Chapter 2

Chapter 2

My decision to run the marathon surprised me more than anyone else.  To everyone who knew me, it seemed consistent with who I was.  I was a tomboy as a child.   I played football with the boys at recess.  I often ended up being the last person out in dodge-ball.  In high school, I played all the sports: basketball, volleyball, and track.  My freshman year I won the most valuable player award (MVP) on the varsity team.   After high school, I continued to play volleyball in city leagues. I learned how to scuba dive, snow ski, wake board, para-glide, mountain climb, and repel.  So, when I decided to run a marathon, no one was really surprised except my friend April.
I didn’t like jogging, and my body had seen better days.  I had spent most of my teenage years pushing my body to its limits until it finally pushed back.  I had four knee surgeries; the first two at age nineteen from an injury in a racquetball class my first year at college. 

The racquetball class was to be taught at the local community center.  The teacher jinxed us when he proudly announced, “I’ve never had any injuries in my class.”  Once it was said, there was nothing anyone could do about it—it couldn’t be taken back.   The first week of class someone got hit in the head with a racquet leaving a nasty looking black and blue bump right in the center of his head which caused me to wince at the sight of it.  Then, a few days later a girl got smacked in the eye with a ball.  She looked like the victim of domestic violence.  A few days later it would be my turn.

After stretching as a class we paired off and went to our courts.  As usual, I paired up with my sister, Sara.  Not only was she my sister, but she was my best friend as well.   We were only 14 months apart.  I was born in April and she was born the following June—how crazy is that?  My mom said birth control was not as good back then.  I’m sure she wasn’t trying to hurt my feelings, but what exactly was she saying as I was the 6^th of 7 children? 

Sara was the 7^th.  She was the baby, and she played that part to the fullest.  In our younger years, if you even looked at her funny, she would squeal as loud and as long as needed.  Everyone just wanted her to stop, so she would get exactly what she wanted which sometimes was merely to get someone else in trouble.

Growing up, Sara and I wished we were twins.  We loved to dress the same: twin coats, twin dresses, and the same straight straggly hair style.  Even our names were like twins—Sally and Sara.  We were inseparable.  We were the best of friends and at times the worst of enemies. We fought almost as much as we played.  It drove my mother crazy—she said she was going to take up drinking.  But, the worse possible punishment mom could deal out was to separate us.

Being the youngest of seven gave us an even more special bond.  Everyone was so much bigger and stronger.  It was almost a matter of survival.  When we heard our names yelled, “Sally, Sara” we knew we were being blamed for something, and it wasn’t always our fault.  When we heard our names yelled, we would take off together and hide somewhere where we could play and pretend like we didn’t hear a thing. 

Our names were always said together like we were one person.  Even presents were addressed to Sally and Sara, but we didn’t mind.  It only perpetuated our twin fantasy.  As the years passed it became clear that we were not twins at all.  As we grew and went off to school our differences grew also. 

It wasn’t long before it seemed the only thing we had in common were our names.  At 5’11 Sara towered over me by six inches.  I was barely 5’5”  and that was stretching it. I remember standing next her getting ready for school in front of the bathroom mirror.  She had on heels which only further exaggerated our height difference.  She looked over at me, smiled, and patted me on the head.  I had to tilt my head in order to look at her.  We both laughed. 
     Our differences were more than the height though.  She had long blond wavy hair, high cheek bones and a perfect nose.  I was always envious of her striking beauty.  I, on the other hand, had dark brown eyes that matched my brunet hair.  My cheeks were chubby—probably a side effect of being born at nearly ten pounds, and my nose was a little on the large side.  Sara’s figure was straight and tall.  My figure was petite and shapely. 

Physical appearance was not the only area in which we were different.  Sara was the brainy one—always getting straight A’s and studying.  She loved school.  It just about killed her when she got her first A- in the in 9^th grade.  Her perfect record was marred.  It was just a dash behind a letter, but to her that minus sign was a sharp object pointed at her perfect A.  Sitting there like a knife stabbing her A.   She was outwardly bugged for almost a whole month, but deep inside I think it still bothers her to this day.    

