-eng- Raising Funds For Chisa-s Treatment Uncen... -

To understand the urgency, you have to understand the decay. Yesterday, Chisa lost the ability to hold a spoon. Two days ago, she had a seizure that lasted four minutes. The steroids have given her a "moon face" and brittle bones. She asks her mother the same question every fifteen minutes: "Mama, why are we still here?"

We are asking for the global community to do what governments and insurance companies will not: to act without a filter. To fund the "Uncen."

The word "Uncen" is terrifying. It means no insurance coverage. It means no government grants. It means that every vial, every hour of intensive care, every MRI to track the rogue cells must be paid for out of pocket. -ENG- Raising funds for Chisa-s treatment Uncen...

"We have sold our car," Mira lists the numbers quietly. "We have emptied my mother’s retirement fund. We have taken a second mortgage on a home that is now worth half of what we owe. We are at zero. But Chisa is not at zero. Her heart is still beating."

In a small, sunlit room covered in crayon drawings of dinosaurs and smiling flowers, a six-year-old girl named Chisa is fighting a battle no child should ever have to face. Her laugh, which once echoed through the hallways of her home, is now a whisper. Her fingers, once busy weaving friendship bracelets, now lie still against sterile hospital sheets. To understand the urgency, you have to understand the decay

By The Family of Chisa | Special Report

Mira doesn't tell her that they are waiting for a wire transfer. She doesn't tell her that they have started a GoFundMe, that her father has started a TikTok dancing for dollars, that the local church held a bake sale that raised exactly $847. The steroids have given her a "moon face" and brittle bones

Instead, she lies down next to her daughter and whispers, "We are waiting for the special medicine, baby. It’s coming on a fast plane."

The family has tried everything within the public healthcare system: high-dose steroids, intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG), and even six cycles of aggressive chemotherapy. Each treatment bought them a week of hope, followed by a devastating relapse.

Outside Chisa’s window, the city is waking up. Cars honk. Children laugh on their way to school. Life goes on, brutally indifferent.

Chisa has a rare, aggressive form of juvenile autoimmune encephalitis complicated by a secondary oncological syndrome. That is the clinical term. But to her mother, Mira, it is simply "the thief."