Fight and Flight - Jo Skinner

Two weeks ago, I completed marathon number forty three. Virtual, of course, with the shadow of COVID impacting every facet of life. It was the Melbourne marathon which I ran on location last year with the buzz of finishing inside the Melbourne Cricket Ground. This time, I finished bang in front of the local BWS. Not a bad substitute for the big arch.

I did not set out to run marathons. I started running thirty two years ago while struggling through a medical degree. I worked to support myself on weekends, spent the days at lectures and the early mornings studying. It felt impossible to fit anything else into my life, but I was overweight, unfit and unhappy, so decided that I had to do something to dig myself out of a rut. I was, after all, becoming a health professional and a long way from setting an example for my future patients.

I still remember my first run, wearing daggy track pants and old sneakers. Not sure how often I looked at my watch (the old fashioned sort with numbers and two hands) but it must have been the longest twenty minutes in history. The relief when I finished, sweaty and exhausted was unbelievable. I collapsed onto the purple shag pile of my cheap rental, muscles screaming in protest.

Fortunately, I persisted, because running provided the mental scaffolding I needed to work as a doctor during the 2020 pandemic. It was an acceptable way to ‘run away,’ escape and employ the well-recognised fight and flight response while still turning up to work each day to do what I have been trained to do; provide an essential service to the community.

Between March and October, I ran just under 1,500km. If I had started in Brisbane and kept moving, I would have run further than Melbourne (1,375km) and nearly reached Adelaide (1,601km away.) However, the borders were closed so I just ran around Brisbane and continued to turn up for work each day, in solidarity with my colleagues. I have no doubt

that it was this that gave me the strength to support patients through the year that turned normal on its head, probably forever.

This past year, I often felt overwhelmed when patients confided that they found themselves unemployed, separated from family or had lost loved ones and were unable to attend the funeral. I have done a lot of listening, a lot of navigating the turbulent landscapes of fear and anxiety. I have also stood in my PPE, reached into cars and swabbed patients, provided reassurance.

People often ask me, ‘How do you run a marathon?’ I reply that I never run 42.2k. I run seven kilometres, six times. It turns out this is an effective way to tackle other difficulties in life. One step, one day, one bit at a time. It is how I survived 2020. The year none of us could have anticipated. The year we will never forget.