Danielle Cathleen Alvarez was my only child. She was born on August 5, 1993, and from the moment she came into this world, she was light. Pure, joyful, unconditional light.

She had special needs due to a delayed birth. But Danielle never let that stop her from loving the world with everything she had. On weekdays, she loved going to the nursing home to serve breakfast and lunch to the elderly. She would hug them, smiling with happiness. That was Danielle — she had a heart of gold and she loved everyone.

She adored children. She loved to be surrounded by kids, laughing, playing, handing out hugs like she had an endless supply. She never ran out.

She loved bowling. She was healthy. She was strong. She was mine.

Every single night of her 28 years on this earth, Danielle came home to me. Until they took that from her.

On August 27, 2021, I brought my daughter to a hospital with a cough. Just a cough. I held her hand walking through those doors. I kissed her forehead. I believed with everything in me that I would bring her home.

COVID policies locked me out of that hospital on September 1st. My baby, who had never spent a night in a hospital, was left completely alone. Restrained. Tied to the bed. Terrified. She pulled at her tubes trying to find me. They did not call me. They did not let me come. The records show she became malnourished because I was no longer there to feed her.

For 13 days I screamed her name in my heart.

By the time it was over, she had been on a ventilator for 32 days. She suffered a heart attack, and I was never told. The drugs found in her blood at death were nearly 5 times the level found in George Floyd's blood — given by a hospital, without her mother's consent.

On October 6, 2021, Danielle died. She was 28 years old. She was alone. I never felt her hand in mine again. I never got to say goodbye.

The hospital sent me a bill for $648,571.

I have spent nearly five years fighting for her. I taught myself to file legal documents at midnight so her case would not die with a deadline. I have cried on courtroom floors. I have gotten back up every single time.

Because that is what mothers do. And because Danielle spent her whole life loving everyone around her. I could not let her life go in vain.

I have an active case in court right now. The evidence is real. But I cannot fight a powerful hospital system alone and without resources.

Every dollar you give goes directly to fighting for Danielle's justice. Nothing else. Every dollar is for her.

If Danielle touched your heart, if you believe a young woman with special needs deserved better, please give what you can. Please share her story. Please say her name.

She served the elderly. She hugged the children. She loved with her whole heart.

She deserved to come home.

Danielle Cathleen Alvarez

August 5, 1993 — October 6, 2021

My only child. My whole world. Forever loved.

Rebecca Charles Jackson — Danielle's mother

917-406-5393

rebeccacharles.substack.com