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“Unknown male, late forties: unconscious, multiple contusions and lacerations, almost certainly dehydrated judging by how many bodily fluids he’s covered in… where do you want him?”
Morven Digby looked up from the nurses’ station where she was signing off some patient notes, wrinkled her nose at the smell that confirmed her worst fears about the bodily fluids.
“I don’t really want him anywhere, smelling like that, but I don’t suppose that’s an option, is it? All right, let’s have him in bay three, please. Can you draw the curtains, please, see if we can contain the smell at least a little bit? Thanks.” She took the notes from the paramedic and scanned them quickly. “Lou, can we have a clean up in bay three, please? Someone’s been playing body fluid bingo by the looks of things. Get him straight on IV fluids, as well, please.”
As Lou hurried over, wrapping a plastic apron around herself and snapping on a pair of gloves, Morven took a closer look at the notes, and read the salient points out loud to Lou as she mopped up the worst excesses from their unfortunate patient on the other side of the curtains.
“OK. So Mr Stinky here was picked up on the Wyvern Way footpath - God, that’s miles from anywhere, isnt’ it? - out cold, covered in - well, you can see for yourself. He’s lucky someone found him - goodness knows how long he was there before they did. It looks as though he was out running and collapsed.”
Lou snorted. “He doesn’t look like a natural runner. Stocky little thing, great big beer belly on him. Do you know, he looks a little familiar, but I can’t place him. Did you say the Wyvern Way?”
Morven looked at the notes again. “Yep - where it meets the river, apparently. The closest the ambulance could get was the car park at Holby Manor. They think he fell down a bank of gorse - hence the lacerations, I suppose - and ended up in a manure heap. But you know all about that, eh Lou? At least it’s animal dung, though,” she said.
“Not all of it,” Lou muttered darkly from within the cubicle. “Well - that’s the worst of it dealt with if you want to come and examine him now, Dr Digby.”
Morven slipped through the curtains and took stock. Lou was right: he certainly didn't look like a runner, although he had all the gear. A decent brand of trainers that she knew were genuinely made for running, not for fashion; long black Lycra running tights with a pair of shorts over the top - too short, frankly - and a technical t-shirt with a logo now obscured with - ugh, what was that? Blood, mostly, but he’d thrown up down himself, too. He was wearing not one but two GPS watches, and Morven could see the outline of a heart rate monitor chest strap under the too-tight shirt. A webbing strap round his waist carried a water bottle and several sachets of energy gel.
Morven giggled. “You know what runners call this look, the shorts and tights combo? Shites.”
“How apt,” Lou said, smiling discretely. “You a runner, then?”
“Do I look like one? No, but Cameron is. He's built like his Mum, all long lean greyhound legs. Well,” she amended with a blush, “Not quite like his Mum. But this guy - all the gadgets and the gear, it’s all the real deal - but just look at him! I spy with my little eye something beginning with mid-life crisis…”
She carried out all the usual checks and sent off for bloodwork. By the time she had finished, the IV fluids had started doing their work, and the chubby little chap’s eyes started flickering open.
“Hello there,” Morven said, smiling at him. “Are you joining us in the land of the living? You’re at Holby City Hospital, my name’s Dr Digby and we’re just doing some tests to find out what’s going on with with you. Can you tell me your name?”
Dry mouthed and groggy, he muttered something that sounded like “Mash.”
“Mash? Is that what your friends call you? All right then Mash, we think you were out for a run, is that right? Someone found you, you’d fallen down a bank though some nasty bushes, so you’re a bit scratched and scraped. Do you remember falling?”
His eyes looked wildly round the bay, but with the curtains closed, all he found to focus on was Morven and Lou.
“Not Holby!” He cried out.
Morven smiled reassuringly at him. “That’s right, they found you near Holby Manor, and now you’re at Holby City. Can you tell me about the fall, Mash?”
He shook his head. “Felt sick. Had to stop - threw up. Kept throwing up. Felt like I needed…” He shifted a little on the bed, sniffed and grimaced. “Oh, God, I didn’t, did I?”
Morven winced but kept her voice neutral and matter of fact. “A little bit, yes. Well, rather a lot, actually. But don’t worry about that, I understand it’s not unusual for endurance runners - and you were out on a long run, weren’t you?”
Still red-faced, he nodded. “Eighteen miles today. Didn’t finish, though. Car was at…” He paused for a moment, his gorge rising at the smell in the cubicle, and Lou was swift to provide a bowl for him as he was sick. He wiped his mouth. “I left my car at Holby Manor. I nearly did it.”
“It seems you overdid it, Mash. Are you training for a marathon? My boyfriend’s doing the Holby marathon in four or five weeks’ time, he's been training for months.”
Mash made a face. “I’m supposed to be doing it with my son, but today didn’t go so well.”
“Well, let’s see if we can get you back on your feet - a bit of a rest and you might still be able to make it. My boyfriend says you need to taper your training as you get near the race anyway, so it won’t matter if you don’t do any more training now - you’ve all those weeks and months and miles in the bank.”
“I’ve got nothing in the bank,” Mash mumbled despondently, closing his eyes wearily.
“You don’t think you’ve done enough training? But you must have built up to eighteen miles - no-one’s daft enough to try and bang out eighteen miles from a standing start, are they?” She cajoled.
He didn’t meet her eye, and he shrugged. “Didn’t think it could be that hard. My ex-wife runs marathons and she’s all skin and bone, nothing to her - it can’t be that big a deal. Maybe I’ve just got a bug…”
Feeling increasingly less sorry for him every time he opened his mouth, Morven said shrewdly, “It sounds as though she’s got a runner’s build - and as though she does plenty of training. Are you seriously saying you’ve done no other training before going out for an eighteen miler today?” She shook her head, biting back a comment about avoidable injuries and pointless pressure on NHS resources. At least he was trying to do something about his beer belly, even he’d gone about it in a spectacularly stupid way.
