—I thought I was special. There was an ICD, an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator sewed into my chest. There I was, still running marathons. More than that, I was feeling great. We were In Duluth, Minnesota, at Grandma’s Marathon a few years ago.
—The weather was perfect and I was running with my youngest daughter, her first marathon. We weren’t making great time, but she had an IT band issue and it was about my 17th marathon. I had nothing to prove. I was making jokes to ease her pain. I knew that an Elvis impersonator would be at about mile 18. I told her we would run until we saw Elvis, then we could walk for a while.
—Funny thing happened at a potty stop. Waiting in line, I started talking with another runner (about my age.) As we started edging around health issues and I was getting ready to mention my ICD, he told me about his heart transplant. Heart transplant? I thought it was enough to run with an ICD, to back up my cardiac rhythm.
—This guy had traded in his heart for someone else’s and he was still running marathons.
—Unfortunately, I never got his name or bib number. I would love to know how he finished. He and my daughter made me proud that day. She endured and so did he.

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