Support Eveith's Fight Against ALS

My Name is Eveith, and This Is Our Fight

My name is Eveith Lucas. I’m 49 years old, a mother, a wife, a daughter, and until recently, a proud airline worker. But more than anything—I am a mother to the most beautiful 8-year-old boy, our miracle child, born after years of heartbreak and hope. He doesn’t speak and lives with profound autism. He still wears diapers and needs full-time care. But he smiles with his whole face. He feels joy in ways that don’t need words. He is my heart.

For over two decades, I greeted travelers with a smile at Washington Dulles airport—first with Air Wisconsin, then with United Airlines. I helped people board flights, made announcements, and opened those heavy aircraft doors, dreaming all the while of taking my own son on a vacation one day. Just us. Just joy.

But a few years ago, things began to change.

My words started to slip away. I couldn’t pronounce simple phrases. My hands trembled. My arms weakened. Walking to the gates became a battle. I was terrified—terrified of losing my job, terrified of the unknown. So I adapted. I leaned on coworkers, begged for help, pushed through the exhaustion, clinging to normalcy.

But my body kept betraying me.

In early 2024, after a string of doctor visits, tests, scans, and second opinions, I heard the words no one is ever ready to hear: ALS—Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. An incurable, unforgiving disease that slowly traps you inside your own body.

I felt the ground disappear beneath me. My dreams with my son—gone. The future I imagined—shattered. Our world fell apart in one brutal moment.

Since then, I’ve lost the ability to eat, to speak, to move. In September 2024, doctors inserted a feeding tube. I was fitted for a power wheelchair. And by March of this year, my lungs could no longer support me.

On March 12—my son’s birthday—I was rushed to the ER in respiratory failure. At the same hospital where he was born, doctors inserted a breathing tube and then performed an emergency tracheostomy. That day should’ve been filled with cake, candles, and laughter. Instead, I was fighting to stay alive.

Now, I live connected to machines—breathing through a tube, unable to talk, stuck in a hospital bed. I long to go home. To hold my son. To feel the sun on my skin and hear him laugh, even if I can't laugh with him.

My husband is doing everything he can. He’s turned our home into a place I can return to safely—installing a wheelchair ramp, a stair lift, a modified bathroom. But the cost? It’s crushing. He’s had to put everything on credit cards. Still, he never complains. He just keeps going.

And we’re not alone in this struggle. My 85-year-old mother, who lives with us, has Alzheimer’s. My father-in-law is on dialysis and has survived heart attacks and a stroke. My mother-in-law is blind in one eye, diabetic, and recovering from open-heart surgery.

Every day is a mountain. But somehow, we keep climbing.

My friends urged me to share our story—not for pity, but to remind people that life is fragile, precious, and worth fighting for. Despite everything, we are still standing. Still loving. Still surviving.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for your prayers. Please hold your loved ones close. Because in the end, love is all we have—and it’s everything.