“Swinging for the fences”: Lessons from my younger brother on living and dying

December 12, 2021, was the day my younger brother’s scan revealed the hard news that the pain in his left hip—which he jokingly called “a giant tumor”—was indeed precisely that.

For months, he had attributed the pain to his age and hiking, self-treating it with yoga, physical therapy, and a massage gun. His giant tumor turned out to be a chondrosarcoma, a rare and deadly cancer. Dan Hurley was 48, happily married to his wife Traci, father to three talented children, and a successful and sought-after ENT doctor at the largest ENT group in Arizona, which he had co-founded years ago. A year and a half later, Dan left this world for the next.

Having the scan on December 12th, the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, had special significance because of Dan’s constant devotion to Mary.

When he was about 10 years old, he read a book about Mary that sparked a lifelong deep relationship with her. Dan was not one to call attention to his faith, but he always wore his miraculous medal under his shirt, and he talked about Mary as his “go-to” for everything, corresponding with his favorite Rosary mystery “The Wedding at Cana.” In the last year of his life, he told me he had said the Hail Mary more than any other prayer, and in the intense suffering of his final weeks, he wanted us to say the Rosary aloud for him when he could no longer say the prayers out loud himself.

Dan never asked, “Why me?” He asked exactly the opposite: “Why not me?” He always said he had more resources than most to deal with his tumor. As a physician, he had connections in health care, giving him access to timely treatment with the best doctors available. He also knew how to fight insurance denials and whom to contact for assistance. He had the resources to pay for medical tests when prior authorization was denied. He had a loving wife (also a physician) who took an indefinite sabbatical to care for him, and he had the love and support of his children, parents, and siblings.

No discussion of Dan’s faith life would be complete without mentioning his Jewish wife Traci’s love and support of him and their three children. Before they were married, the question arose of how Traci would feel about her children being raised Catholic. Her reaction embodied the expansiveness of her love: she said she loved Dan as a Catholic, so why wouldn’t she love their children as Catholics too? She jokingly added that since the kids would be Catholic, the dogs would be Jewish.

Years later, Dan was in Costco and could not resist purchasing an Advent calendar with daily dog treats. He called to tell me about his purchase and said, “I’m pretty sure that was a violation of our initial agreement for Catholic kids and Jewish dogs.” But fortunately, Traci and the dogs thoroughly enjoyed the novelty. All humor aside, Dan and Traci had one of the strongest, happiest marriages ever, largely due to their deep friendship and respect for each other. Their differences in faith were never an obstacle to their love.

Even before his diagnosis, Dan would frequently say that if it all ended tomorrow, he still considered himself one of the luckiest people in the world with all the blessings in his life. And Dan never worried about the future. One of his most repeated lessons to his kids was that we are not in as much control as we think we are, so there’s no point in worrying about what we cannot control. Amidst all the pain, suffering, and sadness of almost certainly leaving his beloved family behind, Dan never lost the gratitude that was so characteristic of him. Or his sense of humor: for Christmas, he gave his 88-year-old father a classy wooden cane matching one he had purchased for himself. They both needed canes, and as Dad unwrapped the gift, Dan explained that one of the benefits of his condition was the chance to have matching canes with his dad.

Dan was known to his patients as a kind and attentive doctor, and his wife Traci talks about regularly encountering his patients in stores, on planes, in restaurants—patients expressing gratitude for his goodness to them. Less known is how he showered generosity on others during his life, often in hidden ways. He quietly slipped large tips into the hands of the people cleaning airport restrooms and other hard workers who rarely receive tips. Traci recalls Dan learning that their Uber driver had an eight-year-old son and spontaneously getting online from the back seat of the car to order him a rocket.

Many examples of Dan’s thoughtfulness to others came to light at his visitation when the recipients of his kindness shared stories of how he touched their lives. A single mom spoke about how Dan impacted her son’s life, including him in family activities such as building a tree house. The posts of patients on his obituary page revealed his genuine care and concern for others.

Dealing with his own pain and suffering did not stop Dan from his constant habit of thinking of others and trying to improve their lives. Throughout his medical career, he had witnessed insurance denials and delays for patients who had consistently paid their insurance premiums. This injustice to vulnerable patients and their families lit a fire under Dan, who was determined to use his talents and gifts to fight for insurance reform.

