It’s October 9, 2011, the perfect weather for playing soccer. There are only seven minutes left before we become the champions of the Columbus Day Soccer Tournament in Libertyville, IL. My team is having a great season and we’re sad it’s coming to an end. All season I have played defense. Suddenly, my coach moves me up to forward so I could have a chance to score. I leap up the field in excitement and start playing my heart out, trying so hard to get the ball and shoot before time runs out. I finally get the ball and beat the other team’s defender. There’s only one person stopping me from scoring, the goalie. I have all the confidence in the world that I will finally score, I hear my mom screaming from the sideline cheering me on, and as I shoot the ball I run into the goalie and feel a funny tingle in my leg. I’m laying on the ground, my leg mangled and stuck the wrong way and the pain overcomes me. I don’t know what to do other than scream for help, so that’s what I do. The referee runs over and soon my coach and mom follow. I look up at them in confusion wondering what’s going to happen next, they look down at me with sad, sympathetic looks. The next thing I hear is “I will call 911.” Soon I’m in the hospital with a strange man looking over me saying, “yep, we’ll need to do surgery tonight.” All I was wondering is, “why is this happening to a fifteen year old?”

The next thing I remember was waking up with my mom and doctor standing over me. My doctor explained that I had severed my femur, the largest bone in my body, which resulted in his performing a three-hour surgery to put my leg back together with the help of a titanium plate and many screws.

Along with surgery came three months on crutches, many doctors visits, and months of physical therapy. This was the worst way to start my freshman year. I had to maneuver through the crowded halls of Maine South on crutches, I had to rely on other people to carry my backpack and walk me to classes, and I had to miss playing sports after school. I knew freshman year was going to be hard as it was, so why did I have to deal with these complications and setbacks.

The surgeon had told me I would need to have another surgery to have the plate and screws removed. He had told me I would need to have the second surgery before I graduated high school. It always hung over my head that I would need to made a decision of when to have the dreaded surgery.

Finally after a year I was finished with physical therapy and ready to get back to running and soccer. I had to ease into playing soccer but I was just excited to be out there again. Finally I was cleared to play and run normally, no restrictions. I felt as free as a bird, but soon I figured out I was a crippled bird. I was so discouraged because my speed and strength had deteriorated. I worked hard to get back to where I was, but the whole time the only thing on my mind was that I would just have to have another surgery and I would get worse once again. I dreaded it and hoped that some how I wouldn’t need to have surgery #2. I was feeling great and improving, until one day my leg started throbbing. From then on it always hurt to run. I didn’t want to tell anyone because I knew I would have to decide when to have the other surgery and I didn’t want to think about it. Finally I went to the doctor because I was having to sit out of practice; the doctor didn’t have any good news. He said I was developing stress fractures from the screws and the surgery needed to be done sometime in the next year. I was speechless.
How was I supposed to pick “the best time” to have surgery when no time was a good time?
Ultimately I had two options for “the best time”: have it in a month, miss cross country, start my junior year on crutches, but be back in time to play high school soccer or try to run cross country in the fall, have surgery in November, and miss soccer in the spring. I didn’t want to have to choose. I didn’t want to have another surgery. I didn’t want to miss a sport. I didn’t want to be on crutches. But at the same time I didn’t want my leg to continually hurt.
I weighed the pros and cons of both options. I was between a rock and a hard place. I always knew I had to make this tough decision, but I had put it off and I couldn’t put it off any longer. This decision weighed me down like a ton of bricks. There were numerous nights when I lay in bed, unable to sleep, continually playing out the options in my head. I didn’t want to have to choose because I didn’t want to go through another dreadful surgery. This agonizing decision was torturing me.

I decided if I didn’t want to be on crutches in the heart of winter my only choice was to schedule the surgery immediate. But at the same time, this option gave me a disadvantage with soccer because I wouldn’t be able to play or stay in shape during off season, and based on how much I had regressed after the last surgery, I didn’t want to go into tryouts looking like a fool. Going with this option also meant I would have to quite my summer babysitting job, which meant the family I was babysitting for wouldn’t have a sitter and I would lose out on a lot of money.

The second option could be better because I wouldn’t have to start the school year on crutches, and I would get to run cross country. That is, if I could get through the season without my leg falling off. This would mean four more months of pain. For the next four months I would have the unwanted surgery hanging over my head. Every time I felt the pain I had to ask myself, “How much longer can I handle this?”

Time was running out.

I didn’t want to have to chose. I didn’t want to have surgery. I didn’t want to miss a sport. I didn’t want to be on crutches. But I didn’t want the pain either. All I wanted was for someone to tell me what to do. I was afraid of making the wrong decision. I didn’t want to regret my decision. I hated having to choose.

Finally, I had to decide. No more putting it off. I spend a day in my room thinking about the best time for my leg to be cut open, thinking about the complications that came with surgery. Finally I decided: the first option would be “best.” Later that day, my mom called the doctor and scheduled the surgery for July 21 at 1pm. It was set in stone. No changing my mind. An enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I was relieved to finally have the question, that had been in my head since I left the hospital after the first surgery, answered.

In the end, the second surgery was nothing like the first. The two operations were like night and day. Rather than being on crutches for three months, it was only on them for one month. I was even able to go back to school without crutches. It only took four months to get back into running and soccer. Of course, as I had expected, my speed and agility had deteriorated. This time, it wasn’t as easy to bounce back. Soccer tryouts soon came and I realized taking a full year off soccer and trying out right away was not a good idea. I was so discouraged. I suddenly thought I had made the wrong decision. I was so disappointed and wasn’t even sure I wanted to play. My whole team from the previous year had improved and I was the who weakened. I hated it. I was mad and wished I had gone with the second option. It was too late.

My decision ended soccer for me. It haunted me for a year before I made it, and for months after surgery made me think, “what if I had waited?” There are many times when I wish I still played soccer, and I blame that one decision on why I don’t play any longer. I was surprised how one seemingly easy decision can have such a lasting outcome.