On April 7, 2003. Dr. Litzow, James’ primary doctor at Mayo Clinic, with grief written all over his face, explained to us that the leukemia had returned. Four years and 3 days later, after being diagnosed with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia , James was told that this time the leukemia had returned in a different form, that being Acute Lymphomic Leukemia. We hugged, we cried. They wanted him in the hospital immediately to begin treatment, but James asked the doctor for 24 hours. His wish was granted. We spent that day doing some good things...visit to Wal-Mart for basics because of an unexpected hospital stay, Quizno’s (James loved their sandwiches), Country Inn and Suites stay overnight (all too familiar surroundings) and a traditional pre-entry meal at Outback Steak House. (We went there four years ago with the family prior to his transplant.) Laura Groen, James’ girl friend, and Leanne, James’ older sister, returned to school and work after devotions, hugs, and many tears. Dr. Litzow wanted James in the hospital no later than 5 p.m., so arm in arm, we took an all too familiar walk east of the motel walking through grass and weeds, looking over an open field, and watching some geese. It was a quiet walk, each of us in our own world of frightening thoughts of what was to come, and yet confident that we were not alone. We knew and felt God’s presence and peace, even though our insides were turning and twisting. We talked and enjoyed just being outside where we could still feel the warmth of the sun, the breeze blowing our hair, and the grass between our toes. It was good.

As we made our way to the hospital, James said, "I feel like I am admitting myself into prison." I knew what he meant, in part. The hospital walls would deprive him of the sun, the breeze, the grass, the freedom of life outside its walls.. The walls have a way of closing in on you after so long, and the smell and sounds of others who were sick and receiving treatment as well were not where anyone would want to be. It was not easy taking those steps into those hospital doors. But we knew we had no choice. As James and I sat down, waiting to be admitted, he began to sing softly to me. I will always smile upon remembering that awesome time between son and mother when James sang, "When the cold winds blow all around." He blessed me. (Little did we know this song would become a theme song while in the hospital, and that his brother, Dan, would sing it at his funeral.)

When the cold wind blows all around
will you still love me, still love me
when the cold wind blows all around
will you still love me
when the lightning crashes hopes are dashed and I
am asking how this comes to me and why
when no home on earth can be found
will you still love me, still love me
when no home on earth can be found
will you still love me
when you left us last time you said you’d return
and I’m sorry that it takes so long to learn
that my hope is to walk forever in the coolness of the day
oh my hope is to walk forever in the coolness of the day...

With tears in eyes, we talked of cold wind and lightning, knowing that a storm was just around the corner. But we knew that we were committed to loving our God and trusting Him for all things, even in the midst of the strong cold winds that were coming our way, and the flash of lightning that would frighten us. So, with James’ back pack (intended for yet another trip to Europe) over his shoulder, we found a room on 7th floor at Methodist Hospital. We found ourselves within those walls for exactly one month for the first round. The leukemia, the treatments, the procedures, and the surgeries took its toll on James’ body. It reared its ugly head with a vengeance. The devastation of the "storm" was much worse than we had anticipated.

But my purpose here is not to tell you how difficult this journey was. My purpose here is to share with you that even though we found ourselves in the midst of an ugly disease with unbelievable side effects, James’ spirit was strong and courageous. His ministry during his illness spoke to everyone who entered his hospital room...his chaplain, his nurses, his doctors, his surgeons, the technologists, his friends, and his family. He was under the care of countless medical staff over those 3 months, and I witnessed how James’ strength, character, humor, gratitude, endurance, spirit, hope, faith, and love persevered each and every day.

Let me share just a few stories that may warm your hearts and perhaps cause you to catch a glimpse of how a young man of faith persevered against such a devastating illness which led up to his death on July 9, 2003. Actually, the test of faith began with a vengeance on April 11. To make a long story short, James had a hicman placed into his chest which is a device in which blood can be drawn from and treatment and meds, etc. can be given. During this procedure, diluted heparin is administered to prevent blood clots. A human error was made by administering concentrated heparin which caused James to bleed excessively. He was rushed to ICU and after extensive tests and constant supervision, the ICU staff realized what happened which could have cost him his life. Upon realization, the surgeon came to James’ bedside and with regret, explained what had happened during surgery. He said he took full responsibility for what had happened, and realized that it might have taken James’ life. He was sorry. Needless to say, we were stunned. Never had we encountered anything as scary as what had happened within those 4-5 hours. But within seconds, James looked into this surgeons agonizing eyes, and said with soft, compassionate voice, "You are forgiven."As the surgeons eyes filled with tears, he turned and looked at me. I echoed James’ words, "forgiven." In a world of insurmountable law suits and revenge, a lesson of love and forgiveness had been witnessed that day, and I believe, never forgotten.

