The father’s account

We have been friends with the Ballester family since Pedro’s father, also called Pedro, and I were at university together. We were very close to the family throughout young Pedro’s illness. Since his death, I have entrusted our four children to his care in a particular way. Time and again, I have seen how lovingly and faithfully he carries out this “assignment”. I also turn to him when “special situations” arise, such as the one I am finally putting into writing. I should say at the outset that, given the time that has passed and the emotional strain we were under, some details in this account may be imprecise.

It was August 2022. My wife, our four children and I were spending a few days on holiday at my parents-in-law’s house. As well as relaxing, we were helping them with maintenance jobs around the property. Our stay also coincided with my wife’s birthday, which we always celebrated in style. One hot afternoon, our children had gone to the swimming pool on the estate while their mother, my sister-in-law and I were doing some repairs and painting walls. Suddenly, one of our daughters called, urging us to come to the sports facilities immediately. Emergency medical help was already on its way because our youngest daughter was very unwell. Our son, who was then a medical student, had resuscitated her. We had to hurry.

We were there within minutes. A helicopter and an ambulance had already arrived. Our youngest daughter was unconscious, intubated and convulsing on a stretcher. They were quickly taking her into the ambulance. It looked very bad. I remember asking Pedro to look after her as soon as I saw her. She had lost consciousness in the water. Her brother and sister had pulled her out of the pool, and my son had performed CPR.

The drive to the hospital seemed endless. The doctors told us that they did not know what had happened, that they needed to carry out tests, and that she was stable. After a while, they allowed my wife and me into the treatment bay. Our daughter was still unconscious — I think because she had been sedated — intubated and cold, terribly cold. Soon she began convulsing again. We called the doctor, who asked us to step outside. That was when I realised she could die. My heart broke. Once again, I asked Pedro to look after her, using words I think are best left unrecorded. From that moment, I felt an indescribable peace.

I sensed that same peace in my wife and our children. It was an extraordinary grace. It was more than accepting what might happen — and what I feared was going to happen. Somehow, everything that was happening seemed wonderful to me. I thanked God for the gift of those almost eighteen years with our youngest daughter, and I thanked Pedro for that inner peace.

The doctors then told us that she needed to be admitted to intensive care. There were no beds available at that hospital, however, so they were transferring her to another one. We followed her there. The care we received from the medical staff was outstanding. At the second hospital, the head of intensive care spoke to us. Our son explained exactly what had happened, and our daughter was admitted. We went in to see her; she was still unconscious. The doctor reassured us, took our telephone numbers and advised us to go home and rest. It was already late at night, and relatives could only visit the intensive care unit at set times.

It was the eve of my wife’s birthday. On our way home, the doctor called to say that he had brought our daughter round, that her vital signs were good, and that we could visit the next day. We remained very calm, fully accepting whatever might lie ahead.

The following day, we were overjoyed to see her awake. There was a sign on the wall wishing my wife a happy birthday. On waking, our daughter had asked what day it was and told the nurses that it was her mother’s birthday. It was deeply moving.

Although she was awake, her voice sounded strange and she seemed rather absent. She also kept repeating the same questions and phrases. We began to fear that she might have suffered serious lasting damage, and I asked Pedro to keep looking after her and to help us care for her. She spent several more days in intensive care, gradually improving, until we received the good news that she could move to a normal ward. There, her speech returned completely to normal, and she seemed as though nothing had happened. She remembered nothing of the incident, though, and still has no recollection of it years later.

The diagnosis was inconclusive. The doctor said it might be epilepsy. After a few days on the ward, she was discharged on 22 August, prescribed medication for epilepsy and given a follow-up appointment with neurology. We kept asking Pedro to look after her and were happy that, apparently, she had suffered no lasting effects.

After a few more days at my mother-in-law’s house, we returned home. Among other things, our youngest daughter needed to move into her university hall of residence and begin her studies. Everything seemed to be proceeding normally. She led an ordinary life, going running, playing football and so on. The neurologists ruled out epilepsy altogether, so her medication was stopped. We still did not know what had caused her collapse.

Some months later, at a check-up, the doctor told us that she had noticed something unusual on the electrocardiogram and referred our daughter to cardiology. There, they discovered that she was having a very large number of abnormal heart rhythms. If I remember correctly, she was fitted with a Holter monitor. Those investigations, together with other tests and specialised analyses, eventually established, in February 2023, that she had a form of Andersen–Tawil syndrome, which had also caused her collapse. This is a rare genetic condition characterised, among other things, by abnormal heart rhythms that can lead to sudden death.

I am quite certain that Pedro intervened. I do not know whether this could be verified as a miracle, but I am sure that it was thanks to him that our youngest daughter survived and had no further episodes before she began treatment. Above all, I felt his hand in the indescribable peace with which we faced the situation. Today, four years later, she leads an almost entirely normal life.

The daughter’s account

As my father has explained, I remember nothing of that afternoon, but I would like to tell you how I experienced everything that followed. It was summer and, as we did every August, we were staying in the village. It was a hot afternoon. My last memory is of putting on my red swimsuit — my favourite at the time. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed and noticing that everyone was being especially affectionate and seemed very emotional about seeing me. I could not quite understand why: I thought I was in hospital because I had “just fainted”. The days passed, family friends kept coming to visit, and eventually I was discharged.

