“Come on, Courtney, you’ve been running for hours,” groaned Sarah, my new best friend. Like George, she wasn’t much into athletics, but she was still my best friend.

We were outside at recess about halfway through the week. It had been three-almost four- years of recess racing. Being bumped up to a larger school meant a larger playground and parking lot. Michael Jordan had his court. David Beckham had his field. I, Courtney, had an abandoned parking lot with a bunch of screaming nine year olds on the side. Not exactly the best racing grounds on the face of the planet, but it was a start.

Since my fourth birthday, I had dreamed of running the Boston Marathon. Olympics were even acceptable. But I wanted that marathon. Of course, at the time, all I focused on was winning. Outrunning boys, girls, the occasional skunk (thank goodness I was never sprayed). It was so satisfying feeling my heart pound in my chest, my feet hitting the pavement, and the wind against my face. It was a childhood fantasy that I worked so hard to become a reality. I knew the times, the distances, the names of the record holders. There was even a brief moment when I considered asking my family to move to Ethiopia so I could learn from the best. I kept a stopwatch in my possession, almost at all times, just to record my progress.

And there was nothing Sarah hated more than running.

“I don’t get it,” she said to me one time. “You just run back and forth in a matter of fifteen seconds when you could just walk in forty.”

No matter how many times I tried to explain it to her, it only added more confusion. Though, I will admit, that she was very good with a stopwatch and helped keep track of my times. And, she was there for me when the incident happened.

It was the very year I described. My times were close to track times and I was in what I then considered the best shape of my life. Everything was perfect. There wasn’t one kid I couldn’t beat. Not one. Well, until the new girl moved in from Utah. She was fast. Really fast. And I knew I met my match.

She tied me the first round, so I declared a rematch. We tied again. Another rematch. We tied over and over. We spent the whole recess running back and forth until we were both nearly out of breath and dying from heat exhaustion. I looked her in the eye. One last run before recess was over.

I never ran so hard in my life. My chest heaved in pain and my vision blurred. But I kept running. My hands hit the fence seconds before hers did. I won! I had actually won! I congratulated her and she just gave me a strange glare.

Sarah ran over to me and shoved the stopwatch in my hand. “Are you alright?”

I never felt better in my life.

“Take a step forward.”

I did. It was as though a shark was eating off my leg all while my leg was being set on fire and put on needles. I stifled a scream. How had I not noticed earlier? Sarah put an arm around me and we walked slowly to the entrance doors. I declared that I was fine, but apparently my pale, pain-filled face wasn’t selling it. 

The nurse ruled it as a simple sprain and gave me ice. I hobbled back to the classroom, not even daring to look down. Eventually I did. Purples, blacks, blues, even some yellowish-greens decorated my ankle. And, it was as big as an orange. I hid it enough to play an easy game of lacrosse in gym class (not the best idea), but it was not enough for Inspector Mom.

“What did you do?”

I looked at her, took a seat, and then peeled off my sneaker. She could have passed out had she not been so prone to viewing ugly injuries. “It was a little race, that’s all.”

“It looked like you got attacked in a game of rugby.”

It did, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I was fine. The finals were tomorrow at recess, I needed to be at my top game mentally and physically if I wanted to beat Reese. I slid my sock back over it, careful not to cringe.

“I’m fine, Mom. Seriously.”

She didn’t believe me. As it was, I barely believed me. I was propped up on the couch with a mountain of pillows, a bag of ice on my foot, a cup of grape juice in one hand and the TV remote in the other. But here’s the cold irony of it all. I hate watching TV. I hate grape juice. And I hate people catering me. I was capable of doing things all on my own. But, I thanked her and fell asleep.

When I awoke, Mom was hovering over me as though I was her prey. “It still hasn’t gone down. Maybe some Advil?”

One more thing I hate- medicine, painkillers, etc.

I looked at her. “No thanks, I’ll wait it out.”

She bandaged it only to find out I’m allergic to a material in it. So came the knee high sock every night to wrap the bandage around it. I had at least won the battle to have it free during the school day. Unfortunately, I lost my next few races before deciding to resort to the jungle gym with Sarah, who didn’t say anything about it. 

After three and a half months of pain and suffering (and acting as though nothing was wrong), Mom finally decided on setting up a doctor’s appointment. I don’t recall his name, but he was an orthopedic surgeon. Instantly, as any nine year old would, I became worried that they were going to put me in surgery and chop off my leg like some kind of barbarian. Mom assured me they wouldn’t, but I still wasn’t sure as I hobbled into the building.

They didn’t chop it off. Instead a couple of doctors came in and poked at it, moved it this way and that, and ran several x-rays. Do you know how cool it is to see your own bones? Anyway, the actual doctor ruled out any break- a relief on both of our behalfs. He did see the swelling, which stayed as I kept walking on it, but couldn’t see a reason for it. His only concern was that my growth plates diffused too quickly, which is why I heard that nasty clicking sound whenever I put pressure on it. He gave me an ugly black brace for the time being. And orders to limit my walking.

