This weekend, one of Penn State's most extraordinary events is going to take place. It has received national attention, been appreciated by many, and taken over the schedules of hundreds of involved students.

I'm talking of course, about the Interfraternity Council/Panhellenic Dance Marathon.

For those not familiar with the event, the marathon is a 48-hour fund raiser for the Four Diamonds Fund, an organization that helps children with cancer. Each year the amount of money raised has gotten larger and larger until it seems like the people involved become obsessed with breaking every record ever set.

The whole event started with one child. Christopher R. Millard died of cancer when he was 14 in 1972. He wrote a story called "The Four Diamonds", which later became the name for the fund-raising group. That was back in 1972 when I was only one year old. Obviously at that point I had no comprehension of what sickness meant, especially when it dealt with children.

But unfortunately, it didn't take me long to learn.

Six years after that, in the middle of first grade, I had to go into a children's hospital for a neck operation. I don't really remember any fear when I was entering the hospital because it was unknown and the check-ups there hadn't been bad. After all, it was a children's hospital, so they were careful to make things as fun as possible.

I don't even remember that much fear while I was actually there. It was when I was home again that I remember being afraid.

During my short stay in the hospital, I made a friend who touched my heart and who has since failed to let it go. Her name was Amber. She had long, straight blond hair and a goofy-looking, but kind smile. She was thin and very frail.

I have other memories of Amber that aren't so fond. I can remember hearing her whimpering in pain as nurses picked her up out of bed and into her wheelchair and her red-eyes when she would come over to me afterward. She would never let me see her actually cry though, she was too worried that I would become homesick or scared. Me, a naive kid who was only there for four days. And Amber, a terminally-ill girl who lived her life in and out of hospitals far away from her home in Virginia.

Amber made those days some of the most enjoyable of my life. We used to go into a long hallway where I would jump onto the back of her wheelchair and we would go careening down the hallway together until a nurse came out and told us we shouldn't be doing that in our condition. What condition? We were kids! Causing a commotion was what we were supposed to do and nothing was going to stop us.

It wasn't until I was home that I realized something did stop Amber. While I went home to all my get-well cards and special treatment, Amber was in the hospital without me. She still slept behind the taunt, crisp white curtains, still poked around in her wheelchair, still got shots three times a day.

As a seven-year-old, I didn't really understand.

After my surgery, I went back several times for check-ups and each time I thought of her. I always hoped I would pass her in the halls or get up the guts to ask if I could see her, but I never did. A few months went by, maybe a year, and I remember begging my mom to find out how she was. The feeling in my stomach when she answered me was unforgettable.

It was the first time I had to deal with the death of a friend.

To this day, I have no idea what was wrong with Amber, but in a way I don't even need to know. There is no sickness that hits a child that hurts less than any other. And even if my memory is starting to get a little foggy, Amber has become almost a symbol in my mind, to occasionally prick my conscious and remind me how lucky I am.

I still have a picture of her and when I look at it I see the images of the kids at marathon in my mind. Many of them could be in a worse situation than Amber, yet somehow, they still can smile.

Perhaps you have never taken marathon seriously before or maybe it wasn't clear that it's not just a two-day free-for-all for lunatics who like standing up for two days straight. But this year, please, make an effort to realize the impact of what is being done. If you can't, imagine for a moment any child you know in the place of Amber.

If you're walking by White Building this weekend, stop by and say a word of encouragement to the participants -- that's all they need to make this weekend really make a difference.

I'll be there, and Amber, this one's for you.