James’ encounter with leukemia four years ago dramatically changed the way James looked at all of life. His life then was hanging by a thread, and we all knew it. I’ll never forget the explanation we were given by his doctor prior to the stem cell transplant. He told us that in order for a transplant to be effective, they would have kill all of James’ white cells, which are the infection fighters. They would take James as close to death as they possibly could without actually killing him. Post-transplant was a test of endurance and trust. But he survived! He had been given a new lease on life. He would live! But his total perspective on all of life changed, and so did ours. I believe he definitely looked at life as a gift to celebrate daily. And he did.

James savored life, and all the little things that we took for granted were no longer looked at in the same light. While in the hospital, he would make sure all of us, including the medical staff would take notice of the sunrise and the sunset. He would cause his nurses to stop working to see the rainbow, or to look at the leaves blowing on the tops of the trees. Each evening before I left , he would invite any nurse or technician present to hold hands and pray with us. And several did. We also played "Bible Trivia" with the staff, keeping points as we went along. Music was always in the air, and everyone that entered took an interest in which CD was playing. Of course, "Wister Dean" was a big hit for all those nurses close to James’ age. Countless incidents are clearly etched in my mind about his keen appreciation for nature and people. Let me share only a few.

The first occurred when the doctors had given us a afternoon pass out of the hospital. It was a beautiful spring day, and we were given permission to enjoy the outdoors for a bit. James and I spent a few hours just sitting on a patio where I had been staying. As we returned to the hospital, we walked arm and arm, enjoying the sun and the breeze. Looking at me from the corner of his eye, with that sly grin, I could tell he was going to do something that he really didn’t have permission for because his white counts were so low. He kicked off his sandal, and wiggled his toes between the blades of grass, and said, " Man, do I miss that, Mom. It feels so good." Another time he had to be transferred by ambulance from Methodist Hospital to St. Mary’s Hospital (about a mile away) to have the Omaya reservoir placed in his head. Lying on the gurney, totally covered with blankets and a mask over his nose and mouth, the ambulance personnel wheeled him from the exit doors of the hospital into the back of the ambulance. James knew he would only get a fleeting breath of fresh air, so, without notice (except for my watchful eye) he quickly removed the mask and took in one, gasp of fresh air, before replacing it with the stale mask and his own warm breath. I understood how the deprivation of the sun, the air, the breeze, the grass caused him to savor them, even if only for a moment in time.

James was quite sick most of the time. He was nauseated a great deal and could not hold his food down too well, or too often, for that matter. I remember one particular evening when he didn’t dare order any food for fear of seeing it a second time. He saw Tricia’s food however, and said, "Since I can’t eat it, may I just smell your food?" He took in a good whiff and commented, "Mmmm, Yummy." Those were definitely empty calaries, but he enjoyed them without complaint. His positive attitude about all the hardships he encountered continuously, spoke volumes to us all.

I also recall James’ birthday on April 26. He had been so sick prior to his birthday, and all of us had been hoping and fervently praying for a reprieve from being so ill. However, his birthday was no different. Even though we didn’t think he could get much sicker, he did. He ended up having a 20-minute slot where he actually sat up and smiled. So, we quickly fit in a birthday party as fast as we could. Laura, Ken, Tricia and Dan had all come to celebrate. However, the party was short lived, much to our disappointment. The following day, James commented, "Well, I had a pretty good birthday." Each of us looked at him as if he had lost all of his marbles, so I responded and said, "What do you mean by that, James?" He replied, "Well, I had all of you here, and I got a few presents." His expression of gratitude for a "good birthday" gave all of us something to think about.

Even though our long term goal was to go into remission in order for James to live a "normal life," every doctor and nurse in his care knew what his short term goal was. He wanted nothing more than to be able to "walk" on graduation day, May 9, 2003. Since his chemo treatments had begun immediately upon arrival, a May 9 release date was nip-and-tuck to hope his white counts would be high enough to leave the hospital. Providentially, James’ white cell count was high enough to be dismissed the morning of the 7th, but now James was dehydrated as well as suffering from a fever, backache, and a headache on the morning the doctors gave us permission to leave. But through prayer, rest, and IV antibiotics, we left Rochester by 230 pm, with graduation less than 2 days away. We were so exhausted, but full of thanks that he’d be able to walk.

Graduation Day was very symbolic of James attitude toward life ever since he was diagnosed 4 years ago. His physical condition had changed so much within only 30 days. He was thin, pale, and weak from the countless surgeries, procedures, treatments, meds and their side effects, all of which he encountered while in the hospital. But spirits were high, feeling pride, gratitude, and determination to "walk." James had been waiting near the bottom of the B.J. Haan Auditorium steps in a wheelchair until his name was called.. He climbed the 3 steps with successful effort, but when they called his name, he staggered across the stage, falling 3 different times and yet catching his 6'5" frame, in order to "walk"alone and receive his diploma. After catching himself the 3rd time, he faced the audience, stood tall and proud, and with great determination, announced to the congregation, "I can walk." James did walk! We were so grateful for the providential miracle that had taken place at BJ Auditorium that day. So humbly grateful mixed with parental pride. God was so good!

