Pope Francis’ Doctor Speaks Out: The Emotional Last Moments And The Staff’s Painful Decision
The silence in the Vatican was deafening that night.
For days, Pope Francis had been battling a sudden respiratory complication that escalated faster than anyone expected. At 88, the pontiff was no stranger to frailty, but his resilience had always pulled him through. Until now.
Dr. Emilio Rinaldi, the Pope’s personal physician for over a decade, had been at his side every step of the way. In an emotional statement to reporters, his voice trembling, he shared what no one else could—the intimate final hours of the Holy Father’s life and the unbearable decision that shattered the hearts of everyone in the room.
“He kept whispering prayers… not for himself, but for us,” Rinaldi said. “Even in pain, he was thinking about the world, about the Church. That was Francis—selfless, serene, always giving.”
As the Pope’s condition worsened, his breathing grew shallow, and the team faced a grave crossroads: whether to attempt an aggressive intubation or allow the pontiff to pass peacefully, as he had requested in a handwritten letter kept in his nightstand—a letter none of them wanted to open, let alone follow.
Around 2:45 AM, surrounded by his closest aides, two nuns who had cared for him since Buenos Aires, and a handful of tearful cardinals, Pope Francis opened his eyes one last time. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, managing a faint smile. “I am going home.”
Dr. Rinaldi described it as both holy and harrowing. “We knew what he meant. He didn’t want machines. He wanted dignity. And we had to let him go.”
The staff, many of whom had known him since the start of his papacy, stood frozen as the monitor’s beeping slowed. Some turned away, others wept openly. The Pope’s hand rested in Dr. Rinaldi’s palm, still warm.
“We were trained to save lives,” the doctor said, “but that night, our calling was to let a great soul depart with peace.”
Just before dawn, the bells of St. Peter’s rang out—quietly, mournfully—signaling to those awake that something had changed. In the minutes that followed, the Vatican corridors filled with quiet footsteps, whispers, and prayers.
Inside his private chamber, a white rose was placed on the Pope’s chest, and the letter he had written—titled If I Am Called Home—was left by his side.
The words of that letter remain private. But Dr. Rinaldi did share one line: “Let the Church live on with joy, not grief. I am only going ahead to prepare the rest.”
As the sun rose over Rome, casting golden light on St. Peter’s Basilica, a world prepared to mourn a man who never feared death—only failing to serve.
