We're going to Chicago: What we hope to gain from stem cell therapy and why Oliver's life is full of dignity

We're going to Chicago. With Oliver. To the University of Chicago. For stem cell therapy

We're currently in the planning phase. Our goal is to be there by the beginning of June. If everything goes according to plan, we'd like to arrive in Chicago on June 1st, 2026, Oliver's third birthday. There are 39 days left until then. The countdown is on.

Even though the FDA has approved the stem cell therapy, that doesn't mean everything will happen automatically. There are still several hurdles, both at the University of Chicago and here at our institution. The university still needs to issue various internal approvals. It's important to understand that they have many safety mechanisms in place. Especially since Oliver will be the first child of his age in the US to receive stem cell therapy in a controlled environment, everything has to be thoroughly reviewed, approved, and prepared. It's about safety, responsibility, a lot of paperwork, clear procedures, medical decisions, and ultimately, it's always about Oliver.

We also have a lot of organizing to do. One of the biggest questions is how we'll even get Oliver to Chicago. Can we take a regular commercial flight or do we need a medical flight? The ventilator itself isn't the biggest problem. The bigger challenge is the oxygen. Getting oxygen cylinders on board a commercial airliner isn't easy. We need to figure out what's possible, what's allowed, and what's truly safe for Oliver.

The next big question is where we'll be with Oliver in Chicago. One possibility is that Oliver will be admitted to the University of Chicago's Comer Children's Hospital. Since Oliver is on a ventilator, that would likely mean he'd have to go to the intensive care unit. There are clear guidelines there. A patient on a ventilator needs a highly controlled environment. Of course, we understand these rules. But at the same time, it feels wrong to us to simply take Oliver to an intensive care unit. Oliver is stable. Oliver is healthy in his new life. Oliver is happy. He wants to get out. He wants to see the world. He wants to be involved. He doesn't want to just lie in a room.

Another option would be a rehabilitation center. But even there, a ventilator often means a special environment. And a special environment means extremely high costs. That's why we're also considering whether Laura and I could care for Oliver ourselves and go with him to a hotel or Airbnb. Then Oliver would be what's called an outpatient. This means he goes to the hospital for his treatments as an outpatient and then comes back with us. But this option isn't easy either. Laura and I would have to care for Oliver without our usual help. We would have to organize everything ourselves: oxygen, bandages, treatment supplies, care routines, tracheostomy care, catheter changes, shopping, preparing meals, coordinating appointments, and simply being there for Oliver. Of course, we do much of this ourselves here in Mexico. But here we have help. In Chicago, we would probably be much more on our own.

Ultimately, we'll decide what's best for Oliver. We're not going to Chicago for a vacation. We're going to Chicago because we want to give Oliver this opportunity. It's about him receiving the stem cells, getting the therapies, and doing everything that's sensible and possible to support his healing process.

We get asked one question again and again:

What do you expect from this stem cell therapy?

It's not an easy question to answer. If I say I hope Oliver can walk again, it sounds like a grand dream. And yes, of course, that would be a dream. What father wouldn't want that? But at the same time, that answer would diminish everything Oliver has already achieved. And everything he is every single day.

We've now arrived at this new chapter in our lives. Oliver can't move purposefully. He's dependent on help. He's on a ventilator. He has a feeding tube and a urinary catheter. And now comes something very crucial: Oliver is happy. Sometimes that's hard to describe. Perhaps some people won't believe it. But anyone who knows Oliver or has seen him in person will confirm it. Oliver finds joy in things that many people no longer even notice.

Today we were outside. Oliver wanted to play football (soccer). Of course, he can't play himself. But he said Basti should go in goal and Julian should shoot. So we played football. We shot at the goal for at least 30 minutes. Every time the ball went in, Oliver shouted "Goal!" And when Basti made a save, Oliver shouted "Well done, Basti!" Oliver enjoys being there, watching, and still having an influence. He says what he wants. He helps decide. He's right in the thick of things.

That's precisely why I don't want to just talk about Oliver surviving the accident. Yes, he survived. Yes, it was a miracle. But afterward, we were also told that his chances of ever being able to swallow again weren't high. That he might never speak. That because of the severe injury at the C2 level, he would likely be dependent on a ventilator for the rest of his life. In the first few weeks, we learned to communicate with Oliver using a board. On this board were pictures: a book for a story, a ball for playing, a television for watching something. We gave him three options. He looked and responded with his eyes. Today he shouts "Goal!" Today he says "Bravo Basti!" Today he tells us what he wants.

So what do we expect from stem cell therapy? There's no single answer. If we can support Oliver's healing process in any way, then we want to do so. If there's a possibility that cells can continue to regenerate, then we want to take advantage of that possibility. This opportunity is available to us now. And that's why there's no set price tag for it. We will go to Chicago for as long and as effectively as possible.

Many parents would love to be able to provide their child with stem cell therapy. We receive so many messages from families with similar stories. We are in direct contact with many of them. We are hoping so much for Oliver. But we are also hoping for other children, for other families, and for people who are waiting for something that might offer them new possibilities. Perhaps such therapy in childhood can have a huge impact. Perhaps only a small one. But even a small step forward can be enormous in our lives.

Yes, it would be a dream to see Oliver walk again. But I'll be happy with anything that surpasses what he's capable of today. With small successes. With big successes. With anything that gives Oliver more freedom. We won't have any false expectations. We'll let ourselves be surprised. And we're looking forward to this journey we get to take with Oliver.

Of course, there are other messages, too. People keep writing about what a life Oliver has without dignity. That he's only alive because his parents are selfish. Others write that we should put Oliver in a home so that we, as parents, don't neglect our twins. I'd like to say something about that: Thankfully, we never had to decide whether Oliver should live or not. Oliver is 100 percent mentally alert. For me, that settles the matter. We love our children. And we would go to the ends of the earth for them.

Anyone who loves their child knows this feeling. That feeling on the day of birth, when you hold your child in your arms for the first time. This responsibility. This love. This knowledge: I will do everything for you. Even if it means completely changing your own life. Even if it means letting go of your old life. Oliver didn't choose any of this. We didn't choose this. Fate brought us to this point together. And that's why we're walking this path together. As a family.

Of course, we know that when you share things publicly, you also get criticism. Questions. Doubts. Judgments. We're just trying to do the best for our family. We've been fighting tirelessly for over a year. And of course, we don't get everything right. I often think to myself that we should have done some things differently. But we had to learn this new life. We're gaining experience. We're drawing conclusions. We're trying to get better every day. For Oliver. For Julian. For Basti. For us as a family.

We'll take you with us on our journey to Chicago. And in Chicago too. 39 days until June 1st, 2026. It's a new chapter. An experimental path. A path full of hope, but also full of responsibility. We don't know what will be possible in the end. But we do know one thing: For Oliver, there are no limits. We see him every day. We see his joy. His strength. His will. His laughter.

We are so proud of him. Whether he can walk or not. We are proud of our Oliver. And we are proud of our twins. Just like all parents who love their children are proud of their children.

Because in the end, you don't see your own child through the eyes of other people. You don't see them as less. Not as flawed. Not as a burden. Not as a life with less dignity. Regardless of whether a child can walk or not. Regardless of whether they are healthy or ill. Regardless of whether they need help or not.

For parents, their child is not "different" in the sense of being less valuable. It is simply their child.

Only people who believe they are the benchmark for "normal" think this way. Often, these people are physically healthy. But perhaps they lack precisely what cannot be measured in the body: compassion, love, and the ability to define the value of a life not by physical activity, achievement, or independence.