James was able to spend 3 weeks at home with the family and Laura. We celebrated! I believe that when most of society is asked what they think celebrating might cause them to think of, some obvious answers would be birthdays, Christmas, 4th of July, anniversaries, and the like. However, I believe that James gave celebration a new meaning, and his brother, sisters, Laura and parents definitely learned that celebration IS life. It is eating a cookie after dunking it slowly in a cup of milk; it is having a hagel sandwich with hagels melted to just the right texture; it is stopping everything to drink cappuccino with the family on a Saturday morning; it is wiggling your toes in the grass just because it feels so good; it is having a Caramel Machiato from Starbucks and toasting "To health and happiness" with your mom each time you shared a drink; it is walking between your mom and dad holding their hands just because you love them and appreciate them...it is taking your cap off just to feel the sun warm your head; it is lying on your back in the grass with your family, pointing out animal shapes in the clouds. The list goes on.

James and I returned to the hospital for the second round of treatment on May 29. We were anticipating being outpatients for the next 30 days, however, the leukemia was too strong, its side effects too many, and the treatment too familiar. James endured another month in the hospital until the leukemia took his life on July 9.

It may be difficult for any of you to imagine what a delight it was to be with James in the hospital every day for 3 months minus a few weeks, but I have such awesome, meaningful memories. Despite enduring continuous surgeries, procedures, treatments and their side effects, James amazed the medical staff, myself, family and friends with his unstoppable enthusiasm for life. He inspired and encouraged everyone. His smile, his wit, his zeal, his faith in God rarely wavered. His character just grew stronger, and became an inspiration to all.

James left this world with a song on his heart, a turkey sandwich and yogurt in his stomach, beautiful memories of family and friends, a time of devotions with mom, a lasting kiss on the forehead amd his last earthy "I love you, mom," on his tongue. He knew his Savoir and was at peace with the world. He had a determination to live. And he is alive! He is eternally alive in the presence of God himself.. However, his spirit, his love, his faith, his courage, his message of living life to the fullest lives on in our hearts and minds forever

II Timothy 7 and 8 comes to mind often. It says "I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race, and I have remained faithful. And now the prize awaits me, the crown of righteousness that the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give me on that great day..." He did fight a good fight! We are so proud of him. James remained faithful, no matter how difficult his journey of suffering became. Now he has the ultimate grand prize! He is the victor! James is free! He is in the presence of Jesus.. He is well. Praise God!

We love you, James.

Trudy and Ken

This past Thursday was graduation. My heart felt like it broke all over again knowing that my Sara would not be walking with the others receiving her diploma. It just hurts so bad not seeing the things that we have looked forward to our entire lives. I miss her!!!!I am going to now include my poem I wrote for Sara. I don't know how much of my story you want me to include but I'll try to do my best.

To my beautiful daughter, Sara Elizabeth Rojas, I miss you..............
I miss you Sara, my daughter, my friend, with all my heart and soul.
My life will never be the same again for I don't have you to hold.
I miss opening your bedroom door and seeing you lying there.
I miss lying there besides you running my fingers through your hair.
I miss our silly, and sometimes serious, talks about life.
I miss the way we'd dream about the day when you'd be someones wife.
I miss you saying "I love you Mommy" and hugging me so tight.
I miss the way you would come to me and kiss me goodnight.
I miss when we would sit together and eat sunflower seeds and watch the chargers play football and yell at the T.V.
I miss your laughter, your bright and contagious smile. Even when I was having a bad day ,your encouraging words, your gentle affection, would make me feel better, you always went that extra mile.
I know the day you left this world that it was your time to go.
Why God decided this, I do not know.
I try to be happy for you Sara, knowing your in such a beautiful place, walking with the angels and looking at Jesus' face!
I know one day I will join you and to you it's just a blink of an eye.
But, to me it seems like an eternity until we shall be together again and never have to say goodbye!
I will always miss you daughter and my tears will forever flow and I will live my life according to God's word until He says I too must go.
Until the day that I see you again my heart will forever be broke. I want someone to wake me and say this was an awful joke!!
If you ever look down upon me and see me in such pain , remember that I am crying for me and my memories down memory lane.
I know your happy Sara, for God has told me so. I know you're always going to be peaceful now because you are finally home!!
Just because I know these things doesn't mean it does not hurt me and tear my world apart, for I miss you and will always miss you and yearn for you in my heart.|
I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU PRINCESS, BUT EVEN THROUGH MY TEARS OF SORROW, I KNOW IT'S GOING TO BE O.K. BECAUSE GOD HAS PROMISED SARA AND KRISTINA THE MOST WONDERFUL TOMORROW!!