At the end of March this year, our world collapsed in a way no parent ever expects.

Our son Temur—once known for his endless energy, radiant smile, and infectious laughter—was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a rare and aggressive childhood cancer. In a single moment, our lives were split into two parts: before cancer and after cancer. Until that day, the word “cancer” belonged to other families, other stories. Never ours.

The First Signs No One Could Ignore

It began quietly, almost deceptively ordinary.

On the last weekend of March, Temur complained of abdominal pain. At first, we assumed it was nothing serious—perhaps something he ate, or a passing stomach bug. But the pain did not fade. Vomiting followed. Anxiety crept in, and by Sunday evening, fear pushed us toward the hospital.

We expected reassurance.

Instead, the doctor suspected appendicitis and immediately sent us to the emergency department. An ultrasound was performed. The room grew tense. The radiologist’s expression changed, and then came the words that shattered everything:

“We’re not letting you go home. We don’t like lesions like this in children.”

In that instant, our lives changed forever.

A Diagnosis That Changed Everything

Temur was admitted to the pediatric ward. A CT scan followed—and with it, devastating clarity. What had appeared to be a small lesion was actually a massive tumor measuring 11 x 8 x 11.5 centimeters, stretching from the middle of his abdomen up to the epigastrium.

Conversations blurred together.

“We’re arranging transport to the oncology clinic.”
“The lesion is malignant.”
“A cancer diagnosis is likely.”

Each sentence felt unreal, as if spoken in a language we didn’t understand, inside a nightmare we couldn’t wake from.

Living Between Scans and Fear

The first week was relentless.

CT scans. MRIs. Ultrasounds. Blood tests. Endless waiting. Each scan held our breath hostage. Each result determined whether we could hope—or collapse.

Then came a small miracle.

There were no metastases elsewhere in Temur’s body. That single piece of good news became our lifeline. We clung to it with everything we had.

A week later, Temur underwent surgery to implant a subcutaneous port, followed by a biopsy. Initial results offered cautious optimism: no N-MYC amplification, qualifying him for an intermediate-risk neuroblastoma treatment protocol.

Chemotherapy began. Surgery and radiotherapy were planned. We allowed ourselves to believe this path might lead us out of darkness.

When Hope Is Not Enough

Cancer, however, does not follow hope.

Despite chemotherapy, the tumor barely responded. It remained massive—over 9 centimeters in several dimensions. Surgery became unavoidable, and with it came terrifying risk.

Surgeons managed to remove approximately 90 percent of the tumor. The remaining portion was wrapped tightly around the celiac artery, making complete removal impossible without risking Temur’s life.

During surgery, the abdominal aorta was damaged.

Surgeons worked desperately, patching the defect and saving his life. We waited in silence, counting minutes that felt like hours, praying our son would leave the operating room alive.

He did.

But the battle was far from over.

A High-Risk Diagnosis

We believed radiotherapy would be the final step.

Then came another crushing blow.

Histopathology results revealed positive N-MYC amplification—a marker of aggressive disease and treatment resistance. Overnight, Temur’s diagnosis escalated to high-risk neuroblastoma.

Everything changed again.

His treatment intensified beyond what any child should endure.

Three cycles of 24-hour high-dose chemotherapy followed.
Then a stem cell transplant.
Then radiotherapy.
Then immunotherapy.

Each phase was harsher than the last.

A Child Who Refuses to Surrender

Hospital days blended into one another. Procedures became routine. Pain, nausea, exhaustion—constant companions.

Yet through it all, Temur remained extraordinary.

Even in pain, even when utterly drained, he smiled. That smile—pure, fearless, and unbroken—became the anchor that kept our family standing. It reminded us why we fight. It reminded us what hope looks like.

Temur should have been playing, laughing, running through parks—not battling cancer. And yet, he fought with a courage that humbled everyone around him.

A Critical Step Abroad

If Temur continues to respond well, doctors have recommended the next essential step: complex vascular surgery abroad.

The remaining tumor, still wrapped around the celiac artery, must be removed. This requires aortic reconstruction, a procedure only specialized centers can perform. Clinics in Tübingen, Germany, or Barcelona, Spain offer this expertise—but they are far from home and far beyond what we can afford.

This journey has taken everything from us.

Emotionally.
Physically.
Financially.

Sleepless nights. Endless hospital corridors. Decisions no parent should ever face.

And yet—we refuse to give up.

Why We Are Asking for Help

Time is critical.

Every step forward depends on access to treatment, expertise, and resources we cannot provide alone. With help, Temur has a chance not just to survive—but to live free from fear and cancer.

This is a battle he did not choose.

But with compassion, solidarity, and hope, we can help him win it.

Every donation matters.
Every message of encouragement matters.
Every prayer matters.

They allow us to focus on what matters most: Temur’s care, recovery, and future.

A Light That Refuses to Go Out

Temur’s fight is far from over.

Each chemotherapy cycle.
Each procedure.
Each hospital stay.

But in every step, his courage shines brighter than the fear surrounding him.

He reminds us that strength is not measured by size or age, but by the spirit within. That even the smallest among us can be the bravest.

Standing Together Against Cancer

We invite everyone to be part of Temur’s journey.

To share hope.
To share compassion.
To help a little boy continue fighting with the smile that defines him.

Temur’s story is a testament to courage, family love, and the power of community. It proves that even in the darkest battles, light can exist.

His journey will continue—through treatment, surgery abroad, recovery, and beyond.

And with every act of support, we move closer to the day when Temur can run, laugh, and live freely again.

This is his fight.

But it is also ours.

And together, we will not let cancer win.