Passing the Test

As I sit in the doctor’s office, I look at my gray gym shirt. It has my number, 14, on it. Then I look at my dad. He’s so solemn. I know he would like to be anywhere but here.

I feel the same way. I thought it was just tendinitis. Nothing big. All future Olympic track stars push their bodies and endure a certain amount of pain. One day I’m preparing for a race, the next I’m feeling pain in my knee.

The doctor walks in. His coat is pressed, not a wrinkle on it.  Sits down and says, “you have a bone disease. A tumor in your knee is osteosarcoma. It’s cancer.” All the color drains from my face. How could this be? I’m never sick. I can’t have cancer- I’m only 15. I look back at my dad. His eyes are red, like when you’ve been crying and are trying to hide it. He wants to be brave for me.

So do I. The doctor says with chemotherapy, I might lost my hair. I tell him, “ I’ve always wanted to shave my head!” I think I surprise him.  He says that after the chemo, instead of amputation , I’ll have knee-replacement surgery. I ask him the one question burning in me: “ Will I be able to run again?”

The silence is chilling. I know the answer already. “ No,” he says with genuine regret. The constant pressure of running would be too much for my leg and might wear out the artificial knee. So the rigorous workouts of an Olympian are out of the question. My whole world stops. What am I to do now? Then it hits me: This is a test- I will pass.

11 years  and 14 surgeries later, the cancer is in remission, though my constant battle with infection reminds me that someday I could still lose my leg. Sitting in my room, I try to picture the last race I ran, the details slowly fading. It was a 1,600 meter relay, and I was the anchor leg. I used to think that If only I had known it was my last race, I would have run just a little faster. But I did give my all, and I have no regrets.

The track star is gone, but the drive is still there. My new passion is photography. In a picture, there’s a memory, a moment.  I want time to stand still with a picture. Every moment is precious.

*I was a senior in high school when I submitted this article to the New York Times UpFront Magazine. Just thought I would share.