It’s two weeks before my operation. The weight and enormity of my cancer diagnosis is behind me. I’m focused on the practical. All I have to do, prepare for, organise lies ahead. There are lists in every notebook, on every large magnetic surface. I am a whirlwind of efficiency, able to project risks, variabilities, possibilities and solutions. More loquacious than I’ve been for a long time, I ask for and receive help, love, support, kindness. In amongst this maelstrom, I open an email. Would I like to participate in IC Fight Night? An industry event where four executives postulate on various topics and be red or green carded by the audience. Immediate feedback. Immediate discussion. Immediate interaction and debate. Four leading industry executives. One winner. It’s in April next year. Months away. I think about it for less than a minute before typing “I’d be delighted” and pressing send.
At the same time, my work colleagues are having to dig deep. Bigger change than envisaged before is upon them. The largest corporate takeover in the UK for the past 15 years is underway. It’s bound by international regulations and resolution is at least 10 months away. Uncertainty abounds. So much ambiguity, so many choices. Stay. Go. Wait. Help!
I watch, frustratingly near, yet from afar. The ironic parallels are noted. Living with my own ambiguity, health and future uncertain, I am unable to do any more than empathise. Once at the heart of all people changes, I am relegated to being on the sidelines, not on the pitch. My choices are focused on family, health, friends. For the first time in a long time, work comes a distant fourth. It’s a liberation. A chance for unfettered learning and curiousity. I become my own change experiment.
I slowly learn to live in the now. This happens gradually. A focus on small stuff – an organised cupboard, a fridge full of green stuff, a wall of past photographic memories, notebooks full of future hopes and dreams. Little inconsequential decisions, irrelevant by themselves but all together making a larger unseen picture, the ramifications of which are felt by the future choices they enable. I start to become stronger again. My perspective shifts. I’m living the cure for cancer, not seeking it. Nothing I do is more important than getting well.
Invariably, time heals; my body and, gradually, my mind. And before I recognise the change, the snowdrops are peeking out from the grey green foliage, the yellow gold of the daffodils brighten up our country lane and the light of the night begins to lengthen and stretch. April is here.
And with it comes my past promise. Fight Night.
The week running up to the event, I have all these excuses in my head. All of the reasons I cannot participate. Then Craig has to go to Baku in Azerbaijan for work. It’s like an omen. I cannot go, I have to look after my son. But an understanding girlfriend removes the obstacle and once more I am clear to attend. The only thing stopping me is me. This is my test. Can I function in a work environment again? Can I offer any value? Do I have anything worthwhile to share?
Walking into the room is an inner strength test, almost comparable to being told about potential side effects the night before my operation. All around me are political election slogans and campaign posters. This is the home of Bell Pottinger, the advertising agency, whose ability to tap into the Zeitgeist of the day helped bring Margaret Thatcher to power. In fact, our “fight” is located in the very room where she learned she was the next Prime Minister of the UK. Thankfully all of this masculine posturing is negated by the warm greeting of a fellow panellist. She and I joke about what we’re doing before the room starts to fill up.
Formats explained, everyone settled down, Fight Night begins. A lively debate ensues on the value of having an organisation purpose, which segues into a heated conversation on the validity of resilience and if it’s something which can/should be trained. I am in the thick of it. Out of the window goes any reservation that my brain might not be working, that I’m better observing and participating with pithy one liners. Oh no, I am passionate about purpose and resilience – two areas where I have personally invested these past nine months. I’m up to my welly boots, and beyond, in debate. 
In flow, I share that a purpose is required for attraction, recruitment and engagement – particularly of millennials; that resilience needs to be learned, not taught. But this is greatly aided by providing a framework and tools for people to explore. I talk about the value of peer group storytelling and experiences, about holding the conversation and listening. I talk about brand purpose being so closely aligned to strategy deployment there is no chink between them. I listen to the discussion on the differences and sameness of brand expression externally and the internal employer brand. I offer a view on a more transient employee base – made up of knowledge workers, contractors, consultants affecting the employment proposition – challenging participants to stop just thinking about engaging employees. I get carried away talking about operating models and governance and the impact these have on change communications. And I listen to others and learn much about channel strategy and the changing role of communicators and get involved in discussions on authenticity and leaders. In summary, I have heaps of fun. And somehow, I “win” Fight Night.
But my real win is recognising I have no fear in sharing my truth. And that, in this freedom, I connect with “flow”. People may agree or disagree. Red or Green card. And I can bend, listen, laugh, be persuaded or stick to my thoughts and beliefs.
But always I am real.
Power Full.
Me.
While working for 
Fuelled by beyond-clever boffins used to being at the cutting edge of what was possible, the transformation potential was spine-tinglingly exciting. Tapping into our collective knowledge and skills and using our pioneer pride and sense of corporate history and culture, we embarked on a challenging business transformation campaign. 
Part of this was learning to adopt out of the box thinking to achieve non linear results. Results which would result in us jumping the normal trajectory of performance.