I was the athletic one.  I just wanted to be going and doing.  Studying was just not my thing.  I hated sitting still, and I didn’t care about grades.  Sports, most all sports excited me.  I spent hours practicing before and after school.  I was extremely shy and timid.  I never spoke up in class and felt uncomfortable to look people in the eye, but when I went onto the court with a ball in my hand, something changed.  I was aggressive and driven.  I came alive.  Sometimes it was hard to control the adrenalin that rand through my teenage body.  One time I got thrown out of a game for throwing a punch at the guard on the other team.  Everyone was shocked—even me.      

Once I started school, Sara and I grew apart.  She had her friends and I had mine.  It wasn’t until our family moved to a new town that Sara and I found some common ground once again.  It was like we were little kids again.  It was my junior year and Sara’s sophomore year when we moved to Spanish Fork, Utah.  After Sara and I had signed up for our classes, she went with me to ask about tryouts for the school basketball team. Without any compassion the coach said in a matter-of-fact tone, “The team has already been picked.”  The coach paused and put down her pencil as she looked up at Sara and commented, “But,” she hesitated, “if you bring your sister with you, you can come to the tryouts.”  I was stunned as I turned and looked up at Sara’s confused expression.   Sara couldn’t play; she wasn’t even interested, but I knew exactly why the coach wanted her—the height; the one thing I couldn’t do anything about.  The coach already had plenty of good short players.   Sara was not prepared.  She had never even considered it before.    She looked at me in disbelief.  I didn’t say a word, but my eyes pleaded, “You have to.”  Sports were everything to me.  A little hesitantly she agreed. 

Sara and I both made the basketball team, and to her surprise, she really enjoyed playing, and I really enjoyed playing with her.  We liked to joke around and tease each other.  One time Sara snuck up behind me during basketball practice and attempted to de-pant me, but I caught her just as she grabbed the bottom of my shorts.  Sara on the other hand was not so lucky.    Later when we were practicing free throws, I quietly crept up behind her and grabbed her shorts and pulled down just as she was jumping up.  Her shorts went completely to the floor and she almost jumped out of them.  The other girls erupted in laughter as Sara scrambled to regain her decency. 

Sara decided to play volleyball too.  Her height and my drive made a good combination.  She was awkward at first, but with practice, she became one of the star players.  In basketball, I was the guard and she was the center.  She had a killer hook shot.  In volleyball, I was the setter and she was the hitter. I was jealous of how hard she could spike the ball hard.  At 5’11, she didn’t have to jump very high to get above the net.    

Sara and I spent more time together and eventually her love for school inspired me to get my first and only 4.0.  I graduated from high school with honors and went on to college.  Sara, being the brain that she was, graduated early from high school with high honors and joined me at college.  We hung with the same crowd, and she was my best friend.   Even though we found common ground, education was still her passion and sports were mine.         

Now, we were at college in the same racquetball class, and the one thing we always had in common was our competitive nature.  It was just part of our genetic make-up—all my siblings were like that as well.  Even though my older brother and I were the only ones that played high school sports, all my siblings hated to lose at anything. We didn't play games together because it never ended well. 

 Sara closed the door and after a little chit chat we began to play.  I took a healthy lead in the beginning, but Sara was playing well.  I don’t know how she did it, but she took a slight lead which she gloated over.  “How could I let this happen?” I thought, “I’d better get a little more serious.”  I gave her a wry smile so she would think I wasn’t worried, but I was panicked.   I just couldn’t lose to her.  If she were to beat me, it would just mess everything up.  Who would I be if I wasn’t the athletic one?     

 I was up to serve.  My serve was almost perfect.  After hitting the front wall, the ball hit low on the side wall and crossed to the other side of the court where it hit the floor just before hitting the other side wall.  This was a shot we had learned about in class.   The ball shot out sideways instead of backwards just like it was supposed to making it almost impossible to return.  “Short,” she quickly called out.   The ball hit just centimeters in front of the short line.  I knew it was short, but I wasn’t going to admit it that easily.  Arguing about it was my way of hanging on to, and savoring, the near perfect shot.   

From the service box, I looked back at her.  She was in the ready position with her long legs slightly bent and her racquet firmly gripped ready to swing. Her eyes twinkled and a slight giggle escaped her mouth.  She knew she couldn’t have returned that last serve.  She hadn’t even moved which was why it being short had pleased her so much.  I took the ball and served again hoping to reproduce the same serve: just not short.  However, the second serve was probably the worst serve I’d ever hit.  It hit the front wall just off center and bounced about waist high—right to her forehand.   She hit the ball hard and low to the other side of the court.  I was worried I wouldn’t be able to make it, but I was determined to give it all I had, like I always did.  I wasn’t about to let my little sister beat me.  

