Pablo Daniel (In English)

Donor Tributes December 2, 2025March 25, 2026

At just two years old, you began competing in balance bike races. Between the ages of three and four, you climbed the podium many times — no matter what place you finished. You learned to let go of fear and taught us to enjoy the journey, not just the result. When we told you that if you fell, you had to get up and keep going, we didn’t realize it was actually you who was teaching us.

On December 4, 2024, you turned five. We had planned your birthday exactly as you had dreamed it: with your kindergarten friends, a Hot Wheels party, and you wearing your race car driver suit. Together we assembled little gift baskets that you had prepared for each of your friends, and you handed them out one by one, giving each child a hug — not knowing that every hug would be a goodbye.

As everyone cheered your name — Pablo! Pablo! Pablo! — you blew out your candle surrounded by laughter and the people who loved you most.

But the next day, our nightmare began.

You woke up eager to open your gifts, but something wasn’t right. You were off-balance and walked with difficulty. Your mother, not understanding what was happening, knew something was wrong. After several tests, we heard for the first time about the possibility of a mass in your little head. Then came the words no parent should ever have to hear: Pablo had an inoperable, aggressive brain tumor with no curative treatment. They told us he had approximately three months to live.

To say we hit rock bottom doesn’t begin to describe it. Our home had completely collapsed. That day we lost everything: we left our jobs, our businesses, school — even your first vacation as a kindergarten student was cut short. The doubts came, the questions, the fears, and a profound crisis of faith. We searched for answers, for truth… and still we had to look at you and your little sister, smile, and tell you everything would be okay — when in reality we were far from feeling it.

But as parents, we could not give up. We had to stay on our feet every day — for you and your sister. We researched, studied, knocked on doors inside and outside the country. We consulted hospitals in Germany, Spain, and the United States. All of them agreed: the treatment would only be palliative.

With broken hearts, we began radiation therapy and chemotherapy in Bolivia. However, negligence and inexperience led to a case of hydrocephalus that nearly took your life. That was your second miracle: a valve was placed, and you overcame a coma lasting more than ten days. With immense bravery, you pressed on. You received 25 sessions of radiation therapy and 40 doses of temozolomide. It was heartbreaking to watch you enter that machine — so small, with tears in your eyes — and yet you accepted your “photos,” as we called them to encourage you. Every day you taught us what true courage looks like.

In January 2025, a call arrived that seemed impossible: “You can bring him. He will be enrolled in a clinical trial. We will try to save his life.” With immense faith in God and in His power to perform miracles, we made the journey. “Goodbye, family — I’m going to the beach,” were your parting words.

For several weeks, you became a child again. You began to play, to walk, to laugh. Everything seemed to be going well. You started the new treatment — ONC201 — but faced new complications. The valve placed in Bolivia caused meningitis and had to be removed as an emergency. You returned to the operating room and spent long stretches in the hospital, fighting as only you knew how. You overcame the meningitis. You got back up again. You gave everything you had to be a child again — and you did it beautifully.

Even so, we began to notice something wasn’t right: your right leg and arm grew rigid when you walked, and your left eye slowly began to close. We decided to place a new hydrocephalus valve. But something went wrong. When you came out of surgery, the symptoms began to progress: you stopped chewing, you lost the strength to hold up your head, little by little you stopped talking… you stopped eating.

And yet, your bravery and courage were unlike anything we had ever seen. You were still there — smiling, laughing out loud.

When you competed, we never should have cheered you on by saying: “Fly, Pablo, fly!” Today we understand those words.

Today you fly high, beloved son, beside our Creator.

We will not forget your words, spoken with a clarity that broke our souls: “I didn’t get to enjoy my five years.”

Despite your tremendous bravery and everything you fought through, we believe God has rewarded you — rescuing you from an unjust and cruel world, and carrying you to a place where pain, fear, and illness no longer exist.

Our Donation Story

Pablo Daniel was a child of immense love — and even in the midst of the deepest pain, we decided that his fight would not be in vain. Pablo Daniel donated his tissue for scientific research, with the hope that his time in this world would help researchers better understand pediatric brain tumors and open new paths for other children and families facing the same battle today.

His body continued teaching even after he departed. His life became knowledge. His courage became hope.

Thanks to his generosity, researchers will be able to advance, learn, and one day save more lives. That is his legacy: love transformed into science, pain transformed into light.

His life, his courage, and his love continue to teach us to get back up and keep going.

Thank you for everything, Pablo Daniel. Your light remains… and now it also guides the path of research and hope.