We Are in Spain Now

We are in Spain now — a place where golden sunlight filters through windows, only to meet the cold sterility of hospital walls. Here, every sunrise feels both like a blessing and a warning — a gift wrapped in uncertainty. My son, Michał, is about to receive yet another dose of powerful chemotherapy. The doctors have told us plainly: this treatment is grueling, dangerous, and wildly unpredictable. But there is no alternative. This is a battle between life and death, and turning back is not an option. There’s only forward — however painful the path.

Each morning begins the same way: with the quiet hum of machines and the faint, metallic scent of medicine in the air. I sit beside Michał’s hospital bed, watching him sleep — his small, fragile frame surrounded by wires and tubes, his breath shallow but steady. There are moments when fear grips my chest so tightly I can barely inhale. Moments when I wonder how a single heart can hold so much pain and not collapse under its weight. And yet, in the space between beeping monitors and hurried footsteps, something else lives: hope.

It’s strange — this new rhythm of life we’ve come to know. It swings constantly between panic and faith, between despair and quiet resilience. One moment, I’m drowning in worry, the next I’m clinging to a tiny sign of progress — a stronger breath, a stable scan, a flicker of a smile through the exhaustion. Each small victory feels like a miracle. Each setback, a free fall into darkness. But through all of it, Michał keeps showing me what true courage looks like.

He is only a child — yet his bravery humbles me. He endures pain with a grace I cannot explain. He rarely complains. Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I see a depth of strength that feels otherworldly — a silent defiance against the illness trying to take everything from him. Even when he can barely lift his head from the pillow, he finds a way to smile. “I’m okay, Mom,” he whispers. Just three words. But they’ve become my anchor, my lifeline.

There are nights I sit at his bedside long after he has fallen asleep, unwilling to close my eyes in case something changes. The machines beep like clockwork, as if counting each breath he takes — guarding them with mechanical vigilance. In that silence, I pray. I pray for the medicine to work, for the doctors to find the right answers, for his body to keep going. I’ve stopped asking why. There is no explanation that could ever make this pain acceptable. Now, I only ask for one thing: more time. Time to watch him laugh again, to see him run through the grass, to hear his voice grow strong and carefree.

This journey has taken so much from us. It has stripped away the sense of safety, of normalcy, of predictability. And yet, within the heart of this struggle, something powerful has emerged: the overwhelming kindness of others. There is gratitude stitched into every painful day — gratitude for the strangers who became supporters, for the friends who stayed when the days grew long and the nights even longer. Every donation, every kind message, every prayer — each one has been like a light in our darkest moments. You may never meet Michał, but you are now a part of his story, part of his fight.

When I feel like I cannot go on, your words remind me we are not alone. When fear clouds my thoughts, your support steadies me. You’ve given us more than help — you’ve given us faith. Faith that even when life is cruel, people can still be kind. That in a world full of uncertainty, compassion is still a constant.

There are days when everything feels impossible — when the weight of test results threatens to crush us, when the long corridors of this hospital feel endless, when each hour drags like a year. But then Michał opens his eyes, reaches for my hand, and suddenly, I remember why we keep going. He doesn’t know the odds, the numbers, or the risks. He only knows how to fight — with a fierce heart, and a spirit that refuses to give in.

This experience has changed me forever. I now understand how fragile life is — how it can break with a single word, a single diagnosis. The world you knew can vanish in a heartbeat. But I’ve also learned that love is stronger than fear, and more enduring than pain. In our darkest hours, it’s love that lights the way. It’s hope that holds us together.

I believe in a day that hasn’t come yet — a day when we will look back at this chapter and finally exhale. When we’ll exchange fear for relief, and our tears will fall from joy, not sorrow. I hold on to that vision like a lifeline: Michał running freely under a vast, blue sky, his laughter echoing in the breeze, his body whole, strong, and free.

Until that day arrives, we keep moving forward. Step by step, breath by breath. Some days we stumble, some days we crawl, but we do not stop. Because as long as Michał keeps fighting, so will I.

So I ask you: stay with us. Stay with Michał. Your prayers, your compassion, your presence — they give us the courage to believe that tomorrow still holds a promise.

And right now, that promise means everything.