It is almost a year since my cancer surgery and knowing it is mouth cancer awareness month, I am chatting to my consultant surgeon at my 6 weekly consultation, about what he does to raise awareness. He shares some of his experiences with running free clinics and receiving ‘dogs abuse’ from Doctors who think he is scaremongering, and of the difficulties he faces getting the support required to set these up. As part of this conversation I casually offer to support him in any of his efforts.
Less than a week later, he leaves a message on my answer phone. BBC South are interested on doing a piece on mouth cancer and want a patients perspective. Will I do it? After a couple of conversations with the communications department of the Basingstoke Health Trust and a BBC producer, I find myself in front of a TV camera.
Up to this point, I have been fairly quiet about my cancer. I haven’t been deliberately hiding it, I know I need to take the time to get physically better, learn from and work through the changes that it brings and to embrace my new sense of self and identity. I also know that I need to find a new job in the New Year and that finding a new role is likely to be more problematic with a recent cancer diagnosis and recovery story tagging along behind me.
So, I take time, writing this blog, going to all the various treatment and support groups, having fun, hanging out and welcoming support from my tribe of great friends while focusing on getting better.
In one morning, I blow the control and management of my personal experiences right out the water. I run starkers, out of the closet with a primal Tah Dah!!
It’s a positive and a negative being a communications expert in situations like these. What is the message and the hook that will have people stop making tea and look at the screen? How will this message be memorable in 30 seconds? What will make people do something different from what they did before (i.e) stop ignoring persistent mouth and neck problems. It is with a dawning sense of dread, that I realise I need to show my “new” tongue and my scars to the good folks of the South of England, to wake them up to hopefully take preventative action. And not even my lovely Craig gets to see my tongue in private.
I am clear about my message – “It could be you” is the hook. I want the audience to know that I don’t qualify in any of the so-called factors they say generates mouth cancer. As cases are on the increase and more research needs to be done on the causal factors – don’t be lulled into thinking “it won’t be me”.
They edit it, of course, so the message is not so direct and I get quite cross when they find a loquacious but officious dentist in Birmingham to come on after my segment and talk about all the old traditional factors surrounding mouth cancer. Grrr.
But as I have also agreed to do a live interview on Radio Berkshire the following morning, I know I have another opportunity. Radio as a medium is very different to TV. A verbal rather than visual hook is required to get people to stop and think. My story becomes real when I talk about telling Roscoe, my then 11 year old son, that I have cancer. Parents are likely to shudder at the thought of having to do this. And everyone can imagine what it would feel like, having to tell loved ones such horrible news. Hopefully this has people booking regular visits to their dentist.
I then go ‘live’ on Facebook to drum up more awareness. Not only am I now naked and out the closet, I am swinging from the door!
I shut my laptop, pack my bag and get ready to support a girlfriend with a values in action workshop. In my handbag is a letter, the contents of which I have not shared with anyone.
It states that my recent breast mammogram results require me to have another mammogram and consultation with a doctor in 48 hours at the Royal Country Hospital in Winchester.
Shit happens doesn’t it?
Surely after the mouth cancer and the removal of half my thyroid, I am done for the year. Surely it is my turn to be well after all the healthy living, breathing techniques, positive mind work, the alternative therapies, vitamins and new knowledge. I convince myself it is nothing, they are being extra careful with me because of my recent cancer adventure.
So I waltz into the Hospital, smiling and positive, up until my left boob is being “squashed and squeezed” and the response to a casual question to the lovely radiographer, is ringing in my ears. She is not able to tell me what is wrong, I need to see the Doctor.
I don’t think I have ever felt fear like this before. Like a menopausal heat wave it works its way from the top of my head to the soles of my feet in a millisecond. And I can’t move as my boob is stuck in a vice! Yup, out of the closet, Tah Dah! now really quite naked and very exposed.
Sent to the waiting room for 20 minutes, I decide to pop to the bathroom to do some deep breathing techniques and star jumps (quite tricky in a small space and in reality more like a hop with two wildly failing arms). A bit puffed, I turn to face the door and see a poster all about poo. It seems quite apt, in this moment, to be looking at various shapes of poo and what they mean. So in the interests of sharing my new knowledge I take a picture.
