I have ice packs on my shins, a hot water bottle on my back, a man-size woolly hat on my head and my neck is wrapped twice round in the softest wool scarf I have. My best friend in summer and winter, an Aran wool cardigan is all that is keeping me from disintegrating into a puddle of self pity.
And it's all my own fault. Two things.
New Year's Eve my son, Tom and I registered for the Cork City Marathon. I had been debating for months whether to do a full marathon - at my age. I read about an English woman in Good Housekeeping magazine who ran her first marathon at age 68 and I wanted to know could I just do one - just to complete one? Tom's reasons; in a competitive job market, he's hoping that listing a marathon on his CV will help him stand out.
We're following the Hal Higdon marathon training programme level Novice 1: run three miles Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and do a long run at the weekend with a rest day before and after the long run. As I was in Kerry over the weekend I put off my long run until Monday. I felt so good yesterday (Tuesday) that after dropping Joe off to school I headed for the Mardyke gym as usual. After three miles on the treadmill, I felt a twinge in my shins and suddenly remembered I had to get the health insurance card for travelling in Europe - the E11 - for Joe for his school trip that Saturday. I should have looked into getting it weeks ago when told to by the school but I didn't bother. When Neil asked me about it on Monday night, I told him it was probably too late. He said, "Could you at least try?" My conscience pricked I stopped the treadmill and headed for the locker room. No shower, no cool down, no stretching. I simply put on all the clothes I had with me and headed out into the lashing rain.
It's a fair walk from the Mardyke to Abbey Court House on George's Quay. Abbey Court House is the place where I got the card for Conor when he went with his class to Paris in 6th class. Entering the building, I was impressed by how bright and modern it looked. I didn't remember it being this nice when I was there before. I took a ticket and was about to take a seat in the empty waiting room when a voice called from behind the counter. The voice, a man, told me the office I needed was the HSE but they were kicked out of the building six years ago because they couldn't afford the rent.
"Where are they now?" I asked.
"Gratton Street," he replied. I looked at him blankly. He pulled out a TV antennae from his desk drawer and extending it to its full length pointed to a hand drawn street map stuck to the wall beside us and showed me where I needed to go; behind the Court House which was almost all the way back from where I came.
Panting for a coffee and a warm place to dry out, I stepped back out into the rain and passing several cosy coffee shops I trudged towards Washington Street and the Court House. On the steps of the Court House I saw Paul Byrne from TV3 news with two other men and a TV camera. I could have asked him what he was waiting for but I didn't. I found Grattan Street easily enough and following the arrows, the HSE Office. What a dump. Behind a sheet of thick glass sat a young woman surrounded by piles of boxes and files. Hundreds of completed forms containing personal information about patients covered her desk which ran the width of the office. I spotted copies of the form I needed to complete on my side of the glass wall and taking one I sat in one of the three waiting chairs and started to fill it in. The form stated You must apply for this 10 days before you intend to travel.
The woman behind the glass wall called out in an east European accent, "My system is down. Whatever you need I can't give it to you today."
I stood up and approached her. The woman continued, "The last time my system went down like this, it was two weeks before I was up again. When do you need this card?"
"Friday," I said.
"Do you have his PPS number, proof of address and a form of ID for him on you?"
"No," I said and sat down again.
I then remembered Joe's school which is a five minutes walk away had his passport and left to go there. As I left I noted that the opening hours for that office was 9 - 11am. It was now 10.20 am. The school secretary gave me Joe's passport, his PPS number and a short letter to confirm his residency. I got back to the HSE office for 10.45 am. It was still that lady and miraculously, nobody waiting. I could hear crying children but that was coming from another room.
"Normally it takes two weeks to process these forms and without my computer it could be a month before you get the card." she said.
I smiled weakly her.
"But look, I will write you a temporary certificate but it will only last you a month," and leaning on the pile of forms stacked about a foot high to the left of her keyboard she wrote out the life saving form.
"Which country is he going to?" she asked.
"Italy." I replied.
She smiled at me and said "He'll be OK: the Italians are nice. The French can be very awkward."
I hurried back to the school and handed the precious documents to the stunned secretary. I smiled at her and said, "Thank God for broken computers."
I am grateful. Despite her awful working conditions, that woman was super helpful and gave me exactly what I needed when I needed it.
I dashed home. Still no shower: I was meeting my sister, Louise for lunch and was running late. I did change out of my cold sweat soaked gym clothes though; it always intrigues me how fresh sweat smells like raw meat.
During lunch the rain stopped and the afternoon turned mild and sunny. We walked the length of the Marina beyond Blackrock village and sat on a bench by the Atlantic Pond, soaking up the February sun. It was just before 5.30pm as I headed to my Pilates class I first felt the pain in my shins. During Pilates as I hung upside down reaching for my toes I felt a drowning sensation in my nose and my head felt like it wanted to explode. Bugger, I've got a cold coming on.
Straight after Pilates, I headed to my writing class and bought a large steaming hot tea on the way but still felt bone-cold even though I was wearing a wool cardigan and two coats. I wrapped one of the coats around my legs and pushed the collar of my fleece up around my ears. I know when I'm sick: my hearing shuts down, my teeth ache, my scalp hurts and I just can't get warm. It's best to just surrender to it.
So I am spending the day in bed. Icing the shins last night helped ease the tenderness. I had two effervescent orange tabs first thing this morning with water - nothing has ever tasted so good. Then I drank a litre of warm water: I read somewhere that it helps when you're sick. I then felt I earned a coffee but fell asleep. When I woke at 3pm I ate a real orange. That's always an ordeal. I like fruit, I just don't like eating it.
Moral of the story. When you sweat you shower as soon as you can afterwards and change into a new set of dry clothes. Eat fruit all the time and not just when you're sick. Be gentle with your body; take nothing for granted.