We returned home and, a few days later, I began the university life I had been so looking forward to. Everything carried on as normal: meeting people, joining the football team at my hall of residence, making endless plans, getting little sleep — basically, never stopping. The months went by, filled with medical tests. I did not really understand what they were doing, but I went along with it all.

Then came the test that changed everything. It was a neurological examination, but the doctor noticed some abnormalities in my heart rhythm. After yet another seemingly endless series of tests, they concluded that I had a variant of Andersen–Tawil syndrome. I was told over the telephone and given an appointment so that they could explain everything properly. At that appointment, they told me that the condition caused abnormal heart rhythms, that it explained my collapse in August, and that under no circumstances could I take part in any sport involving cardiovascular exercise. That last point came as a real shock: as I have mentioned, I was playing for the football team and attending regular training sessions. That was when I began to think seriously about what had happened to me. I started wondering whether I must have had some “extra help” to come through it without any lasting damage.

My academic year continued quite normally, but that thought kept nagging at me. I began looking up which saints’ feast days fell around the date of the incident, searching for an answer, but found nothing. Some months later, on 7 July 2023, I went to Mass with my sister. Afterwards, I noticed that she was saying the prayer on a Pedro Ballester prayer card. At the time, I thought of him simply as the son of Dad’s friend who had died of cancer, and for whom I had prayed so much when he was ill. For no particular reason — since I knew nothing of everything he had done for me — I asked her to pass me the card. Since 8 July 2023, not a day has gone by without my saying that prayer. From then on, the nagging feeling disappeared.

Over the following year, I read the book about him, watched documentaries and even went to a talk given by his brother. I could not quite explain my sudden interest in Pedro, but somehow I found peace in him. Summer came, and I went to spend a few days with my sister. One day, while we were out walking, she asked me — I cannot quite remember why — about my strong devotion to him. Quite naturally, I replied: “Honestly, I don’t know. I just feel as though I owe him a great deal.” That was when she told me everything you have just read.

Her sister’s account

I am the sister who was with her at the swimming pool on 16 August. As has already been explained, it was an ordinary summer day. The afternoon was very hot, and I had urged my younger sister and our brother to come to the pool. Once there, the three of us spent quite a while swimming and playing games in the water. At one point, my sister went underwater and came back up floating face down. We thought she was joking and told her it was not funny. But she remained motionless. I looked at my brother, and we both knew something had happened. Somehow, we found the strength to pull her unconscious from the pool. I shouted for the lifeguard, to whom I am deeply grateful: together, he and my brother did so much to help her.

The minutes passed, and my sister was not responding. At times she was breathing, but at other moments her face turned purple. Her eyes were open. I remember crouching down at one point, looking into her eyes and telling her that everything was all right, that we were there to help her. I did not know whether she could hear me, but I needed to have that moment with my little sister. It was then that I realised something was seriously wrong.

Things were not improving. Her cries terrified me, although at the same time they reassured me because they meant she was breathing. They were heart-rending, and it was agonising not to understand what was happening to her. I called for an ambulance. The person who answered did not seem very willing to help, and I told her that I did not want to watch my sister die and that she had to do something immediately. Eventually, two ambulances and a helicopter arrived. In all the commotion, I had lost track of time. My brother gestured to me to call our parents. I told them to come to the pool because our youngest sister was not very well, but I did not go into detail. Before they arrived, I went to collect our things. That was when I stopped, looked up at the sky and said: “Pedro, please.”

When my parents arrived, I went over to them and told them that she was in a bad way and that seeing her would be a shock. It was when my mother looked at her that the full reality struck me. I had not stopped to think what it would mean for my parents to see their daughter like that, knowing they could lose her at any moment. They took my sister away. I remember travelling to the hospital and messaging two friends whom I knew would be checking their phones. I sent them Pedro’s prayer card and said: “Pray to Pedro for my sister. We’ll talk when things are calmer.” They both began praying straight away.

On the way to the hospital, I knew that my sister was going to survive, but I felt almost certain that she would be left with some lasting damage. So I asked Pedro: “Let her be just as she was.” I think I must have said the prayer on his card about a hundred times that day. I have known it by heart ever since. I felt a strength and peace that I cannot explain. I was anxious, but at the same time I knew that Pedro was with us. He was looking after my sister, and also my parents, my brother and me.

When I visited my sister after she had moved to the ward, she seemed as though nothing had happened. It was incredible, because the last images I had of her were so different. I felt deeply grateful to Pedro: he had granted both the things I had asked of him. She was well, and she had suffered no lasting damage. But because there was still no clear diagnosis, I continued praying to him every day to look after her. Each day felt like a gift. Finally, in February of the following year, we received a diagnosis. We could all breathe a little more easily. I realised then that Pedro had continued looking after my sister throughout that time. To this day, I still pray to him every day, asking him to care for her.

The following summer, my sister came to spend a few days in Madrid. After Mass, as usual, I said the prayer on Pedro’s card, asking him to look after her, and she asked me for the card. When we came out of Mass, she asked whether I had asked Pedro to heal her on 16 August. I told her I had. She said she had felt a kind of strength drawing her towards him, and I knew then that Pedro had been with her all along.