“So it sounds as though you’re making a bit of a lifestyle change - what’s brought that on, hey?”
He looked so genuinely sad that she felt sorry for him again, until he explained.
“My wife left - well, she wasn’t really there much anyway - but the divorce was a bit… messy, and I had to get my children to make sworn statements about how bad a mother she was, and now they hold it against me. I got a bit low, I suppose, and stopped looking after myself properly - well, my daughter did most of the cooking, and when she moved out, I just fell back into bachelor ways, you know - takeaways, ready meals, a can or two with dinner... It’s all just sort of accumulated,” he said, patting his belly, then immediately wishing he hadn’t as he reached for the sick bowl again. “In the end, my GP told me to lose some weight, get some exercise, so I thought I’d do the marathon with my son, try and re-connect with him, you know? He doesn’t know I’m doing it yet, it was supposed to be a surprise.”
“My job is not to judge; my job is not to judge; my job is not to judge,” Morven repeated to herself as she bit back several responses to his self-pitying and self-incriminating tale.
“Well, never mind all that. Those fluids are going in nicely, and you’ve perked up since you came in, so let’s see what other damage you’ve got. These scratches don’t look too bad, we’ll get those cleaned up for you. have you got any significant pain or discomfort anywhere?”
He gestured at his chest, and as Morven lifted the bloodied shirt away from his skin, he hissed in pain.
“Ah. I see. This is what we call jogger’s nipple, Mash - it’s sweat rash, basically, where the friction of the t-shirt on sweaty skin catches on your nipples - and you’ve got a double dose, I’m afraid. Next time, a plaster over them, or a good dollop of Vaseline should prevent that. They’ll be a bit sore for a while, but they’ll heal up all right. Anywhere else?”
He hesitated, then asked if there was a male doctor on duty. Morven smiled. “Now then, Mash, no need to be shy - we’re professionals here - we’ve seen it all before. Is it your groin?”
He nodded, and gave a gesture that was half defeat, half permission for her to examine him.
“Can you lift your hips for me? We’ll just ease these down, and see what’s - oh dear, yes, that does look sore. Now that, believe it or not, it almost the same as the joggers’ nipple - sweat rash again, but down here, I’m reliably informed, it’s referred to as chub rub. Same applies - Vaseline and a good supportive pair of pants - cotton boxers weren’t really the right choice today, were they? All right. I don’t think there’s any major damage done other than this chafing and a nasty bit of dehydration, and we’re getting that under control, so a few days rest, and I think you’ll be right as rain.”
Morven dropped her chatter as she started dressing a couple of the nastier looking lacerations, and the hum of voices from the nurses’ station penetrated the cubicle. Missing the start that Mash gave at the sound, Morven exclaimed, “Oh, now there’s someone you should have a chat with! I didn’t think - we’ve got our very own resident marathon runner, and she’s just out there now. I’ll get her to pop in and give you some training tips, shall I?”
And before he could protest, she had dashed off, calling out “Ms Wolfe? Ms Wolfe! I’ve got someone who’d like to talk to you - a fellow runner! Can you spare a minute?”
Lou looked on in astonishment as Mash pulled the pillow out from under his head and over his face, but before she could do anything, Morven came back, Ms Wolfe in tow.
“Ms Wolfe, this is Mash, his long run got a bit out of hand today. I thought you could have a chat with him about training for the marathon?”
But Bernie’s eyes had narrowed at the sight of the t-shirt - one she knew had to be earned, and this sorry looking specimen didn’t look as though he could possibly have earned it. She reached out an arm and pulled the pillow away, and rolled her eyes.
“His name’s not Mash. It’s Marcus Dunn, and I should very much like to know why my RAMC Vets Vintage 50 t-shirt is covered in blood, sweat and - oh, God, tell me that’s not -”
“I’m afraid it is, Ms Wolfe,” said Morven. “He said he was training for the Holby Marathon, but his eighteen miles today was his first run. He says he wants to run it with his - oh!” As the realisation hit her, her eyes were drawn back to the middle of the bed, where thankfully, Marcus had pulled his running tights back up. “With his son,” she finished, looking at Bernie with wide eyes.
“That’s funny,” Bernie said in a quiet, dangerous voice. “Because I’ve been training with Cam, and he hasn’t mentioned anything about running with you?”
Marcus wouldn’t meet her eye, and Morven filled in. “I don’t think he knows, Ms Wolfe. Mash - I mean, Mr Dunn, said it was going to be a surprise.
“I bet. Still trying to get back in his good graces, are you? Not sure you’ve helped yourself much today, taking up his girlfriend’s time with your midlife crisis and sharing your breakfast with her,” she said, gesturing at the sick bowl. “Look, you two go and get cleaned up - I’ll finish off here, get him discharged. Get him a set of scrubs, would you? These will all need burning.”
A grateful Morven and Lou sipped out of the cubicle, Morven glancing back one last time.
“Nice to meet you, Mr Dunn - I expect I’ll meet you again soon!”
Marcus smiled weakly as she left, and she just caught a glimpse of him putting his head in his hands as he was left alone with his formidable ex-wife. Bernie bit down a smile as she heard Morven whisper to Lou, “Thank goodness Cameron takes after his Mum!” She turned to Marcus, discharge form in one hand, a large tub of Vaseline in the other.
“Now then - let’s get you out of here, shall we - Mash?”