I sprinted as fast as I could and stretched farther than I thought possible.  To my surprise, my racquet made contact with the ball, but my satisfaction was only a split second as my knee twisted and I fell to the floor.  I was dizzy and disoriented. The walls seemed to be closing in on me.  I didn’t even know if the ball made it to the wall nor did I care.  The room began to spin and I suddenly felt cold and clammy.  Sara thought I was teasing at first, but when I did not move from my curled up position on the floor, she knew something was wrong.  She ran and got the teacher.  After several minutes, I was able to sit up.   It was then that I heard Sara say, “Does that mean I win?”  Her quick wit eased my pain for a split second. 

After three days of not being able to walk, I went to the doctor.  He determined that some cartilage was torn and probably stuck in my knee joint.   A few days later, the doctor performed a laparoscopic surgery to remove the torn cartilage through a small incision in my knee.  When I awoke, he gave me the bad news.  I had partially torn my posterior ligament and completely severed my anterior cruciate ligament.  It was a common sports injuries often referred to as an ACL injury.  I would need another surgery.  The doctor said that I could function OK without the surgery, but I would not be able to be as active.  I considered that a death sentence—surely, life would not be worth living.  

The surgery required to fix my knee was an ACL reconstruction.  They would use one of my own tendons to replace the torn ACL which runs through the knee to give it stability.  Two incisions would be made:  a six inch incision on the out side of my right knee and a three inch incision on the inside.  The tendon that ran along the outside of my thigh would be removed by cutting the off the pieces of the bones where the tendon is attached.  Once removed, the tendon would be rerouted through the middle of my knee and reattached with screws.  The doctor had explained that bone will attach to bone.

 I was tired and didn’t want to wake up, but someone kept patting my hand and gently tapping my cheek.  “Sally, Sally, it’s time to wake up,” I heard the gentle voice repeat over and over, but I couldn’t get my eyes to open.  After several attempts, I groggily opened my eyes and saw the nurse standing by the bed.  The anesthesia was hard on my stomach and I felt nauseous.  I threw up in the tray the nurse had placed beneath my mouth.  I dry heaved several more times before my stomach calmed downed. 

The first night in the hospital the nurse woke me every hour to take my vital signs.  My wrists and ankles were sore from the restraints put on during surgery.   My knee throbbed every time I rustled in my bed.  The nurse could only administer pain medications through the IV every four hours.  Sometimes it was enough and sometimes it wasn’t.   There was a large Velcro cast from my ankle to the top of my thigh.  The cast had large metal hinges on each side of my knee about two feet long.  The hinges were set so that my leg could not bend.   Beneath the cast was my swollen and bloody knee wrapped in an ace bandage.  The first time I saw it I almost gasped.  It looked like something from a horror movie. 

The doctor told me that as soon as I could walk to the end of the hall and back I could go home.   By walking, he meant using crutches with no weight on my injured knee.  The first time I attempted to get up I almost lost consciousness getting from the bed to the wheel chair.  By the time nurse wheeled me to the door of my room, I was in need of the throw-up tray.  I sat in the doorway breathing heavy, and feeling cold, clammy, and nauseous.  The nurse offered to wheel me to the end of the hall and back. 

The next day I mustered through the pain and made it up on the crutches.  The nurse followed me up the hall with the throw-up tray and the wheel chair.  Halfway there, she slid the chair behind me when she noticed my face turning pale and I slowly slumped back into the chair.  She wheeled me the end of the hall and back to my room.  The third day I made it to the end of the hall before needing the chair.  The fourth day was going to be the day. I just knew it.  I don’t know why, but I wanted to go home.  I wanted to be in my own place with my own pajamas on.  I made it to the end of the hall and was almost back to my room when I felt a cool sweat all over my body.  My knee was throbbing.  The nurse looked at me wondering if she should rescue me.  I just kept going and she nodded her head in encouragement.  She followed closely.  By the time I reached the room, she slid the chair behind me and handed me the throw-up tray which I needed.        

