I didn’t cry at my wedding. I didn’t cry at my Dad’s funeral. I didn’t cry when Glyph crashed her tricycle into my car, all those many years ago. I did cry when my first dog died, but that was before two heart attacks and one clown world, and my heart has since shriveled into a terrifying thumping raisin. And no, because I know you are going to ask, I didn’t cry at either heart attack.
Now, I’m not quite sure why we haven’t run a happy, happy fun tears story at Tempest in a Teardrop before now [Codex: Editor here. We’ve never run across one.], but that changes today! Pull out your tissues, nestle close with a scoop of your favorite ice cream, and let’s celebrate the human race. For the first time.
You should know that this story begins in Poland, travels around the world, and then ends there. I can’t read Polish. Or Chinese. Or Brazilian. Wait… a chunk of my family is from Brazil. I’d better mention they speak Portuguese there. I don’t read Portuguese. This means that I may have some of the details wrong. I’ve tried to do real research on the internet before, and it rarely goes well. [Codex: Editor again. That translates into the more fanciful stuff below is hyperbole. If you can’t tell which parts, then you should probably stick to Yahoo! sports.]
Meet little Miloszek Malysa. If you are reading this behind enemy lines in the United States: that’s a baby. A live one. Little Miloszek has a serious heart defect at the ripe old age of 8 months. In Poland they have medical care and don’t turn babies into vaccine goo. Unfortunately, only surgeons in Los Angeles can perform the operation. They need money to fly from Poland, that’s the country sandwiched between Russia and France, hire security, sneak him into the hospital, get him the life-saving operation he needs, and then sneak him back to Poland, Mission: Impossible style.
A very ill baby with a defective heart. A life-saving operation is available.