The Day Everything Seemed Lost

April 21 is a day that still weighs heavily on me. A day when everything already seemed lost. I asked myself: Why did he have to go through all of this again? Maybe he wanted to leave, and we brought him back against his will.

On April 20, Laura had her nine-hour surgery. I spent almost the entire day by Oliver’s side, and I was sure he was with me too. The prognosis was poor. I had been told that no one knew what his brain function looked like – not to mention the severe injury between his C2 and C3 vertebrae. Still, I did what felt right: I listened to music with Oliver, told him stories, and spoke to him. I felt that his eyes were reacting, that they wanted to tell me something.

Oliver responds when I talk to him

After Laura’s surgery went well, I spent the night in her hospital room at her bedside. I couldn’t lie down, because I myself had a broken rib that caused me pain, especially at night.

On that April 21, the day actually started well. Despite her major surgery, Laura insisted on seeing Oliver. At 9 a.m. we were allowed into the pediatric intensive care unit. That’s when the picture was taken of Laura with her head heavily bandaged, holding Oliver’s hand.

After an hour, Laura was so weak that she wanted to return to her room. I walked her back, but she immediately sent me away again: “Your place is at his side.” She was right. Part of her family was with her, so I knew she wasn’t alone. And only parents were allowed to be with Oliver in the ICU.

I spent the rest of the morning there until I had to leave at 12 p.m. I could only return at 3 p.m. At 2 p.m., Oliver was scheduled for his big test. The neurologists wanted to conduct an SSEP test (somatosensory evoked potentials) to determine whether there was any transmission across the injury site between his head and body.

The first test had already been carried out immediately after the emergency surgery on April 18 – the result was negative. No transmission, complete paralysis. But they gave us a little hope: after such an accident and surgery, swelling could interfere, and only after 72 hours and a second test would things be clearer.

I spent lunchtime with Laura before going back to Oliver at 3 p.m. I thought they would tell me right away what the result was. But I didn’t know that such tests have to be carefully analyzed, and that there isn’t a simple yes or no answer.

So I prayed a lot with Oliver. I played his favorite song, told him stories, and even fell asleep next to him for a while. Being at his side always gave me peace. Feeling his breath – even if it was triggered by the ventilator – gave me the sense that he was still there. Outside in Mexico City, it rained. To me, that felt like a sign.

By 6:50 p.m., no neurologist had come. So I said goodbye to Oliver and took a picture of myself holding his foot. Just as I was about to leave, the neurosurgeon entered – the same one who had performed Oliver’s emergency surgery.

He told me the test was negative. No transmission. That was it. I don’t even remember if I asked him anything in that moment. I knew my brother-in-law was waiting outside, so I left the ICU – and collapsed in front of him. He went in to speak with the neurosurgeon about what the result meant. But I already knew: even if Oliver survived, he would never move again, never breathe on his own, never speak, swallow, or eat.

When my brother-in-law came back, we hugged and both cried bitterly. I told him I had to tell Laura. He asked if it was a good idea – just one day after her major surgery and already so late in the evening. But how could I have been by her side with this knowledge and not told her? So we went back to her room. I wanted to explain it in words. But when I entered and she looked at me, it all broke out of me. I just said, “Honey,” and started to cry. She immediately understood what that meant and screamed in helplessness.

That night was terrible. Hardly any sleep. Just thoughts: Why does something like this happen? What kind of life would he have if he survived this? For the first time, questions circled endlessly: Were we even strong enough for such a life? Thoughts you simply can’t turn off.

Without sleep, I stood on the hospital’s parking deck at sunrise, 6:10 a.m. I wanted to try to breathe in the morning sun and find some calm. But I also had to share what had happened. Family and friends hadn’t heard from me the day before – it had been too late, the shock too overwhelming. Now it was time to tell them.

So I posted the following video on Instagram. At that time, I had about 650 followers – people I more or less all knew, even if only by sight.

Losing Hope...

Although many difficult moments followed on this journey, April 21 will stay with me for a long time. This diagnosis – at the end of a day when we had hoped so much for a miracle – has been burned deeply into my heart.