n my simple existence, I am driven by one reality: to tell my life story.
Since I can remember, I have been in a constant battle with life - in search of health and a reason to live.

During my first few years on this earth, everything seemed easy. Unfortunately, that feeling only lasted a short time - with the onset of physical pain and suffering at an early age it was as if a dark, stormy sadness began to roll in and erase the ease I had once felt. I started a fight to stay alive. Nothing was preventing me from leaving this world, having such poor health at my young age, left the world with little meaning.

For those of you reading this, I’ll start with what might be of interest to you. My first memory comes to me, when I was standing next to my grandmother’s room. We used to live very close to my grandparents’ house, in an apartment they owned. My older brother and I used to play with the cushions in the living room –we would pretend they were snow sleds and slide down the stairs. We also used to play in the back of a Ford pickup truck my dad owned, too. I have such fond memories of those times.

Another time, I remember, my brother and I were playing outside, he was trying to chase me down and tackle me. We were pushing each other when suddenly an old woman, with an unfamiliar face, appeared out of nowhere. She looked tired and sad and her clothes were old and torn. She came up to us and said she was going to rob us. For my brother and I it was the scariest thing. We both screamed “Papa! Mama!” and they both came running. Once my parents got there, the woman smiled at them, turned and left.

When I was six months old I was diagnosed with a serious type of leukemia. I lived with chronic fevers and blood test after blood test. At that time, the doctors gave me six months to live. They sent my test results to Rochester, NY (U.S.A) in hope for a cure, but we never heard back from them. In the meantime, I continued to work with a treatment that a family friend would send us from another country. At the hospital, the doctors gave me weekly blood exams to test the stages of the disease, each time pricking a different finger. My father says that when I was a little boy and we would pass by the street where the doctor’s office was, even if we weren’t going there, I would cry and show him my pricked finger.

My grandfather’s patron saint was Martin de Porres of Lima, Peru. I don’t remember my grandfather much, but I carry him in my heart as if I had known him my entire life. He was the one who made my father promise he’d pilgrimage to Lima asking for my cure. The image and memory of St. Martin has accompanied me throughout my life ever since. >>