After dancing in the marathon for about 30 hours, one of my roommates came to visit me. Having just changed my sneakers, I was shocked to look down and realize I left my legs in my cubby hole.

I panicked. How could I finish the dance without my legs?

Luckily my roommate reassured me and soon I was convinced my legs were, indeed, attached to my body.

After 40 hours, we took one of our few breaks. I laid back on the floor, stretched my muscles and wondered why a fat, hairy purple spider was landing on my head. I wasn't scared, just curious. Soon it bounced off me and I understood that it was only a balloon, after all.

The 48-hour marathon is a strange part of the Penn State experience. The "thon" is one of the things to do here, much like tailgating for a football game or checking out the Diner's sticky buns.

The largest student-run philanthropy in the nation, the Interfraternity Council Marathon has helped raise $1.5 million for the Hershey Medical Center Four Diamonds Fund, which benefits the families of children with cancer.

As one of the dancers, I fought boredom, sore feet, sleep and cramped muscles. I bobbed a yo-yo for hours. I read newspapers. I tried to sneak a quick rest against a garbage can.

At one point, I even crawled underneath the game table, convinced no one would notice if I snatched five minutes of sleep.

Now the last eight hours were ahead of me and I had to battle hallucinations.

I wondered what I was doing there. It seemed like a long time since members of The Daily Collegian had asked me to dance with the business manager.

At first, I had hesitated. After all, as editor-in-chief and a student, I had things to do -- people to party with, stories to edit.

But the staff persisted and I agreed.

Getting ready for the marathon was tough. Collecting pledges, I said the usual phrase without thinking much about it -- "Do it for the kids."

But after the preparation, the marathon was well underway and the end was in sight. Friends visited throughout the weekend, bringing food and trying to make sense of my babble.

All types of people were dancing, forming a community of support. I talked with people who I never usually would, often sharing an intense game of superball for hours at a time with total strangers.

If only, I reasoned standing back up after the stretch, my feet weren't so swollen. If only my eyes didn't hurt so much and my legs didn't ache.

I clung to my old Snoopy doll, sometimes crying like a baby, sometimes laughing like a child.

And then the kids came.

It was finally Sunday afternoon. They danced and laughed with us, giving plenty of hugs.

I talked with the mother of one child. Her son was small for his age and his bald head was covered with a red baseball cap. He hated the doctor, she told me. But he was brave.

I thought of my childhood. When I fell down, my mother was always there to give me a Band-Aid and assure me I'd be fine. She'd give me a hug and send me on my way.

Half the time I cried more to get a hug than out of any real pain. I think she knew my secret, but she would always reassure me, anyway.

This mother had no such promises for her son, who instead of Band-Aids received painful treatments.

The strained look behind her smile hinted of nights of pain and days of hope. Always, she said, there was the wait. I knew that the marathon could hope to relieve only financial, not emotional, strain.

I thought back to high school. I would run down a basketball court or field hockey field, no longer afraid of getting hurt. And I thought of my life at Penn State.

Every day I wake up, walk to campus and do a hundred things without thinking about how my body manages.

I talk with friends and family, not thinking about how precarious life is. Those kids could have been me, or my sisters, or my friends.

I cried, telling myself it was because I was tired. But I cried not only for their pain but also their strength -- a strength that most of us never have to summon.

I spent 48 hours with hundreds of other Penn Staters. Our feet hurt; we got cranky; sometimes we didn't want to go on.

But the strength it takes to get through the marathon and everyday situations will never match the courage those kids and their families have to find inside themselves each day.

Tonight, after a year of hard work, the marathon kicks off again. And at the end of the weekend, the dancers can go home to sleep off their pain.

But for many, the realization of the kids' courage will last longer than memories of sticky buns or tailgates.