“She wants to leave. Is she going to be okay?” The male nurse looked at the doctor who turned and looked at her patient. Hand on her patient’s arm she calls over her shoulder: ”Of course she is. She’s one of mine. She’s made of sterner stuff.”

I never did get the name of that doctor. All I know is that she was either an Aussie or a Kiwi who spent 10 years in London and trained at St Thomas’s Hospital. Oh, and she left the UK because it was getting too expensive and she doesn’t know how anyone can afford to live there anymore. So when she said “she’s one of mine” I assume she meant that we are fellow Londoners.

Whatever she meant I was relieved when the doctor told me I could leave the medical tent and walk the six or so blocks to Pershing Square where I was due to meet my friends.

You see I did finish the marathon. Thank God! But, in typical Marissa fashion, I couldn’t do so without creating a bit of drama at the end. Within seconds of crossing the finish line I realised that I felt a bit odd. My arms were tingling. I was a bit disorientated. I felt like I wanted to vomit and the last thing I wanted to do was drink water.

Finishing the LA Marathon is a bit like going through a birth canal. But instead of landing in the hands of a midwife you are shunted along while arms come at you from either side. On goes your medal. In one hand a bottle of water is thrust. A bag of sliced apples or a banana are at the ready for your other hand. If you make it through that in one piece then another pair of hands emerge guiding you – almost like they are directing traffic – to the line where you wait to get your official picture taken. Smile, click-click, flash, you’re done. Now you’re supposed to go out into the world, reborn – a marathon runner.

Except, I didn’t feel like that. The first thing I saw in this new world was a fireman with a huge wheelchair. I was so exhausted that I couldn’t flirt so it’s no surprise that he refused to push me the six or so blocks through Downtown LA to meet my mates. “But I’ll take you to the medical tent,” he said. How kind…

And that’s how I met the Aussie/Kiwi doctor. Lying on a stretcher in an underground car-park turned makeshift emergency room I had at least two nurses and one doctor try in vain to find a vein in my arms so they could put me on an IV.

They said I was dehydrated but I think – and my coach agrees – that I drank too much water and thus disturbed the careful balance of electrolytes in my body. I sweat like a pig so I wasn’t replenishing my salt fast enough. The doctor and nurses abandoned the IV idea after spending about 15-20 minutes trying to find a vein and gave me a cup of Gatorade (the American equivalent of Lucozade) to drink instead. That did the trick and I was discharged with instructions to call 911 if my condition worsened.

In hindsight it sounds comical – and I have been joking about it with my friends. But I could have died. Drinking too much water can be just as deadly as not drinking enough water. That’s one thing that I would advise anyone intending to run a marathon to pay attention to – their water intake.

Because I DO think that running a marathon is worthwhile. It was something that I secretly always wanted to do before I died and I’m glad that I’ve done it. The big day itself was fabulous, the atmosphere, the crowds. I saw parts of LA that I’ve never seen before in the three years since I’ve been here. I ran through Korea Town, South Central, Downtown, around Universal Studios and outside the Olympic Stadium.

It was like a carnival and I was part of the parade. Hundreds of Angelenos left their front doors and cheered the runners on. Little kids, toddlers even, held out their hands so that we could high-five them as we ran past. There were live bands and stereo systems with musicians and DJs blaring everything from salsa to hip-hop.

Strangers were calling me by name saying: “Way to go Marissa. You can do it.” And if they weren’t shouting they were offering sliced oranges on a tray, or maybe suntan lotion or Vaseline slathered on a piece of cardboard. The idea was a person would hold up the cardboard and if a runner needed some lotion or Vaseline they would just run up and slide their hands down the cardboard.

This may explain why I ended up in the medical tent. Having been inside a couple of the portable loos and, knowing that few runners had washed or sanitised their hands, I had no desire to suck on an orange that other people had fingered. I knew where their hands had been and I didn’t want their germs in my mouth.

I digress. I only got annoyed with one supporter who decided to shout out at mile 20: “Come on runners. You’ve only got six more miles to go. That’s a piece of cake.” Clearly I was flagging by then because I didn’t have the energy to grab that misguided woman by the neck and shake her until she realised that 20 PLUS six miles is NOT a piece of cake.

In fact whereas eight miles felt like nothing at the beginning of the race a single step felt like climbing Mount Everest by the end and it took all the strength I could muster to cross the finish line. But I did…

For me the best thing about running the marathon was not the day itself but the six months beforehand. Training for the marathon while raising money to fight AIDS in LA and abroad strengthened more than just my calf muscles. With the help of my friends and family I have raised – at the last count – about $1,761. (Thank you to each and every one of you who contributed your time, money and support.)

I have proven that I can be a group leader without being bossy or bitchy. Never again can I say that I am undisciplined because there were times when the last thing in the world I wanted to do was run but I forced myself to do it to get the training in.

Most importantly, however, I’ve made some dear friends each of whom I will miss seeing at 8 o’clock on a Saturday morning.

So for me the marathon wasn’t just those six hours and 16 minutes of running on Sunday March 2, 2008. It was that and a whole lot more.

Those closest to me know that, in the last three years, I have faced some of the greatest challenges of my life. There was a time when opening my eyes in the morning to welcome a new day was a huge effort. But I guess the doctor was right. I’ve surprised myself. I am made of sterner stuff…

M x

I now qualify to run the LA Marathon in March 2008.

Thank you all for your love and support.

M x

Nice term, isn’t it? Clearly a) I’m sick and b) I’ve gone through my weight in snotty tissues – and that’s a lot of tissues. Ask Kleenex employees. They’ve all received bonuses because of the sudden surge in sales…

Trouble is, I have a dilemma. What do you do with tissues once you’ve blown your nose? Do you put them in the recycle bin or sling them in the trash? In this ‘Green’ age what do you do with all things green…?

I digress. I have sinusitis, which means that I woke on Tuesday morning with aching muscles; swollen glands, coughing, spluttering and moaning so much you’d have thought I had some deadly disease.

Fortunately I didn’t. But now Marissa the Perfectionist faces a big challenge: forcing herself to rest – not run – her way through this illness. It’s hard. The temptation is to jump into my sneakers and hit the road.

Fortunately, I’m flying to Spain this afternoon with five of my old university mates and I know that if I even attempt to push my sick black behind while we’re on holiday they’ll all jump on me – well, everyone apart from Griffin who isn’t a touchy-feely person.

Maybe she’ll sit on top of the pile – glass of sangria in her hand, sunhat plopped on her head…

M x

Wednesday September 12
I stroll downstairs with my Thai take away. I’m feeling smug because chicken and cashew nuts with brown rice for lunch isn’t that bad, especially as I’m only having half a portion.
But, before I could even get to the kitchen, Chris A from downstairs seizes upon me. “Aha!” he says. “That doesn’t smell like part of a marathon runner’s diet.”
He makes this assertion before I’ve even opened the take out box! He has no idea what I’m having for lunch. All he knows is that it doesn’t smell right…

A lot of responsibility comes with training for a marathon and I’ve felt that rising with every dime, dollar, pound and cent that my friends are kindly donating.
I never thought I’d have to be discreet about what I ate and what I did (or didn’t do) though. It’s funny and reminds me how much my friends care and have got into the spirit of things.

But, to quote Maya Angelou: “Now I know why the caged bird sings.” I feel sorry for lardy celebs who are ‘papped’ nibbling on peanuts. Oh, those pesky photographers! Why won’t they just go away?

It’s a hard life but somebody’s got to live it… M x