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The oxygen in my respirator clicked off. "Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!" Dr. Wessel screamed through the airtight glass box I sat in at Children's Memorial Hospital. God, please be with me, I prayed silently. I puffed my cheeks up, pursed my lips around the air tube, and exhaled until my lungs felt like a hot spear had punctured them. I panicked. There was no oxygen.

Dear Jesus, give me strength.

"She can't do it." Dr. Wessel gave up and released the lock on the oxygen tank. He was trying to measure the air capacity in my lungs. I was supposed to exhale through the tube with enough force to flip a switch on the respirator, which would do the measurement.

I stumbled out of the glass box and tried to sit down, but I was wearing cords that hooked up to a heart monitor. They weren't long enough to reach the swivel chair that was a short distance from me. So I stood and listened to Dr. Wessel talk to my dad as if I weren't in the room. All along the click, click of the monitor made my beating heart sound like a bouncing ping-pong ball. "She just doesn't have it in her," Dr. Wessel said, scribbling down something on my chart, which looked thicker than a dictionary.

"So she can't run?" my dad asked.

Dr. Wessel shook his head. "Being on the track team seems important to her," he said, "but people with Transposition of the Great Arteries simply aren't athletes." Those five words—Transposition of the Great Arteries—had followed me around since the day I was born. I was born with a conditions cardiologists describe as "an upside-down heart," and I had to have open heart surgery just a few weeks after I was born. My heart had to work extra hard.

Still, my parents and I didn't focus on my heart problems. I had plenty of doctor visits and an occasional hospital stay, but my parents and doctors always helped me think about things I could do instead of things I couldn't handle.

But now I wanted to be an athlete. That's why I had signed up for track at my high school. I had gone to the first few practices and thought I had a chance of competing in the mile. Not many girls wanted to run the mile on the track team, so it was the perfect opportunity for me, I thought. Less competition was good. But before I could officially join the team, I had to pass a heart and lung stress test. I spent a lot of time praying with my parents that God would give me strength for the test.

Now my dad was asking Dr. Wessel if I could compete in any event at all.

"OK," Dr. Wessel sighed. "Amy's heart is very strong. So I will let her run the 100-yard dash."

"Thank you," my dad said.

"I want to warn you," Dr. Wessel continued, "she will probably always be last and it will wear her out. She'll give up long before I tell her it's not safe for her to run. If she wants to compete, she should take up golf. To be a fast runner you need to have the heart of a Porsche. Amy has the heart of a Ford."

Dr. Wessel unhooked the monitor wires. Then he connected me to a 24-hour heart monitor. He snapped a cassette tape in the purse-sized, five-pound heart monitor that hung at my side and told me to wear it so it could record my heart rate.

"Wow, this is an answer to prayer," my dad said, as we got in the car and headed to school. "And it looks like we can still get you to track practice."

I didn't think it was an answer to prayer. I knew I wouldn't be a fast sprinter. Plus, there were so many girls who wanted to run the 100-yard dash that I'd never get to compete in an actual track meet.

I stared at the scar etched on the side of my wrist. This scar, like most of the other ones on my body, was from intravenous tubes doctors had inserted during my open heart surgery.

Jesus, I know this doesn't seem important, but it is important to me.

I had prayed for so long about this. And it seemed like God wasn't really listening to me.

When I got to track practice, my teammates were already on the track, so I headed into the empty locker room to change while Dad went out to talk to Coach Hicks.

I stopped at the mirror and stared at the bulge of wires under my shirt. The eight sticky leads burned my skin and the constant hum of the tape winding echoed softly.

Dear God, this isn't going to work. I know I won't be able to do this. I need help.

I went to my locker and pulled out my green track warm-up. I carefully took off my shirt and taped the wires to my stomach with surgical tape. Then I put on an extra large T-shirt, slung the thick black monitor strap across my right shoulder so the heart monitor rested on my left hip, and covered it with my warm-up.

I grabbed my new purple and white spikes and checked myself in the mirror. I had successfully hidden all the wires.

Jesus, you know what I need. You know my wants. Just be with me, I prayed as I headed toward the track.

"Adair!" Coach Hicks bellowed. "You're late! Get in line with the sprinters." I hopped behind the others at the 100-yard mark.

This is not where I want to be, I thought. I want to run the mile. I don't want to sprint! "Only two of you can run the 100-yard dash," Coach yelled to the 16 sprinters, pacing in front of us like a drill sergeant. "First two fastest times in this time trial will run at the meet." When it was my turn, I climbed into the blocks and pushed my heart monitor to the back edge of my hip.

"Adair!" Hicks blew his shrill whistle at me. "Don't move! You'll fall right out of the blocks."

Give me strength.

"Get set!" I placed the tips of my feet in the blocks, stretched my fingers out on the white starting line, and braced my weight on my thumbs and index fingers.

"Bang!" I rocketed out of the blocks, lifted my knees up to my chest, and ran toward the finish line. Less than 13 seconds later, the race was over. I heaved over the finish line, gasping for breath. The other girls were barely panting.

"Diane Arnold was first," Hicks said. "Second place was Amy Adair." He peered at Diane and me over the rims of his glasses. "You'll both be running in the meet."

I looked up at Coach Hicks and he winked at me. "Adair, your speed is natural. But your start is awful. Everyone take a 10-minute water break, then we'll work on block starts."

Thank you, Jesus!

I walked over to the drinking fountain and saw a gray Honda parked on the side of the road. It was my dad watching me. I gave him a thumbs-up. He waved, then drove away.

I met Coach Hicks and the rest of the sprinters back at the starting line. "You won't get any special treatment," he whispered. I nodded at him. I didn't want special treatment. I just wanted to be part of the team. His eyes darted down to my side. I patted my hip with the palm of my hand and realized some of the wires were hanging out of my warm-up. "Use this," Coach Hicks said, handing me some medical tape from his emergency box.

We each had to practice our starts 20 times. "Raise your knees! Keep your head down," he yelled. "Lower your shoulders!"

When it was time for our track meet, I was finally ready. "All we're asking you to do is your best," Dad reminded me when the 100-yard dash was announced.

I took my place on the track in lane four.

It was a small track meet—there were only seven runners in the event—not even enough to fill up all the lanes. But it was a monumental race for me.

"Get on your marks! Get set!" The runners' breathing around me sounded like six purring diesel engines.

"Go!" The racers peeled out of the blocks.

I bounded across the finish line 12.99 seconds later.

"Lane two is first place," the time keeper said, pointing at Diane. "Lane six is second," this time he pointed at a girl from the other team. "Lane four is third place," he said, pointing to me.

My lungs ached and my legs were quivering beneath me. I knelt on the asphalt track and tried to inhale as much air as my lungs could hold. It wasn't a miraculous time or finish. But I did finish.

"Diane," Coach Hicks yelled, "good job."

"Amy," he said to me, "we gotta work on that start of yours."

I nodded my head as he walked away. He turned around and said very quickly, "You're a real asset to this team. Keep working hard and you'll be at the head of the pack."

I knew that even a small track meet where I raced six other girls was important to God—because it was important to me. Sure, I probably wouldn't be a star athlete. But I knew that God heard my prayers, because he loved me. And it didn't mean that he loved me any less just because he didn't answer my prayer the way I had expected.

"Third place! Not bad," my dad said, patting my back. "You scored a point for the team."

My heart was beating like a war drum. Third place, I thought. Not bad at all.

Read more from 'It Happened to Me'

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