the finish line

“When will I be able to run again?” I asked.

(Laugh). “If you’re standing in the middle of the road and there’s a car coming, then you can run,” responded my physical therapist.

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My foray into running began as a little girl growing up in cornfield-clad Maria Stein, Ohio. Running down the road, pursuing my cousin’s car as it disappeared into the distance, my legs moving in sync with my waving hand. My cousins, the daughters of my mother’s twin sister, often visited in the summer. At some point it became tradition that as their wheels went down the road, my feet followed suit. Often barefoot along the road, hot with bubbling asphalt, the air stagnant with summer heat, I chased dreams and cars.

Then in middle school my cousin and my twin sister joined cross-country. Wanting to choose a path different than my twin, I became a cheerleader. Being hailed a “rah-rah” by my older sister did not sit well with me nor did practicing gymnastics unsupervised in the family backyard sit well with my sprained body, so by high school, I joined the cross country ranks. I became one of the few familiar with the 5k metric equivalent for 3.1 miles. One of the few who liked to “run for fun.” One of the few who saved up to buy not CDs or new clothes for school but rather a new pair of New Balance running shoes. As a scrawny teenager weighing in just under 100 pounds, standing at almost 5’2, my short legs and bony appendages, never garnered me athletic accolades. My twin sister, 6 inches taller, had the legs for running. She could actually sprint. I chose instead to go the distance.

College came along and I continued to lace up my running shoes. The purple stripes on my favorite pair of shoes faded into shades of grey, the navy and yellow N insignia for New Balance wore off and fell away, duct tape bandaged talking holes, and the shoe treads underneath became smooth, but I kept running. I sprained my knee ice-skating, but kept running, downgrading a trained-for marathon to a half-marathon 4 weeks later. I dislocated my right kneecap playing ice hockey but still walked the hilly streets of San Francisco 3 weeks later, racking up nearly 20 miles in one day whilst loosely abiding by physical therapy recommendations. I acquired a stress fracture in my left foot, wore an orthopedic boot for a month, removed it the day before undergraduate graduation, wore heels down the aisle and then spent 2 months traipsing around Europe a good portion on running feet. Through the aches and pains, swollen joints and ice packs, I played intramural soccer, took up rugby, spent days hiking, and kept right on running.

Then August 9th, 2009 I crossed the finish line.

I had been home but 3 weeks from Africa just in time for a close friend’s wedding in Columbus, Ohio. To the church ceremony and the reception thereafter I went. Shook it all about with the Hokey-Pokey, stepped in tune to the Electric Slide, and got down with the Chicken Dance. Kept the fun going at a bar afterwards with my cousin, dancing with her flatmate and friends until, as some say, “I literally broke dance.”

Bewildered as to why suddenly my bottom was on the floor and everyone else was dancing on two feet, my hand traveled to my left knee. What I felt was even more perplexing. My kneecap had gravitated out of its socket and was resting on the left side of where my knee should have been. Gripped with pain and impending shock, I could not get up. I could not walk. Two men whose names I did not know transported me to safety. One making way for me in the drunken crowd and the other, a rather slight fellow, carrying me. A cab was called and I was whisked away with my cousin to the emergency room of the Ohio State University Hospital.

There in a patient room I sat alone save for a team of medical students and doctors peering at my wayward knee and me. The state of my knee and the state of my dress (fit for a wedding) provided a puzzling picture. The doctors wanted to call in an anesthesiologist to put me under while they pushed the knee back into its socket. Unfortunately, quite sober, I was computing dollar signs in my head for the expense and suggested a local anesthetic instead. The doctor reported it wouldn’t give me the pain relief I sought.

So alas I asked, “Can’t you just push it back in?” Incredulous looks exchanged. Everyone thought I’d taken a crazy pill. Especially when they realized I was being serious. “How long would it take? How long would the pain last?” I inquired. “It would be extremely painful but the pain wouldn’t last long,” one reported. “Well then, let’s get on with it,” I stated.

One well-meaning (but foolish) individual offered to hold my hand during it. I warned him that I would likely break it. Instead, I gripped the wheelchair’s arms; knuckles white, and followed the Lamaze instructions of a sage doctor. “Breathe in through your nose and whistle out your mouth.” And this I did as an audience watched my kneecap being pushed back into its rightful place.

Aware of my pain medication sensitivity (and cognizant of the astronomical inflation of medication in hospitals), I relented to only taking one Motrin after the ordeal. As I had crutches and a leg brace at my parent’s place from my last knee dislocation 3 years prior, I refused to acquire another set. Instead, I left the hospital, my left knee well wrapped in ace bandage, hopping on my good right foot. Without crutches and poor upper body strength, I managed to navigate a flight of stairs and a pair of friendly cats to the refuge of my cousin’s bed where I slept for a couple hours before driving myself the 2 hours home to my parent’s place. Not wanting to worry them, I waited until they had gone through their typical Sunday morning ritual before calling them, letting them know that my crutches would need to be found in the next couple hours, dusted off, and placed where I could reach them upon opening my car door. And per request, hours later, I found them and my father waiting for me as I pulled into my parent’s driveway. My father knowingly shaking his head.

To be continued...