Knowledge and a bit of levity are often the paddles you need when the shit creek appears. And the ridiculousness of the situation, trying to do star jumps in a tiny toilet with a poo poster on the door, makes me laugh out loud.
Shortly afterwards, the Doctor shows me, on the small screen, my breast lump which thankfully turns out to be a cyst. With the help of a sonogram and a ‘Dot-Dot’ large ‘Dot-Dot’ needle, it is aspirated and gone. More mammograms confirm all is good and I step out on the street.
It’s been quite a 48 hours.
I head home for hugs with my boys.
On its wild, windswept and deserted golden sandy beaches often the only sound is the sea thundering in and the seagulls crying overhead.
high sea waves hitting the harbour wall was a regular occurrence as was losing fishermen to the wild seas. The favoured way of committing suicide was driving down the hill straight into the harbour or jumping off one of the many cliffs along the coastline. Living and surviving in Caithness requires a resilience of soul and spirit and a propensity to live in semi grey darkness for at least half the year.
We took a drive up to ‘Groats for the obligatory photograph under the white mileage sign, on a day where the watery sun was teasing us with promise. We fell in love with the wild peace of the place and made the decision to debunk from the tiny, functional rooms of the Norseman hotel to a two bed apartment owned by 
The siege of Aleppo means these Mothers don’t know from day to day, hours to hour, if their children will survive. Will they die from a shell strike from somewhere and someone unknown, or from a sniper’s bullet from a fighter hiding out in this atrocity of a city? Perhaps they will go more slowly, in a hospital which has no drugs or supplies to stop their piercing pain, their blood from flowing, their screams of agony. Or maybe death will come from malnutrition as no food has been allowed to get into the city for months and months. These Mothers, like all Mothers the world over, fret about the basics. “Is my child safe and secure?” “Does my child have food and water to survive?” “Can I provide for my child?” As any psychologist will tell you, without these basics, what we know, or think we know, counts for nothing. We are reduced to our elemental selves. Humanity and human are two different concepts when our backs are so far to the wall we are leaving our shadows imprinted in the brickwork.
The course organiser had forgotten it was scheduled for the first days of Ramadan. We were in +35 degree heat, attendees had caffeine withdrawal symptoms, no one could sip water never mind eat, many asked for permission to lie on the floor and I was supposed to educate on a Western concept. To better understand my attendee’s experiences and culture, beliefs and rituals, I decided to fast with them and its one of my everlasting memories, seeing the vibrant aliveness of these kind and generous people as we all celebrated and enjoyed Iftar together in the evening coolness. During those few days time took on a new meaning – it became the essence of substance, of endurance, of belief. There was no clock involved, just the rising and setting of the sun. During this week, there were many life lessons; learning to adapt myself, my thinking and the course content while still achieving a good outcome. And this was achieved by us working together, tailoring and adapting time management concepts for the Sudanese. The outcome became, practical and realistic rather than a great theory in a Western management handbook.
Conversely, polychronic or cyclical cultures like to do multiple things at the same time. They tend to view people and relationships as more important than tasks and time. If you are from this kind of culture, you will aim to build trust and lifelong relationships. Being on time will depend on the relationship, or status, rather than any stated task and objectives. My African friends and colleagues, Latin Americans, Southern Europeans all tend to be from polychronic cultures.
To be fair, he was senior in 
Pretending that I am fine to stay dry but, inside, dealing with the mix of jealousy, self-loathing and anger.
Perched on the side of an old volcanic crater ridge, Ndali also has a private lake at the base of the crater. So when Craig suggests that we hire the (only) rowing boat, I agree. Perhaps this is the point, when it’s just we two in the middle of a crater lake, that friendship may turn to romance? Reality dawns when we are standing by the side of the murky water, the Colobus monkeys shaking the trees with laughter. We are going out on a sliver of a canoe, small enough for only two people and rackety enough to have been there since God was a boy. But I am in full show-off bravado mode and clutch my overly large camera bag for comfort as I gingerly sit down. 
