Justin Thurston was an exceptional runner who enjoyed soccer and swimming. Gifted with a beautiful voice, he also sang solos in his school's chorus, and he loved playing the violin. 
In August, Justin started complaining of an ache in his back. His mother, Dorothy, first thought he had just pulled a muscle. But the pain increased, and by the time Justin started school in the fall, even the short walk home was difficult. Dorothy took Justin from one doctor to another, but none could give a satisfactory explanation. Meanwhile, a stabbing pain in his back began waking Justin at night, and his legs tickled so much that he was always scratching. Justin was forced to give up his sports, his singing, and his violin. He couldn't even pedal a bicycle. As the pain increased, he could only groan and bang his head in agony and frustration.
Brace yourself — your son has a large tumor inside his spine." As the tumor had grown, it had compressed the nerves leading to Justin's legs, causing the tickling and pain.
"Surgery," the doctor said, "is impossible. There is simply no way to remove the growth without destroying the nerves." The only treatment that might slow the tumor, doctors told Dorothy, was radiation."Will the radiation make Justin sick?" she asked.
"Oh, no," one of the doctors assured her. "But it will damage the bones in his back. He will never grow normally, and he may have to walk with a cane.""Then he will not have radiation!" Dorothy announced. "Is there anywhere I could take him for help?" Dorothy pleaded.
"Nowhere," the doctor told her. "You've just got to accept it." On Easter Day, the family sat around Justin's bed, ate a holiday dinner and tried to laugh at his father's jokes. But an underlying gloom ran through the whole day.
read a magazine article telling of a surgeon at New York Metropolitan Hospital named Israel Epstein who could treat this kind of disease. The next morning, Dorothy went to see one of Justin's doctors, who promised to look up Epstein in a directory of surgeons; that same day, the doctor telephoned New York. Epstein asked for medical details about Justin. "I'm quite certain I can help him," he said, "please tell the family to come to New York as quickly as possible." "There's the question of money," the doctor informed Epstein. "The boy's family is not wealthy. " "No problem," Epstein said quickly. "I'm willing to deduct my fee from the bill. But the hospital needs $7,000 up front. I'm sorry, but I can't do anything about the hospital charges."
But just as hope was fading, they received an envelope from an old friend; inside was a check for $7,000. Justin and his mother left for New York. The next morning, as Dorothy was standing next to Justin's bed, Dr. Epstein entered the boy's room. "You understand the serious risks involved?" Epstein asked.
"Yes, we do," Dorothy answered, "but you're the only hope we have." 
At 7 a.m. nurses wheeled Justin toward the hospital's sixth-floor operating suite. Minutes later, his back scrubbed clean and knocked out by drugs, Justin lay flat on the operating table. Epstein opened his spine, exposing the opaque gray film covering the nerves, and cut through that to reach the nerves themselves. Using a laser, Epstein carefully cut along a natural groove in the nerve bundle. The laser's beam sealed the small blood vessels as it moved along. Finally, peeling the nerve bundle open, Epstein looked down at the long, red-brown tumor. It dwarfed anything he had ever seen, and getting it out would be extremely difficult.
The surgeon now reached for the shaft of a pencil-like steel instrument with a tip that vibrates 26,000 times a second, breaking up the tissue it touches and then sucking it out through a tiny hose. Looking through the operating microscope, Epstein turned a knob and carefully moved the vibrating tip against Justin's tumor. There was no room for error; even so much as grazing the nerve bundle could permanently paralyze the patient. Millimeter by millimeter, the tumor began to disappear. Hours passed; occasionally a nurse sponged the sweat from Epstein's face. Eight hours after Justin had been wheeled in for surgery, Epstein turned off the humming device, stitched up the wound, and stepped back from the operating table. "I think it went well," Epstein told Dorothy in the waiting area, "but we won't know for sure until we see if Justin can move his legs."
Minutes later, Epstein and Dorothy stood over the boy, waiting. Justin slowly emerged from his deep sleep."Can you move your toes for me?" Epstein asked.
Slowly, Justin's toes came to life. Justin remained in the intensive care ward for five days. The hospital lab confirmed that his tumor was not cancer. Although there remained a slight chance that the growth might recur, the odds were much greater that his immune system would destroy it.
Epstein strode briskly into Justin's room. "Okay, Justin," he said. "If you can walk, you can go home." With help, Justin shifted his legs over the side of the bed. Dorothy gripped his hands as he slowly slid his feet to the tile floor. His expression full of determination, the boy managed five short, unsteady steps. Then he looked at his mother, his eyes sparkling. "I can walk, Mum," he said softly.
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