On March 25, we went in expecting to find out whether our baby was a boy or a girl. Instead, we learned that something appeared to be wrong with her heart. It was the Feast of the Annunciation, when Mary said yes to God and entrusted herself completely to His will.

I went home afraid. I didn’t know what our daughter’s future would hold. I didn’t know what else to pray at that time, so I entrusted my heart baby to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary.

Why not place my heart baby in the most perfect hearts that have ever beat? Perfect love. Perfect trust. Perfect surrender.

I didn’t know it then, but that entrustment would become the prayer of our entire journey.

Let this cup pass from me. But not my will. Your will be done.

Easter Monday, April 6

From the moment we learned about Dolores’ heart and her diagnosis, I was confused. I was heartbroken and sad. I struggled to navigate the unknown. There is something extremely difficult about being told that your daughter most likely will not live, while simultaneously being prepared for the difficult decisions that may have to come along the way. Throughout this entire journey, I found myself constantly praying for a miracle. I begged God to heal Dolores. I asked Him for help and wisdom with the difficult decisions we were facing. I asked Him to help me trust Him when I was afraid and when I didn’t understand. Ultimately, beneath all of those prayers, I found myself simply wanting His will to be done.

When Christ was in the Garden of Gethsemane, He prayed,

“Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me; still, not my will but yours be done.”

I have thought so much about those words. How much agony was contained in that garden? The grief, the pain, the fear, the struggle, the knowledge of what was coming. Jesus knew what was before Him, and yet He surrendered Himself completely to the Father. So much of this journey with Dolores became God inviting me into the beautiful mystery not only of suffering, but of entering more deeply into the Passion of Christ.

I wanted absolute and total healing for my daughter here on earth, while knowing that I had absolutely no control over what the future would hold. I could beg God for a miracle, and I did. I knew He could heal her. But I also had to learn to pray, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”

In the final moments with sweet Dolores, we entered another part of the Sorrowful Mysteries: the Way of the Cross, the Via Dolorosa. I know Patrick shared our final moments with our sweet girl, but I also wanted to share my perspective.

I noticed that her breathing had changed. I didn’t want her to be in pain, but somehow I knew it was her time. I called Patrick and told him to hurry home. He told me he was thirteen minutes away, so I put him on speakerphone and let him talk to her while he drove. He told her how much he loved her. He talked to her about healing and about God’s unfathomable love.

There was one thing I had wanted after she was born: if Dolores was going to die, I wanted her to die in my arms. I didn’t want her to be alone in her bed. I wanted her in my arms, with my eyes looking into hers and hers looking into mine.

And then it hit me: I would have my Pieta

The image of Mary holding Jesus after He had been taken down from the cross. I had wanted the gift of holding my daughter, and God gave me that bittersweet gift. Looking back, it was better than I could have imagined because it was more like our own holy family Pietà. I was holding Dolores, and Patrick was holding both of us.

I thought about this beautiful statue above Patrick’s piano in his office of the Holy Family, where Joseph is holding Mary who is holding baby Jesus. I couldn’t help but wonder if Joseph had still been alive when Jesus was taken down from the cross, whether he would have held his Son alongside Mary in the same way.

And there we were, holding our daughter.

We decided to take off her mask. Then we took out her feeding tube. We gently peeled away all of the tape that had covered her little face, and suddenly we could take in all of her. No tape. No tubes. Just our strong, sweet, beautiful girl.

Her breathing continued to slow. I noticed how dry her little mouth was, so I asked Patrick to get me a swab and dip it in some water so I could moisten her lips and tongue. Immediately, I thought of Jesus on the cross saying, “I thirst.” On a natural level, Jesus was physically thirsty after being beaten, bruised, and crucified. But there was also something deeper in His thirst. Mother Teresa spoke often about Jesus’ thirst for souls, His thirst for us to know His love and to be united with Him. In that moment, I felt that we were being invited into another profound mystery of His Passion.

Her last moments were so hard. I’m not sure Patrick has ever heard me wail like that before, and I know I have never heard him weep the way he did that day. There is a gut-wrenching cry that comes from the deepest part of your being when you lose someone so close to you, especially your child. And yet, even in the middle of that heartbreak, Patrick continued to pray for her healing almost until the very end. I was telling Dolores how much she was loved, how good she was, where she was going, who was waiting for her, and who she would see.

We prayed the Hail Mary, Our Father and the Hail Holy Queen. In the moment, those prayers were comforting and seemed to communicate everything we needed: surrender, accompaniment, and hope for heaven.

Another prayer that came forth from my heart in those last moments was from the Divine Mercy Chaplet:

“For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.”

As we stood beside Dolores, each breath became harder and slower. This sweet little girl whose heart I had entrusted to Jesus and Mary months before was now completely in His hands. 

It is finished.

I have wondered what the people gathered at the crucifixion heard from Mary as she wept. What did her grief sound like as she watched her Son suffer and die? I won’t fully understand the piercing of her own heart, but in a very small way, I understand the mystery of what it meant to stand at the foot of a cross, watch your child suffer, and take their last breath.

For the next hour, we simply held her. We wept. We kissed her lifeless body. We poured out our tears over each other and over her onto our bed. God does not waste a single tear that we shed. He does not waste our prayers. He does not waste our suffering. I’m continuing to learn that He does not waste even the smallest act of love.

When it was time for Dolores to be transferred, I carefully took a beautiful blanket that had been gifted to her and swaddled her. I put on the most beautiful bow. And again, I was reminded of Jesus. When His body was taken down from the cross, it was cared for with such reverence and love. He was wrapped and prepared with tenderness.

I was reminded to do the same for Dolores. How sacred even caring for our bodies can be. Even a body that no longer has breath is worthy of reverence and love.

Death is not the end. Christ conquered sin and death through His Passion, death, and Resurrection.

“Death is swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? … But thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

1 Corinthians 15:55, 57

Jesus has conquered death. Dolores belongs to Him. She is no longer suffering. She is no longer struggling to breathe. She is no longer separated from the One who created her and loved her from the very beginning.

“Therefore, my beloved brothers and sisters, be firm, steadfast, always fully devoted to the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”

1 Corinthians 15:58

She fought the good fight. She finished the race. She kept the faith. She has received her crown.

Dolores, pray for us.