel, merciless duo trying to steal my little boy’s life.

Natan came into the world far too soon—at just 26 weeks of pregnancy. He weighed barely one kilogram, measuring only 32 centimeters. He was so tiny that his whole hand could fit around my index finger. Those early days were not filled with soft lullabies but with silence and the shrieking of alarms—the beeping of machines measuring his fragile heartbeat, the hiss of oxygen, and the whisper of nurses moving quietly between incubators.

For the first three months, the hospital was our home. He was under the care of a team of specialists: a neurosurgeon, a neonatologist, a pulmonologist, and an ophthalmologist. Every day was a battle to keep his tiny flame alight. And somehow, miraculously, he survived. When the doctors finally said we could go home, I thought the nightmare was over. I was so wrong. It was only the beginning.

The Head and the Heart

As Natan grew, new problems kept appearing. His head began to swell—not from healthy growth, but from hydrocephalus. He had to undergo painful procedures to relieve the pressure and prevent severe brain damage. I remember holding his tiny, trembling body as he cried from the pain, whispering, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s here. You’ll be okay.” Slowly, we thought we were winning. He started to crawl, to stand, to take his first wobbly steps. We celebrated every milestone like it was a grand miracle. For the first time, we allowed ourselves to truly hope.

But then, the world fell apart again.

We noticed Natan’s head was growing rapidly, faster than it should. He began to lose control of his movements. He could no longer walk. Then, he couldn’t even sit up by himself. Our hearts pounded with a crushing dread as doctors ordered an MRI scan. When the results came back, I felt the air leave my lungs.

There was a tumor. Deep inside his brainstem. A Grade III Glioma—a malignant brain tumor. And then came the final, gut-wrenching blow: the cancer had already spread to his spinal cord. There were metastases that could not be operated on. The doctors’ faces, drawn and grim, told us everything. How could this happen again—to the same little boy who had already suffered so much?

The Fight for Life

The doctors started chemotherapy immediately—seven brutal rounds. Each one left him weaker—pale, nauseated, and utterly exhausted. His once bright eyes dulled with fatigue, his infectious smile faded to a rare curve.

Then came radiation therapy—32 sessions in total. Every day, they placed a tiny mask over his face to keep him still while beams of radiation targeted his head and spine. He was so brave. He never cried. But the burns on his back, the back of his head, and his ears were unbearable to see. He would whisper softly, “Mommy, it hurts.” and I would hold his hand, burying my face in his hospital gown, whispering back, “I know, my love. You’re the bravest boy in the world.”

We watched his hair fall out in clumps, his weight drop, his energy vanish. But we never gave up hope. We couldn’t.

Yet, lurking beneath the battle with cancer was an enemy we hadn’t fully recognized: his heart.

When he was born, doctors discovered he had a rare and severe congenital heart defect: isolated aortic atresia with a large ventricular septal defect (VSD). It means his aorta, the main artery carrying blood from the heart to the rest of the body, was blocked. He had a large hole in his heart, further complicating circulation. Without immediate, complex surgery, his body could not survive. He had already braved one open-heart surgery as a tiny newborn.

Now, as we fight the relentless march of the glioma, we also have to prepare for his second, essential open-heart surgery—his third major procedure if you count the brain shunts. It is scheduled for April. This time, the surgery will involve placing a conduit in his heart to help improve blood flow and closing the hole. The risks are real and raw, but the hope—the certainty that this must be done to keep him with me—is stronger.

A Mother’s Desperate Plea

Every hospital visit feels like walking into a storm. We wait for scans, holding hands, praying for good news—even a small, temporary reprieve. But each time, the doctors’ words feel heavier, their eyes sadder. There’s always something new: a new lesion, a new complication, a new treatment we can barely afford.

The cost of treatment for both the brain tumor and the heart defect is enormous. We’ve already spent everything we had—savings, belongings, everything we could sell. But what price can you put on a child’s life? I would give anything, everything, just to see him run again. To hear his laughter. To watch him play like other children.

But instead, I sit by his hospital bed, watching him drift in and out of sleep, his small, frail hand gripping mine. I count each breath, terrified that one might be his last.

I want to stop being afraid. I want to live without the constant ache in my chest. But how can I, when my little boy’s future is slipping away? Every morning I wake up to the sound of his weak breathing. Every night, I whisper a silent prayer: “Please, God, not yet. Let me have one more day with him.”

He is only a child—too young to know the meaning of words like metastasis or malignant. And yet, he understands more than I wish he did. One day, he looked at me with his tired eyes and asked, “Mommy, when will the bad thing in my head go away?”

I didn’t know how to answer. So I kissed his forehead and said, “Soon, my love. We’re fighting it together.”

We don’t know what the future holds. We don’t know if the treatments will work, or how long we have. But we do know this: We will fight. As long as there’s a heartbeat—even a fragile one—we will fight.

He’s my whole world. And my world is slipping away. But I refuse to let cancer and heart failure take him without a battle. I refuse to stop believing that miracles still happen.

He deserves to see the sun rise again. He deserves to grow up. Please—from one heart to another—help me keep my son alive.