I was deflated. How was I supposed to train to be a professional runner if I could barely walk down a hallway to my room?

But I wore the brace. A couple of my former opponents smiled and tried to comfort me. No one comfort me more than Sarah though. She was the only one who acted like nothing was wrong with me, and I admired it.

After a summer off, the ankle became a bit more tolerable and I began running again. It was painful at first, but I worked up the strength and became a regular “icer,” as I called it. Before long, I was back up to three and a half miles per run.

The finish line of the Boston Marathon and the ticket to the Olympics was back in my vision. Or so I thought anyway.

In early 2011, the swelling and bruising was befriended by weakness and numbness. I could be walking down the street and the next second my right ankle would be bent under me. Mom brought me back to the orthopedic surgeon, where we found out that he retired. We were sent to Boston Children’s Hospital.

Seeing the children of the hospital gave me strength. These children were battling most their lives and they seemed fine (this later led me to doing several suppers and fundraising events for these children). I could get through this too.

After a couple more x-rays, the doctor sent me to another building for MRIs. At first I thought the machine was devouring me like a hungry, man-eating monster. It was only taking pictures. After two of those, I was sent back to Boston Children’s where my fears were confirmed.

“A boot?” I turned to Mom and Dad.

“Only temporary, Cor.”

I rolled my eyes and let the nurse strap it on. Great. Just great.

I wore that boot through Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Right before Easter rolled around, I was sent back to Boston.

“I’m not seeing any improvement,” the doctor said with each word tearing apart my heart. He must’ve seen it because he looked up at me and smiled. “Only temporary. You’ll be back on your feet soon.”

“Will I be able to run the Boston Marathon one day?”

“Of course.”

It wasn’t false hope in his tone. It was determination. He ran a couple for x-rays and decided on giving me a pair of crutches.

I was able to keep the boot concealed so I could walk the stairs everyday. I couldn’t hide crutches. Elevator was mandatory now. Great. I hate elevators too. And, on crutches, everyone gets you everything. I was capable still, but no one seemed to listen.

I spent close to two months on crutches before I heard the s word. Surgery. My leg was getting chopped off after all. I cried. I cried a lot. 

May 15th, 2012. A Tuesday. I was sitting in the backseat of Mom’s car complaining that it was unfair that I couldn’t eat breakfast. But as we got closer to the city, my stomach knotted and I figured it was for the best.

A nurse sat me in a wheelchair and wheeled me down the hall when we got there. They fitted clothes that smelt of baby powder to me and then brought me down the hall where I received identification bracelets. As I sitting on the outskirts of the operating room, Dad did what he did best- crack jokes.

“New outfit, bracelets...don’t tell your sister that you went on a shopping spree without her.”

I laughed, but it died out when I heard the woman next to me scream. I began shaking and tears filled my eyes. Especially as they wheeled the bed into the operating room.

The room was all white with a table in the middle. It looked straight out of a horror film. Still, I laid back. A group of nurses poked me with needles and other machinery until I drifted off.

When I finally awoke, I was in a hallway. The ceiling was moving. No, wait, I was. They rolled me into a large room where my parents were sitting anxiously. Mom smiled. Dad closed his book.

“How’d it go?”

I peered down. My leg was still there, but mummified. I smiled at them. “Okay.”

“Can I get you anything?” a nurse asked. My stomach answered for me so she gave me a cup of ice cream.

“Ice cream for breakfast,” I smiled as I dug in.

“Dinner,” Dad corrected. “It’s four o’clock.”

I had been in surgery for eight hours. I stared at my foot again. They ended up removing scar tissue from my fall back in first grade, but a piece of cartilage was still MIA. I really hoped those eight hours were worth it.

It was June 17th, 2012. I had learned how to walk again and held the paper that I desperately wanted to see. A clearance slip.

I waved it in Mom’s face. “Today’s field day!”

“Be careful, Courtney.”

I walked down to the bus and then out to the fields where I met up with Sarah. I handed her the stopwatch and smiled. She shook her head, but took it and made her way into the stands. I jogged over to the third leg of the relay and waited at the starting line for the baton.

One of my teachers came over. “Are you insane, Courtney?”

“I prefer the term determined.” With that, I laced my ankle brace (it was mandatory for a couple weeks) and got into position. My heart pounded, my lungs burned, and my hair whipped in the wind. But I was running. Actually running. Even though our team finished in second, I was full of pride and accomplishment.

My feet crossed over the finish line where I handed off the baton and I looked up at the crowd with a smile. Sarah held up the stopwatch and shook her head. Still a couple seconds off, but hey, I was running again.

Today, running is still my passion, though maybe not quite as much as writing. And there have been many obstacles since the surgery. A couple relapses of swelling and pain, but nothing I couldn’t handle. As for times, I still have yet to accomplish any world records, but I’m getting closer everyday. And who knows, you might just see me in the Olympics one day. If not, I’ll be there at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.

One day.