And finally, help sometimes comes when you need it most, when you least expect it and even, when you least deserve it.
And it's all my own fault. Two things.
New Year's Eve my son, Tom and I registered for the Cork City Marathon. I had been debating for months whether to do a full marathon - at my age. I read about an English woman in Good Housekeeping magazine who ran her first marathon at age 68 and I wanted to know could I just do one - just to complete one? Tom's reasons; in a competitive job market, he's hoping that listing a marathon on his CV will help him stand out.
We're following the Hal Higdon marathon training programme level Novice 1: run three miles Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and do a long run at the weekend with a rest day before and after the long run. As I was in Kerry over the weekend I put off my long run until Monday. I felt so good yesterday (Tuesday) that after dropping Joe off to school I headed for the Mardyke gym as usual. After three miles on the treadmill, I felt a twinge in my shins and suddenly remembered I had to get the health insurance card for travelling in Europe - the E11 - for Joe for his school trip that Saturday. I should have looked into getting it weeks ago when told to by the school but I didn't bother. When Neil asked me about it on Monday night, I told him it was probably too late. He said, "Could you at least try?" My conscience pricked I stopped the treadmill and headed for the locker room. No shower, no cool down, no stretching. I simply put on all the clothes I had with me and headed out into the lashing rain.
It's a fair walk from the Mardyke to Abbey Court House on George's Quay. Abbey Court House is the place where I got the card for Conor when he went with his class to Paris in 6th class. Entering the building, I was impressed by how bright and modern it looked. I didn't remember it being this nice when I was there before. I took a ticket and was about to take a seat in the empty waiting room when a voice called from behind the counter. The voice, a man, told me the office I needed was the HSE but they were kicked out of the building six years ago because they couldn't afford the rent.
"Where are they now?" I asked.
"Gratton Street," he replied. I looked at him blankly. He pulled out a TV antennae from his desk drawer and extending it to its full length pointed to a hand drawn street map stuck to the wall beside us and showed me where I needed to go; behind the Court House which was almost all the way back from where I came.
Panting for a coffee and a warm place to dry out, I stepped back out into the rain and passing several cosy coffee shops I trudged towards Washington Street and the Court House. On the steps of the Court House I saw Paul Byrne from TV3 news with two other men and a TV camera. I could have asked him what he was waiting for but I didn't. I found Grattan Street easily enough and following the arrows, the HSE Office. What a dump. Behind a sheet of thick glass sat a young woman surrounded by piles of boxes and files. Hundreds of completed forms containing personal information about patients covered her desk which ran the width of the office. I spotted copies of the form I needed to complete on my side of the glass wall and taking one I sat in one of the three waiting chairs and started to fill it in. The form stated You must apply for this 10 days before you intend to travel.
The woman behind the glass wall called out in an east European accent, "My system is down. Whatever you need I can't give it to you today."
I stood up and approached her. The woman continued, "The last time my system went down like this, it was two weeks before I was up again. When do you need this card?"
"Friday," I said.
"Do you have his PPS number, proof of address and a form of ID for him on you?"
"No," I said and sat down again.
I then remembered Joe's school which is a five minutes walk away had his passport and left to go there. As I left I noted that the opening hours for that office was 9 - 11am. It was now 10.20 am. The school secretary gave me Joe's passport, his PPS number and a short letter to confirm his residency. I got back to the HSE office for 10.45 am. It was still that lady and miraculously, nobody waiting. I could hear crying children but that was coming from another room.
"Normally it takes two weeks to process these forms and without my computer it could be a month before you get the card." she said.
I smiled weakly her.
"But look, I will write you a temporary certificate but it will only last you a month," and leaning on the pile of forms stacked about a foot high to the left of her keyboard she wrote out the life saving form.
"Which country is he going to?" she asked.
"Italy." I replied.
She smiled at me and said "He'll be OK: the Italians are nice. The French can be very awkward."
I hurried back to the school and handed the precious documents to the stunned secretary. I smiled at her and said, "Thank God for broken computers."
I am grateful. Despite her awful working conditions, that woman was super helpful and gave me exactly what I needed when I needed it.
I dashed home. Still no shower: I was meeting my sister, Louise for lunch and was running late. I did change out of my cold sweat soaked gym clothes though; it always intrigues me how fresh sweat smells like raw meat.
During lunch the rain stopped and the afternoon turned mild and sunny. We walked the length of the Marina beyond Blackrock village and sat on a bench by the Atlantic Pond, soaking up the February sun. It was just before 5.30pm as I headed to my Pilates class I first felt the pain in my shins. During Pilates as I hung upside down reaching for my toes I felt a drowning sensation in my nose and my head felt like it wanted to explode. Bugger, I've got a cold coming on.
Straight after Pilates, I headed to my writing class and bought a large steaming hot tea on the way but still felt bone-cold even though I was wearing a wool cardigan and two coats. I wrapped one of the coats around my legs and pushed the collar of my fleece up around my ears. I know when I'm sick: my hearing shuts down, my teeth ache, my scalp hurts and I just can't get warm. It's best to just surrender to it.
So I am spending the day in bed. Icing the shins last night helped ease the tenderness. I had two effervescent orange tabs first thing this morning with water - nothing has ever tasted so good. Then I drank a litre of warm water: I read somewhere that it helps when you're sick. I then felt I earned a coffee but fell asleep. When I woke at 3pm I ate a real orange. That's always an ordeal. I like fruit, I just don't like eating it.
Moral of the story. When you sweat you shower as soon as you can afterwards and change into a new set of dry clothes. Eat fruit all the time and not just when you're sick. Be gentle with your body; take nothing for granted.
And finally, help sometimes comes when you need it most, when you least expect it and even, when you least deserve it.