These are then modulated according to its software programme and played back to my tissues. Essentially, SCENAR uses my own internal body signals, scanning and re-transmitting these many times a second. It ‘evolves’ a new signal pattern for the disordered tissues, the machine literally entering into an information dialogue with my body. During the treatment, new frequencies and energy patterns are established, which in turn become fresh input signals, to be further modified. When it is combed over my skin the damaged tissue shows up as being sticky. So it rests on the sticky skin, beeping and communicating with me using frequencies beyond layman’s comprehension.
He decides to match my belief with his own. We agree I come off all meds and I rely solely on the SCENAR. A victory! Eastern belief over Western medicine.
I’m playing one of my sing-a-long playlists, everything from Joni Mitchell, Nick Drake, Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris, Carly Simon, James, Taylor, Fleetwood Mac through to John Legend, Bruno Mars, Phil Phillips, Coldplay and even Johnny Cash singing the Old Rugged Cross – my Nana used to sing this as a soloist in church and I still remember sitting in a hard wooden pew listening to her voice soar while silently
as the pubs had closed, we would stand importantly at the front of the pulpit
and trill 
And without the ability to hold the notes, my ability to let go in the music is diminishing. It’s fine being the funny guy – Craig and Roscoe roll around laughing as I try to get the tune out- but inside it hurts.
Founded in 1974 as a response to violent conflict in Irish society, Glencree was where all of the political parties from Ireland, North and South, and the main parties from Britain, participated in inclusive and multilateral dialogue workshops to bring about the Irish peace process. This learning and talking, which took patience, time and perseverance, was then built on and shared with the likes of Archbishop Desmond Tutu and the South African peace and reconciliation team, survivors of Rwandan genocide and many others from all over the world who are involved in, or victims of, acts of religiously motivated or political violence.
We would wrap ourselves in the knitted patchwork blankets, created by survivors of these many atrocities and share our stories, tell our tales, practice our learning and be reminded of our amazing lives and opportunities. And the love, fear, memories and hope bound into every stitch, enveloping me in every moment, turned out to be more powerful and transformative than any facilitation certificate. Although I did receive the certificate too!!
not at all like the chaotically colourful, soft, patchwork yarns of Glencree! Wrapped inside, I look like a larvae who has enjoyed his fill of plant life. My half head protruding from its layers, I lie quietly trying to empty my mind and not fall asleep.
The research being conducted into the potential damage to the brain by holding a mobile phone near the head is a great cause of concern to the execs of the mobile phone companies. And, increasingly, Doctors like Dr Erica Mallery-Blythe are publishing their 
we are re-learning to connect without the constant glancing at phones, electronics and gadgets.
people are more predisposed to pain than others. I’ve been told that I have a high pain threshold which is why the pain that I’m now dealing with on a daily basis is really frustrating.
This pain obliterates all thought, sound, sense. In these moments I have to move, to stamp my feet, to hold my jaw, to rub my forehead. And I can’t cry; that just makes it worse!! And then it goes, as fast as it arrived. And the sweet sensation of normal washes over me.
Frankly, a few weeks ago I could not answer these questions myself. But one of the many things I am learning throughout this process is the importance of the mouth in the enjoyment of food.
I feel each one, taking note of the rich red of the tomatoes, the different greens of the apple, celery, cucumber, then there is the orange of the carrot, the yellow of the pepper. I look at the pots of yogurt and humus, I smell everything before putting it back down. I shut my eyes. This is a visualisation game. On my own. No Kim Basinger or Christian Grey involved. The purpose is to kick-start my recall. How to eat different foods with different textures, smells and tastes when half my tongue is gone. And I practice. Through touch and smell I can accurately guess what I have to eat before it goes in my mouth. But, when it gets in there, habit takes over and I chew and swallow quickly, anticipating the next mouthful. I have to stop. To remind myself of the purpose of this exercise.
The answers vary and some are hilarious. Many are similar to me. In a resting state their tongue sits at the roof of the mouth. Others find their tongue rests on the floor of the mouth. Some talk of pooling their food, rolling it around, others discuss the importance of saliva, one talks about the tongue working like a wave rolling the food onto the teeth to chew before pooling it back together and sending it back to the back of the throat for the swallow reflex to take over.
No burning question had been left unanswered. Many responses left me scared and uncertain. There were still unknowns ahead and they could not give me definitive and accurate responses. I signed the waiver sheets, refused the sleeping pills they had prescribed and sat down to explore.
And to prove that you can never be too clever, outside my door is a poster on how to put on the hospital gown. I had studied it the night before and managed to follow all instructions completely. So, after struggling with the compression socks and eventually managing to get them on, the theatre staff are more than amused to find me keen as mustard and as pleased as punch, all dressed up but wearing my hospital gown backwards. Apparently the poster is for visitors who are visiting infected patients. Only it doesn’t say this. So I get ribbed mercilessly all the way down to theatre and have to endure the anaesthetist insisting I put the thing on the right way before he knocks me out. And, they take off my knickers. There is no dignity left.
I learn a lot from my inquisitive child.
cancer which I’ve asked in the hope that they are useful for others in similar circumstances.