Not the way he used to, with mile-a-minute enthusiasm and encyclopedic detail. But if you show him a Dodge Charger or a classic American muscle car, his face still lights up.



He still loves cars. Still loves video games, even though his hands won’t cooperate. Still loves rocks and crystals and gold. Still clutches his favorite stuffed dog when things feel hard. Still laughs at inside jokes, the kind only his family can fully understand.

He still loves.

And that matters more than ever.



Andrew is living with Juvenile Huntington’s Disease (JHD), a rare and aggressive genetic disorder that’s been quietly unraveling his childhood since he was five. It began with small things—slurred words, a stumble here and there—but over time, JHD stole his ability to speak, eat, and walk unassisted. He now uses a feeding tube, communicates with an AAC device, and spends most of his time in a wheelchair.


His sleep is disrupted by involuntary movements that leave him bruised and exhausted. The frustration of not being able to express himself often spirals into hours of crying.

“He thinks we can understand what he’s saying,” his mom explains, “Because he used to talk. But from our point of view, we can’t. That’s where his frustration comes in.”

For Andrew’s family, especially his mom and younger sister Ella, life now revolves around caregiving. Once full of weekend road trips and after-school adventures, their days are shaped by transfers, feedings, physical therapy, and constant supervision.

“I went from working full-time to not working at all,” she says. “Now I’m a full-time caregiver for him. He needs someone on him 24/7.”

And yet, Andrew still finds joy.



He laughs when something’s funny—and remembers it all day. He beams when he’s around other kids, like during his first-ever medically-supported sleepaway camp. 

He lights up when someone talks about cars or dogs or minerals. The spark is still there. And that helps guide them through the dark parts.



When doctors first noticed Andrew’s decline a few years ago, they misdiagnosed him with autism. It wasn’t until his family relocated from Massachusetts to Colorado that specialists dug deeper. Genetic testing revealed the truth: Andrew had inherited Huntington’s disease from his father’s side. His mom had no idea it was even in the family.

“We had just moved to a new state, trying to start a new life,” she says. “Then that hit us.”



There is no cure for JHD. The disease is relentlessly progressive, typically resulting in a shortened life expectancy within a decade of diagnosis. “It’s a progressive disease—it gets worse over time,” she says. “There’s no cure. Not even the doctors know what to do about it. You just have to care for them before it happens.”



What makes that journey harder is the physical toll of caring for a child who can no longer support his weight, especially without the right equipment. Until recently, every trip outside the home meant lifting Andrew into a borrowed car, disassembling and hauling his wheelchair into the trunk, then repeating the process at their destination.



Simple errands felt like marathons. Outings to the park, the zoo, or anywhere accessible became nearly impossible. 

“Sometimes when we’re trying to leave, he fights us,” his mom admits. “Transitions are hard for him—if he’s home and we’re getting him ready to go somewhere, he’ll resist. But we still have to get to appointments. And he deserves to go to the park.”

That’s where Chive Charities stepped in.



Thanks to the generosity of our donors, Andrew’s family received a wheelchair-accessible van tailored to his needs, giving them freedom, safety, and relief. Now, instead of lifting Andrew and disassembling equipment, his mom can roll him directly into the van. It’s faster, safer, and less distressing for everyone. The total impact was $55,000.

“This takes so much weight off our shoulders, literally,” she says. “Just being able to roll him in instead of picking him up…it’s going to make everything so much easier.”


 

And he deserves good days. He deserves to visit the zoo, feel the sun on his face, play a new video game, or pet a real dog—maybe even get one of his own someday. He deserves to hold onto the things he still loves, for as long as he can.

He deserves moments that feel less like survival and more like childhood. Thanks to this new van, those moments are finally within reach.



To every Chive Charities donor who made this possible: thank you. You didn’t just provide a van. You gave Andrew and his family a lifeline to freedom, dignity, and happiness. You helped make room for the things he still loves. 

If you aren’t part of our life-changing donor community, yet, please consider becoming a monthly contributor. Or, help other families like Andrew’s hold on to what matters most with a one-time donation. It all makes a difference and it all changes lives. DONATE HERE.