Pulse(77)

And, since I’d gone back to work, I was losing weight again.

I had tried hard to eat more but . . . I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. Not eating had become a habit, and I was addicted to it.

‘Don’t forget to report in at the medical room,’ I said to Dave as we climbed out of the Land Rover. ‘You’ll need to be checked and cleared.’

‘Don’t worry, doc,’ he said. ‘I know the rules.’

He jogged off up the horse-walk towards the parade ring and the weighing room while I followed him at a more sedate pace. My GP had advised me against doing any unnecessary exercise so as not to put too much strain on my heart. ‘Anorexics don’t die from lack of energy,’ he had told me bluntly, ‘they die from heart failure.’

Thanks, I’d thought, that was all I needed to hear.

The remainder of the afternoon was quiet in comparison with no more fallers in any of the last three races.

‘Well done, everybody,’ Adrian said in his debrief to the medical team. ‘A busy afternoon but I think we coped rather well. Time now for tea. See you all tomorrow.’

‘Do you need me tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘You only asked for Wednesday.’

‘Did I?’ Adrian said. ‘Sorry. My mistake. Can you do it?’

‘I’ll have to check with Grant,’ I said. ‘We have children on Easter holiday as well.’

‘We really need you,’ he said.

It was nice to be needed, I thought. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Good. And could you also give the hospital a quick call? See how everything is? Then I can phone through my report to headquarters. Best if you do it. You know the staff there better than me.’

I wondered why that mattered but I did as he asked.

I caught Jeremy Cook just as he was going off duty.

‘How are our jockeys?’ I asked him.

‘Mixed,’ he replied. ‘The girl with the broken fibula shouldn’t need surgery. Simple fracture. She’s been fitted with an Aircast walking boot and sent home. I’ve referred her to see a specialist at the Nuffield Orthopaedic Hospital in Oxford on Friday.’

So she might get to the wedding, I thought.

‘The young man with the head injury . . .’ He paused.

‘Jason Conway?’ I said.

‘Yes, that’s right, Jason Conway. We did a CT and there’s no evidence of bleeding into the brain but he still seems confused so he’s been admitted for observation. Classic case of concussion, if you ask me.’

I was asking him.

‘And Dick McGee?’

‘He’s a lucky lad, that one,’ Jeremy said.

‘How so?’ I asked.

‘T-six and T-seven cracked right through from top to bottom. Severe instability.’

T6 and T7 were thoracic vertebrae in the middle of the spine. I went hot and cold just thinking about his toe-touching antics. They could so easily have paralysed him. I hadn’t been such a brainless doctor after all.

‘How is he now?’ I asked.

‘Contrite,’ Jeremy said. ‘He was complaining like crazy when he arrived. Claimed it was a waste of time his being here. Calling you all sorts of names too. Never seen anyone go so white when I showed him the results of the scan. As I say, he’s a lucky man.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Lying completely flat upstairs on a board in the orthopaedic ward. I sent the results of the scan by email to the top spine man in Bristol and he doesn’t feel it needs any surgery. McGee has already been measured for a TLSO and it should be fitted tomorrow. He should be out of here by the weekend, but it will be a lot longer than that before he can ride again. At least six weeks.’

A TLSO was a thoracolumbosacral orthosis, a light-weight moulded-plastic body cast that fitted tightly around the patient from shoulders to pelvis. It would allow him to walk while giving support to the back and preventing any relative movement of the damaged vertebrae while they healed.

‘Thanks, Jeremy. I’ll pass on the details to the racing authorities.’

‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘McGee’s asking to see you. Probably wants to thank you for saving him from paralysis.’

‘I doubt that,’ I said, remembering back to some of our previous encounters.

‘He also wants his clothes and stuff, his mobile in particular.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said, and disconnected.

I relayed the news to Adrian.

‘Well done, you,’ he said, ‘for insisting McGee went to hospital for a scan.’

‘I was there at the fence,’ I said. ‘I saw the initial distress.’

But it had been touch and go and, if truth be told, I’d only really insisted because he’d previously been so rude to me.

‘He’s now crying out for his clothes. And he wants his phone.’

‘The valets will arrange that,’ Adrian said firmly. ‘It’s not our problem.’

Nevertheless, I went into the changing room and asked the valets working there which of them looked after Dick McGee.

‘That would be me,’ said a wiry-looking man wearing an off-white shirt with rolled-up sleeves under a dark blue cotton apron. ‘Jim Morris by name, but most folk call me Whizz.’