Exhibit A

Notes from the daily life of a medical student in Cork. 92.5% fact and 7.5% fiction.

Marathon Man

Everyone knows that Fred runs the Marathon in Cork. Every year he does it and every year the day ends in the emergency room in Cork’s Mercy Hospital.

Last year while holding fifth position and running beside Sonia O’Suillivan

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he became unconscious mid-stride due to dehydration and sugar depletion. He says he knew his dreams of finishing in a good time were dashed when he woke up to see the guy dressed as a clown go jogging by. At that moment he was being strapped onto a trolley and loaded into the back of an ambulance.

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But he keeps doing it.

Fred started talking about marathons when his parents started talking about separating. He was creating an event for his family; less contentious than Christmas and easier to get behind than Easter. And if this meant that he had to train for three months in the rain and guzzle protein shakes then so be it. He created the team- a different family member at each five mile point on the course with an energy gel pack and a bottle of water. He was their “man on the road”. There was the briefing session, everyone was given a time to expect their man, everyone was loaned a bike and given their marathon pack (which included a Mars bar in case their own energy was flagging). The night before the race, in their different hotel rooms around the city, no one on the team could sleep. As the pinched, white faces appeared at our door at 6.30 Fred was already up and making a big fry breakfast for them all.

This year the plan was less ambitious. The aim was to finish. Fred says that if both his legs had fallen off he would have dragged his arse over the finish line using his hands. But his legs didn’t fall off. Something else happened.

I saw him at the five mile mark, he was looking comfortable. His dad saw him at ten and reported a similar scene. I made my way on the bike to mile twenty to meet our friend Dave who was also a valuable member of the team. At this point Fred was 25 minutes behind schedule. Something had gone horribly wrong at mile 18 but he wasn’t sure what. He was in colossal amounts of pain and there were still six miles to go. We all thought he was just hitting the wall. As he stumbled the rest of the race like a drunk we picked up more members of the team. First it was just Dave and I cycling by him. Then his Dad joined and then Mum.  With two miles left he insisted on finishing it on his own. We made our way to the finish line on St. Patrick’s Street. When he crossed the line I kicked a small child in the head while trying to hop the barriers to hug him.

“Well done love! I’m so proud of you.”

“Gasp. Thanks. Gasp. I can’t find my right testicle.”

Fred posed for pictures with the family and then without another word made his way to the hospital with a severe case of testicular torsion.

Testicular Torsion Photos

He was in surgery 45 minutes later, his medical notes reported that the testicle was ashen white in colour when they opened it up, he had been in real danger of losing the whole thing. Despite my attempts to persuade them to let me watch the procedure, I was not admitted.

As we all sat around the empty hospital bed waiting for him to come down from the operating theatre I looked around at his family: everyone united in concern, fear and exhaustion. It was genius.

And two months later his parents remarried.

(That last part isn’t true)

  1. kitey posted this