“Be Careful. Don’t Engage.” The Last Call Alex Pretti’s Parents Will Never Forget — and the Patient Stories That Are Rewriting His Final Days
Two days before he was killed on a Minneapolis street, Alex Pretti was on the phone with his parents, talking about something ordinary: a garage door repair. It was the kind of conversation families have all the time—practical, familiar, quietly loving. There were no speeches. No foreshadowing. Just a son updating his parents about home repairs and a generous tip he’d left for the worker who helped him.
Now, that call has become one of the most painful touchstones in a story that has shaken Minnesota and reached far beyond it.
Alex Pretti, a 37-year-old ICU nurse at the Minneapolis VA Hospital, was killed on January 24 during a federal enforcement operation. In the days since, competing narratives have raced through the public square. But amid the arguments and investigations, something quieter—and arguably more revealing—has emerged: the voices of the people who knew him best in his final days. His parents. His patients. And a physician who tried to save his life.
Together, their words are reshaping how many Americans understand who Alex Pretti was—and what was lost.
A Father’s Warning, a Son’s Acknowledgment
Alex’s parents, Michael Pretti and Susan Pretti, told reporters they had spoken with their son just days before his death. The conversation drifted from the garage door to the city’s tense atmosphere. Alex had mentioned plans to attend demonstrations connected to events unfolding in Minneapolis.
Michael remembers offering advice that now echoes with unbearable clarity.
“Go ahead and protest,” he told his son, according to the family. “But don’t engage. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Alex didn’t argue. He didn’t dismiss the concern. His father says he understood immediately.
“He knew that,” Michael recalled. “He knew.”
It wasn’t a command. It was a parent’s instinct—protective, measured, grounded in the knowledge that crowded situations can turn unpredictable. At the time, it sounded like caution. In hindsight, it feels like a line drawn just short of disaster.
The Call That Ended Like Every Other
When the Presttis spoke again, they didn’t rehash protests or politics. They talked about the garage door repairman—Latino, hardworking—and the $100 tip Alex had left.
That detail has stayed with his parents.
To them, it captured their son’s character in a single gesture: thoughtful, generous, attentive to the human being in front of him. It’s the same quality his patients describe when they talk about his care.
There was nothing unusual about the call. And that’s what makes it so devastating. No warning sirens. No sense that it would be their last.
The ICU Where Alex Did His Best Work
At the Minneapolis VA Hospital, Alex worked with veterans facing the most critical moments of their lives. ICU nursing demands technical precision and emotional steadiness. Colleagues have described Alex as someone who brought both.
One of his recent patients, Air Force veteran Marta Crownheart, remembers him not as a headline but as a presence.
“I had a real bad day,” she said. “He sat in my room for over 20 minutes, holding my hand, talking to me, letting me know things were going to be OK.”
Crownheart believed she had suffered a stroke. Fear took over. When Alex learned she hadn’t, he came back immediately to tell her—calmly, gently—what the results meant.
“He treated me like I was his only patient,” she said. “And I knew I wasn’t. He treated every vet like they were his only patient.”
That approach—unhurried, human—made a mark that outlasted the shift.
Comfort as a Skill, Not a Slogan
Another veteran who had seen Alex just two weeks earlier told a similar story. He remembered a nurse who didn’t rush, who explained, who listened. Comfort wasn’t something Alex advertised; it was something he practiced.
Patients recall small moments that mattered: a chair pulled closer, a steady voice, a prayer offered when fear crept in. Those details don’t appear in charts, but they linger long after discharge.
It’s why, when videos circulated showing Alex honoring a veteran who had passed—standing with quiet respect—so many recognized him immediately. For his patients, that gentleness wasn’t new. It was consistent.
A Sister’s Grief, a Family’s Resolve
Alex’s younger sister, Micayla Pretti, spoke publicly for the first time days after his death. Her words were simple and devastating.
“Alex always wanted to make a difference in this world,” she said. “It’s devastating that he won’t be here to witness the impact he was making.”
For the Presttis, grief is intertwined with frustration. They have rejected official descriptions of the incident that they say don’t align with what witnesses and videos show. In a statement, they described Alex as a “kindhearted soul” and said early accounts felt unrecognizable.
They confirmed his death through the medical examiner after struggling to get answers. The process, they say, added confusion to an already unbearable loss.
Witnesses and the Moments That Followed
As legal filings accumulate, witness accounts have added detail to what unfolded on the street. One woman, who says Alex had helped direct her where to park amid the chaos, described him filming with his phone and attempting to support observers who were being threatened with chemical spray.
According to her account, Alex raised his hands. He was sprayed again. He was pushed. When a woman nearby was knocked to the ground, Alex moved to help her up.
“It didn’t look like he was trying to resist,” she wrote in a sworn statement. “Just trying to help.”
Another witness—a licensed pediatrician—said he rushed forward to provide medical aid after Alex was down. He identified himself and asked to help. He says he was delayed while agents asked for credentials. When he finally reached Alex, he did not see anyone checking for a pulse or beginning life-saving measures.
“I didn’t feel a pulse,” the physician said. He began CPR until emergency medical services arrived.
These accounts are now part of ongoing legal proceedings and calls for independent review.
Words That Hurt More Than Anything
For patients like Marta Crownheart, the legal debate is not abstract. It’s personal.
“I think what hurt worse than anything,” she said, “was hearing those labels used about him.”
She paused before continuing.
“That hurt worse than anything. It broke my heart.”
Crownheart isn’t analyzing policies or tactics. She’s measuring words against memories: a nurse holding her hand when she thought her life was changing forever. A calm voice telling her she was going to be OK.
For her, the distance between those memories and the language that followed Alex’s death feels vast.
Why These Stories Matter Now
As investigations continue, there will be more documents, more footage, more arguments. But history is also shaped by testimony—the kind that comes from hospital rooms and family kitchens.
The last call with his parents reveals a son who listened, who respected caution, who didn’t dismiss concern. The patient stories reveal a nurse who practiced care in its most basic form: presence.
These details don’t resolve every question about what happened that day. But they do something equally important. They restore dimension.
Beyond the Headlines
Public tragedies often compress people into symbols. They become either heroes or villains, depending on the narrative of the moment. The accounts emerging about Alex Pretti resist that flattening.
They show a man who fixed a garage door, tipped generously, warned to be careful—and acknowledged the warning. A nurse who stayed longer than required. A brother and son whose absence now echoes through a family and a hospital.
As one veteran put it quietly outside the VA, “He made me feel safe when I wasn’t.”
What Remains
The Presttis say they are heartbroken and angry. They want answers. They want clarity. But they also want their son to be remembered as he was.
In the end, the last call matters not because it predicted tragedy, but because it reveals love in its most ordinary form. A parent saying “be careful.” A son saying “I know.”
And the patient stories matter because they show impact—not in slogans or statements, but in lives steadied during moments of fear.
Those who cared for Alex Pretti’s memory now carry a responsibility: to keep the conversation grounded in humanity, even as the facts are sorted and the process unfolds.
Because before the arguments, before the footage, before the investigations, there was a nurse in an ICU, holding a patient’s hand, saying, “You’re going to be OK.”
