Emma White
There is a little girl lying in a hospital cot right now with a feeding tube taped to her cheek and oxygen tubing across her face. She is too weak to sit up. She is too tired to open her eyes for long. And she is far too young to understand why the people who love her keep crying in the corridor.
This is what cancer looks like when it happens to a child. It is not a poster. It is not a statistic. It is a bed rail, a monitor beeping through the night, a mother whispering "please stay with me" while the machines answer instead.
Her family has done everything a family can do. They have sat through every appointment, learned words no parent should have to learn, held her hand through needles and scans and nights that never seemed to end. They have already given every dollar they had. There is nothing left to give except this plea.
The treatment has not stopped yet — but it will if the money runs out. That is the terrible arithmetic this family wakes up to every morning: her next dose, her next scan, her next admission all have a price, and they cannot pay it alone.
So they are asking strangers. They are asking you. Not because they want pity, but because a child's life should never depend on how much her parents earn.
Every gift on this page goes straight into keeping her treatment running: hospital fees, medication, oxygen and feeding supplies, and the transport that gets her to the ward when she is too fragile to wait. Nothing here is abstract. A donation today becomes care tonight.
$10 is a dose. $25 is a set of supplies. $50 keeps her on the ward. $250 pays down a bill that is currently standing between her and her next treatment.
If you cannot give, share this page. Most of the people who saved a life this year did it because a friend refused to scroll past. Please be that friend today.
She is still here. She is still fighting. Please do not let her fight it alone.
— KAWUMA EDRINE FERLAND, organiser
