At the end of March this year, our world collapsed in a way no parent ever expects. Our son Temur, a boy known for his boundless energy, bright smile, and infectious laughter, was diagnosed with a childhood cancer called neuroblastoma. Until then, cancer was a word we associated with other people’s stories—never with our own child.
It started quietly, almost innocently. On the last weekend of March, Temur began complaining of abdominal pain. At first, we assumed it was something ordinary—a stomach bug, maybe something he ate. But the pain did not pass. Soon, vomiting followed. Fear crept in. On Sunday evening, we took him to the hospital, hoping for reassurance and a simple explanation.
After examining Temur’s abdomen, the doctor suspected appendicitis and immediately referred us to the emergency department. There, an ultrasound was performed. The radiologist grew serious and said words we will never forget:
“We’re not letting you go home. We don’t like lesions like this in children.” That sentence changed everything.
Temur was admitted to the pediatric ward, and a CT scan was ordered. The results were devastating. What initially appeared to be a small lesion measuring 2.7 x 3 cm was, in fact, a massive tumor—11 x 8 x 11.5 cm—stretching from the middle of his abdomen up to the epigastrium. From that moment on, life moved at terrifying speed. Conversations blurred into fragments:
“We’re arranging transport to the oncology clinic,” “The lesion is cancerous,” “A malignant tumor is suspected.” It felt unreal, like watching a nightmare unfold from outside our own bodies.
The first week was relentless. CT scans, MRIs, ultrasounds—each test bringing more anxiety, each result holding our breath hostage. By some miracle, there were no metastases detected elsewhere in his body. That small piece of good news became something we clung to desperately.
A week later, Temur had a subcutaneous port implanted, followed by a biopsy of the tumor. The results initially gave us cautious hope: there was no N-MYC amplification, qualifying him for an intermediate-risk treatment protocol. Chemotherapy began, followed by plans for surgery and radiotherapy. We believed—needed to believe—that this path would lead us out of the darkness.
But cancer does not follow hope. Despite chemotherapy, the tumor barely shrank. It remained enormous, still measuring over 9 cm in several dimensions. Surgery became unavoidable and incredibly dangerous. Surgeons managed to remove about 90 percent of the tumor. The remaining portion was tightly wrapped around the celiac artery, making complete removal nearly impossible without risking Temur’s life.
During the operation, the abdominal aorta was damaged. Surgeons had to sew a patch over the defect to save him. We waited in agonizing silence, counting minutes that felt like hours, wondering if our son would survive the operating room.
We hoped radiotherapy would be the final step. Then came another crushing blow. The histopathology results from the removed tumor showed positive N-MYC amplification—an indicator of treatment resistance and aggressive disease. Everything changed again. Temur’s treatment protocol was escalated to high-risk.
Three cycles of intensive 24-hour chemotherapy followed. Then came a stem cell transplant. Radiotherapy. Immunotherapy. Each phase more punishing than the last. Each one demanding strength from a child who should have been running, playing, and laughing—not fighting for his life.
If Temur responds well to this treatment, doctors have recommended the next critical step: traveling abroad for complex vascular surgery to reconstruct the aorta and remove the remaining tumor mass from the celiac artery. This specialized procedure can be performed in clinics in
Tübingen or Barcelona—far from home, far beyond what we could ever afford on our own.
This journey has taken everything from us—emotionally, physically, and financially. But we refuse to give up. Temur continues to fight with a courage that humbles everyone around him. Even in pain, even exhausted, he finds moments to smile. That smile is what keeps us standing.
We are asking for help because time matters. Every step forward depends on access to treatment, expertise, and resources we simply do not have. With support, we can give Temur the chance not just to survive, but to live—free from fear, free from cancer.
Temur did not choose this battle. But with compassion, solidarity, and hope, we can help him win it.
Temur’s parents