Here's what he said:
“In December, 1946, I was in French Hospital, New York, facing a serious operation. Paul Carey, one of my oldest and closest friends, was by my bed one night. - They’re going to operate in the morning, Babe, Paul said. -Don’t you think you ought to put your house in order? -I didn’t dodge the long, challenging look in his eyes. I knew what he meant. For the first time, I realized that death might strike me out. I nodded, and Paul got up, called in a chaplain, and I made a full confession. -I’ll return in the morning and give you Holy Communion, the chaplain said, -But you don’t have to fast.
-I’ll fast, I said. I didn’t have even a drop of water. -As I lay in bed that evening, I thought to myself what a comforting feeling to be free from fear and worries. I now could simply turn them over to God. Later on, my wife brought in a letter from a little kid in Jersey City. ‘Dear Babe,’ he wrote, ‘Everybody in the seventh grade class is pulling and praying for you. I am enclosing a medal, which if you wear will make you better. Your pal—Mike Quinlan. P.S. I know this will be your 61st homer. You’ll hit it.’ -I asked them to pin the Miraculous Medal to my pyjama coat. I’ve worn the medal constantly ever since. I’ll wear it to my grave.”
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