My son Luka came into this world far too early — at just 24 weeks of pregnancy, weighing only 690 grams. From his very first seconds of life, he was forced to fight for something most of us take for granted: a single breath. He was not born into warm arms and quiet lullabies, but into alarms, machines, and an uncertain future that no mother is ever prepared to face.
Premature birth changed everything. Not only Luka’s life, but mine as well. It reshaped our days, our hopes, and our understanding of what strength truly means.
The first six months of Luka’s life were spent entirely in the hospital. Three long months in intensive care, followed by another three in the neonatal pathology ward. I watched my newborn son lying in an incubator, surrounded by tubes, wires, and monitors that dictated whether he would survive the next hour. He was so tiny, so fragile, so defenseless that I was often afraid to touch him, fearing that even my hand might be too much for his body to bear.
Doctors spoke to me honestly — brutally honestly.
They told me he might not survive.
No mother should ever hear those words. They cut deeper than fear itself. Time seemed to stop, and every second became an unbearable wait. Yet while I stood there powerless, Luka fought. Quietly. Relentlessly. Day after day, breath after breath. Against all odds, he survived. That alone felt like a miracle.
But surviving was only the beginning.
The effects of extreme prematurity did not disappear when we finally left the hospital. They followed Luka home and continue to shape his life today. The list of medical challenges is long, but one diagnosis changed everything: profound bilateral hearing loss. There is no cure. No chance that it will improve on its own.
When Luka was two years old, he received his first hearing aids. I will never forget that moment. Suddenly, small miracles began to happen. He reacted to sounds. He turned his head when I called his name. Slowly, carefully, his first words emerged. His smile — the smile of a child discovering sound for the first time — broke my heart and healed it at the same time. For the first time, Luka was truly hearing the world.
Today, however, we are facing another painful turning point.
One of Luka’s hearing aids has completely broken and cannot be repaired. This is not just a technical problem. When sound disappears, speech begins to regress. The brain — especially the hemisphere responsible for language and development — starts to suffer. The second hearing aid is also in critical condition and could fail at any moment. If that happens, Luka will be left in total silence.
And silence, for a child like Luka, is not peaceful. It is dangerous.
Beyond hearing loss, Luka requires ongoing care from multiple specialists: neurologists, gastroenterologists, ophthalmologists. Each appointment, each therapy session, each piece of medical equipment is essential to protect the progress he has worked so hard to achieve. What once felt like stability now feels fragile, as if everything we built could be taken away in an instant.
I am writing this not as a complaint, but as a mother who has already been told her child would not live — and watched him prove the world wrong.
Luka is a fighter. He always has been.
But even the strongest child cannot fight alone.
From the bottom of my heart, I ask for help. Every donation, every kind word, every shared message brings us closer to one simple, powerful goal: allowing my son to continue hearing the world. My voice. Music. Laughter. The sounds of life that connect him to others and help his mind grow.
Our journey is difficult, but it is filled with hope. Hope built on compassion, kindness, and the belief that no child should be left in silence after fighting so hard to survive.
Thank you to everyone who chooses to stand with us. Luka has already fought for his life. Now, I am fighting to make sure that life is filled with sound, connection, and a future he truly deserves.
