They had urged her many times to put a period at the end—gently, with sorrowful sighs, or bluntly and harshly. To end a life that, from a logical standpoint, was meaningless. One close friend, who had once been her support, said words that seeped into her soul like a cold poison:
“Veronika, she’s just a vegetable! No hope, no prospects. The doctors are saying it outright: there’s no chance. Why do you keep torturing yourself and her? Let her go in peace.”
Her relationship with that acquaintance ended for good. Veronika severed all ties with anyone who refused to see, beneath the hospital sheet and the motionless figure, her little girl—her Alisa. To her friends, she was just a body, a biological machine about to run out of energy. To Veronika, she was the meaning of a shattered life.
The episode that changed everything stuck in her memory like a nightmare: a school trip to the mountains, the laughter of classmates, the echo in the gorge, the clear blue sky. Alisa, radiant with joy, asked a classmate to take a striking selfie at the edge of a cliff. Laughter, a dangerous step backward, the sound of crumbling soil… An instant of silence, then a heart-rending scream. No one had time to help—she plunged into the abyss.
She survived—thanks to the rescuers who found her among the rocks, almost showing no signs of life. But the living Alisa remained in the mountains. In the hospital ward lay only her shadow—tethered to machines, breathing through a tube, kept alive by IV drips and monitors.
Key takeaway: For loved ones, a child’s loss of consciousness is not just a medical condition—it’s a life-long challenge that passes through painful stages of acceptance and struggle.
“It’s hard to call this a life,” her husband remarked grimly, and Veronika’s heart clenched with pain and resentment at his words.
He had made his peace with the loss—had, in effect, buried their daughter—and now demanded that she do the same. But Veronika was unyielding; she joined the ranks of those fighting this war for her daughter’s spark of consciousness. She spent hours by Alisa’s bedside: reading her favorite books, rubbing in essential oils, massaging her limbs to resist atrophy. In desperation she searched the internet for new methods, played recordings of a heartbeat—the rhythm that had accompanied Alisa in the womb—hoping to spark a response.
The support of the nurses—the tired guardians of hospital rooms—became an important pillar for her.
One nurse insisted: “They hear everything. The brain remembers it all.”
Veronika believed in a miracle and spoke with other parents whose children were in similar states, finding kindred spirits there.
A year of hope and struggle cost Veronika dearly: her job, her peace of mind, her family’s stability. Her husband demanded that she end this torment and return to normal life, accusing her of forgetting their son, Mark, who was suffering from a nervous disorder. He insisted that Alisa would not come back. The conflicts grew ever more heated.
One day, after an especially painful argument, he packed his things, announced he wanted a divorce, and refused to support the family. For Veronika, it was a blow to her most sacred feelings. To some, her struggle now looked like a pointless game.
“I have a son,” she thought. “He deserves care.” But the budget had shrunk to the bare minimum. She had to take a morning job as a cleaner. Splitting her time between her son’s school and the hospital, she burned out. Mark needed both a father and a mother—but the father had left, and she was forced to be everything for both children.
Despair drove her to a reckless act—at a store, with no money to buy her son a bag of chips, she decided to steal it. But the guard noticed and stopped her. His response surprised her:
“My brother was in the same condition. Mom cared for him for five years. Buy the boy some, with my blessing.”
That simple act of kindness became a light in the darkness of her life—she was able to buy not only food, but also cover the trip to the hospital.
Soon her mother-in-law appeared who, contrary to expectations, chose to support Veronika. She arrived with a heavy bag and a firm resolve to help.
The mother-in-law agreed to care for Alisa and keep an eye on things.
She sold a cow to help the family financially.
At the hospital, she quickly built rapport with the staff and read aloud to Alisa—sometimes secretly rereading the Psalter.
Then, suddenly, changes came: a faint response from Alisa—a twitch of the eyelid. Rehabilitation with a new young doctor brought hope. Despite the skepticism around them, the doctors acknowledged slight progress, while the mother and grandmother believed in a miracle.
After two months of effort, Alisa took her first, uncertain steps, supported by Veronika and her grandmother. The husband, shaken, begged forgiveness and tried to return, but Veronika had grown stronger in her solitude.
Thanks to the generosity of Sergey’s father—Sergey being Alisa’s former classmate—who, after his own son’s death, donated money for treatment, the family received a chance to continue the fight, expanding possibilities for care in an expensive clinic. This act became their second miracle.
The main lesson: The power of faith and the support of loved ones can stand against the darkest circumstances and restore hope where almost none remains.
Life began to find a new rhythm—work, caring for the children, and the mother-in-law’s support became the new norm. The grandmother’s warm words and attentive care for Alisa gave strength to Veronika and to the whole family.
At the end of this difficult story, Veronika could look to the future with hope, having understood that love and perseverance can work real miracles even in the most desperate situations.