The first six weeks at home I was instructed to not put any weight on my knee.  Since my room was upstairs, the couch would be my room.  I watched TV for hours and became addicted to soap operas.  Would Laura finally marry Luke on General Hospital?   My mom and my sister cooked for me and brought me clean clothes from my room.  I didn't like that my mom had to help me go to the bathroom.  She had to lower me to the toilet, and then I would call for her to help me back up.   It was rough on all of us.  I hated always asking for help.  Sara got so tired of it she lost it.  One day she brought me down a pair of shorts I had already worn.   When I asked for a different pair, she threw the shorts at me and said, “You’re going to wear these and you’re going to like it.” 

At the end of the six weeks my knee had atrophied a whole inch.   Now it was time to begin therapy.  I was allowed only partial weight bearing for the next six weeks.  Therapy was three times a week.  My mom dropped me off at the therapy office where I would stay for a whole hour of torture.  At first I was barely able to lift my leg off the table.  The routine was about the same each time.  I started out with some type of ultrasound on my knee.  Next, electrodes were hooked on my knee to stimulate the muscles.  It was interesting watching my muscles contract and release on their own.   Then the therapist would give me my workout instructions for the day.  I rode bikes, and did leg lifts. As I progressed, I would do lunges and squats.    Towards the end of each session, the therapist would try to bend my knee as far as he could.  This was followed by ice on my knee. 

     By the end of three months, I was finally able to walk without crutches.  It would take another three months before I could do any activities without pain.  It took close to a whole year before I felt like I was “better than before” as my doctor put it when he told me about the surgery.   I had never really appreciated the simple act of walking:  how effortless it was.  I developed a real appreciation towards the elderly as they walked with canes and a limp.  

The removal of the cartilage and ACL repair were the first two knee surgeries at age 19, but unfortunately it wasn’t my last.  I injured my right knee again at age 36 while playing in a city league softball game.  I was rounding third base at full speed when I stepped into a small hole and twisted my knee.  I lost control and was flung into the cement dugout wall.  The excruciating pain in my knee was all too familiar, and I knew right away what happened.  A visit to the orthopedic surgeon confirmed what I already knew.  My right ACL needed to be repaired again.  I asked the doctor to look at my left knee which had been bothering me for some time.

 I explained to him how I used to jog with my neighbor, and then one day I went to go jogging and I couldn’t even jog one block without severe pain in my left knee.  It came on suddenly without any warning.   It was the strangest thing.  I could snow ski, go up and down the stairs, bike, and play volleyball, but I couldn’t jog.  I never really liked jogging anyway, so I simply stopped doing it.  I only mentioned it to the doctor now because I was there and figured he may as well look at both knees.   Upon hearing my explanation and examining my knee, the doctor said my knee cap had shifted to the right and was hitting bone when I jogged.  A procedure called a lateral release would fix the problem.   The doctor suggested I have both knees fixed at the same time.  He believed that even though it would be difficult, I might as well get it over with.  It would be “like killing two birds with one stone,” he commented. But it didn’t kill any birds at all—just me. 

ACL reconstructions had changed a lot in the last 17 years since I had the first one done.   The surgery was performed in an out-patient surgical center meaning I came home the same day of surgery.  The surgery was also able to be done through a laparoscope.   It would be considerably less invasive and for most people the scars would be insignificant.  They went through my old scars, and this time they used the tendon of a cadaver.  The doctor instructed me to start walking on my knee one day after surgery.  I didn’t want to get out of bed let alone walk.  I was only able to walk a few steps before I felt light headed.   The doctor also wanted me to start therapy days after the surgery. 

The recovery time was quicker than it had been the first time, but it was just as painful especially because I had both knees done.  This time was different in other ways too.  This time I had a three year old to take care of and a husband who wasn’t quite as patient and available as my mom.  I vowed that if I was ever unfortunate enough to injure my knee again, I would opt for an electric wheel chair and take up chess, but as time went by and the painful memory faded, I denounced the concept of the electric wheel chair and chess.  That just wasn’t me. 

After a long recovery, I finally started to feel like my old self again with one exception.  Now not only did I dislike jogging; I saw it as evil.  My knees ached just looking at people jogging.  Whenever I saw someone jogging, I was tempted to roll down my window and yell, “What the heck are you thinking?”  I would have laughed at anyone who told me that someday I would run a marathon.