In February 2022, Dan underwent an eight-hour surgery to remove half his pelvis, replacing it with a titanium one. A long, hard recovery followed, in which he learned to walk again, first with a walker and later with a cane. He used this recovery time, despite his own pain and challenges, to take the LSAT and start law school, hoping that a JD would aid him in his fight for justice. These activities, at a time when his own future seemed limited and bleak, demonstrate Dan’s determination and his selfless spirit. He knew he probably would not be around long, so the fight was not for himself: Dan was fighting for other patients, most of whom he would never know.

When Dan was nominated by his pastor to visit Lourdes with the Knights of Malta, he suggested that maybe someone else needed the trip more than he did. I remember him telling me about the invitation and how he had not considered going until he was invited. He said that it was sort of like his life: “Things just happen to me. I don’t really plan things out; I just end up having these good things.”

In May 2023, Dan and Traci visited Lourdes. Dan was as open to not having a miracle as he was to having a miracle. His primary concern was that someone close to him might lose faith if he was not healed following his pilgrimage. On that trip, his pain intensified so much that after his return home, he could not attend the entirety of his daughter’s college graduation. His condition deteriorated rapidly from then on. Dan joked that he had thought Mary would be a little gentler with him.

On the face of it, Dan’s increased pain and worsening condition following his intercession to Mary at Lourdes might seem incongruous, but there’s more to consider. Dan’s experience at Lourdes was similar to that of St. Zelie Martin, the mother of St. Therese of Lisieux. Zelie declined rapidly following her pilgrimage to Lourdes, dying a few months later. Dan had asked Mary to be with him at the hour of his death countless times throughout his life in every Hail Mary he breathed. Mary honored his petition by preparing him for death with the sacraments and carrying him through the intense suffering of his final weeks, a purgatory before death. Mary was there the whole time, attending to Dan’s soul and ensuring that he was surrounded by his loving family in his final weeks and at the moment of death. A week before his death, Dan expressed frustration about being stuck in the hospital, finishing his thought with “I know! Mary can get me out!” She was his “go-to” right up until the end.

In The Choice of God, Hubert Van Zeller writes: “Saints are not people who are constantly discovering new things to give to God, new horrors to inflict upon themselves, new worlds to conquer for Him. They are people who let God take, who let Him arrange the matter of suffering, who let Him do the conquering.” In other words, sanctity is not about adding penances to our lives (there are plenty of built-in opportunities) or doing great things for God. Sanctity is more in line with Mother Teresa’s “I accept whatever He gives, and I give whatever He takes.” We tend to think of sanctity as something esoteric, something otherworldly. Van Zeller is telling us that sanctity is about letting go and letting God.

Dan accepted. He let God arrange his life, not only the many blessings but also the intense suffering. It was not easy. Excruciating pain, sleeplessness, shortness of breath, vomiting, tremors, hair loss, loss of independence and the list goes on. Countless tears were shed by Dan and the rest of us. But Dan often quipped that it’s not up to us to determine how and when we will die. He never gave up in his efforts to live, always “swinging for the fences” as he said. His fight to live showed Traci, his children, and all of his family his deep love. He showed that he was willing to endure tremendous suffering to be with us if that’s what God wanted. But when it became evident that God had other plans, Dan accepted his suffering until the end, saying, “It’s time to die” the day before he died. On August 3, 2023, Dan passed away at the age of 50.

In Dan’s hospital backpack, his wife Traci discovered a eulogy he had written in the hospital unbeknownst to any of his family. The eulogy was not about himself but primarily an expression of gratitude for blessings from God and a reminder to all of us that “there is a plan that is bigger than any of us” and to “trust in God to show us the way and the why.” Dan gave us all a lesson in how to die and in how to live: to let God “do the conquering” as Van Zeller says.

Dan, my dear brother and friend, your example is a tremendous gift to all of us. You reminded us of your continued presence in our lives in your final handwritten notes from your hospital bed: “I will continue to be as present as possible and am a part of you that will continue no matter what.” This treasured message reflects what our faith teaches us about the communion of saints. We are all in this together, and we know that you, Dan, are thinking of us and interceding for us as we move closer to resting in God’s peace with you for eternity. As you said to us from your hospital bed, “See you on the other side.”