We push-off, Craig seems to expertly wield the paddles and in no time at all we are away from shore heading like some Victorian steam boat towards the middle of the lake. Just as my anxiety is subsiding, I become aware that my feet are damp; err, they are definitely getting wet and I look down to see, to my horror, the swirling green of the lake comfortably filling the bottom of the canoe. Surely not?!! No. Its got to be my crazy imagination. It is coming in, it’s not the splash of canoe paddles. “Craig”, I practically shout, “water is coming into the boat” He glances down, and laughs, “Yes, we might have to swim for shore”. Even at this point, where I can feel the terror rise, I still don’t want to admit I cannot swim. “What about my camera, it will be ruined”. ” Haven’t you got insurance”? he responds calmly. Only now do I have to confront my reality. Only now do I confess. And I feel so ashamed. He responds by telling me to bail as fast as I can and, somehow, miraculously manages to get us back to the safety of shore. I am astounded that we did not see the hole at the bottom of the boat before we set off. And although I’m a bit shaken, I’m laughing as we trudge back up to the lodge while he regales “Learn to Swim” once again.
Roscoe is shrieking with delight and as the boat bobs up and down, I realise that I am going to miss out if I don’t sort out what is a completely irrational fear. But the years pass and I am relegated to the side once more as they jump into pools, career down water-slides, run into the sea. Roscoe barely hiding his irritation that I am unable to join in.
Then comes the side effects of my cancer. To take out my lymph nodes, the consultant surgeons have to cut into the nerves and muscle surrounding my neck and shoulder. Some damage is done and as it turns out I am having problems with raising my left arm as my rotator cuff has stopped working and my Levator scapulae is so knotted that it’s making my Trapezious do its job. I find myself in the warm waters of the hydrotherapy pool doing exercises to get the ball of nerves to loosen and these muscles back to work.
I talk about Scottish Morton rolls, close in texture and taste to French baguettes but in a high round crisp roll dusted with a light touch of flour, stuffed with butter and honey or spicy square sausage or bacon and runny egg. This recollection makes my taste buds tingle and my salivary glands work overtime. In this one discussion, my eyes are opened to how bread is a metaphor for home. And that home is very different for everyone in the room. 27 differing points of view, each one valid, each one connected and rooted to that taste-memory of comfort, safety, family.
We are all foreign to each other. Cast in our own small island, keen to be listened to, liked, loved, counted for and understood.
and decide that it is only our point of view which has validity and truth.
Despite the people outcome – a loss of about 200 roles as the activity moved to our partner in India, the business case and benefits could not be argued. These included improved service, greater opportunity to learn from and streamline the work and data and eventually create a more integrated way of using information. And save a lost of cost. But our country managers fought tooth and nail to stop this from happening. Our Operating Model (the way we are organised to do our work and make decisions) was structured so that these country managers were kings of their own domains with little or no interference from the centre. They controlled their operation from end to end including their people and their activities. The role of the Centre was to provide guidance, expertise and solutions which the country manager could choose to implement or ignore. This made any global change very tricky! There was little room for tell and do, this was all about influence and persuasion, treating each country manager individually, recognising some are influenced by others, some need to see the change in action first, others need to see the intricate details of the cost savings, yet others needed to speak to and know companies who have implemented similar changes. Our stakeholder engagement plan was large and complex. This was not change implemented by ‘sheep -dip’. At the heart of it all was the fact that the operating model had changed, the centre was asserting control over the kings in country.
But I have great empathy with these country managers. My first role in Africa was as ICL’s Business Transformation Director, tasked with implementing our shift from hardware to software and services. When the Regional Director resigned in protest about this change, I found myself with my old job and my new – Regional Director for ICL East Africa and Malawi – poacher and gamekeeper! Getting under the skin of the new role gave me the insight that what we had planned back in the comfort of HQ in UK, would ruin our business across Africa. This was a continent that had no stable power supply, that needed layer upon layer of infrastructure long before we could talk about IT services. 
Our best sellers – cash machines to rival NCR, retail machines for the growing consumer goods market, laying network cables for business growth – had no room in the new strategy.
Throughout the negotiation and the development of the prototype, every document was poured over, debated, re-drafted and discussed by our legal and corporate strategy teams in the UK . On the morning of contract signature a call came from the UK. On reflection, they did not want us to provide the technology or service it. We were not to sign. It was the beginning of the end for ICL in the region. And the most difficult conversation to have personally with the President. This outcome and the reality of who really was in control was one of my big lessons in business.
