It has been a while since I have posted to my blog, and I would like to talk a little about the personal journey that I am on and the reflections it has led me towards.
A few months back, I was diagnosed with lymphoplasmacytic lymphoma, a type of slow-growing blood cancer. Let me say at the outset that the prognosis for this condition is quite favourable. Although it cannot be cured, given current knowledge, it can be very well managed, even to where it can no longer be detected within the human system. It is possible that remission could last many years before treatments are needed again.
And so it was, a few weeks ago, that I found myself in a chemotherapy chair in the day unit of my local hospital. During that first day, I was given several different drugs designed to help and protect me in different ways. These drugs included two chemotherapy treatments delivered via a pump and intravenous drip. These went by the names of bendamustine and rituximab.
There is a fair bit to reflect upon already, but for today’s article, I would like to fast forward ten days past that initial treatment and into the recovery phase. Around about a week to ten days after treatment, the body is at its least able to fight any infections. Patients are told that if their temperature exceeds 38 degrees, they should ring the provided emergency number.
So it was that last Wednesday morning, I came over very cold. I took myself off to bed and slept almost straight through to Thursday morning. Even at this stage, my temperature was tracking towards 38 and was in the high 37’s. Had these readings been coming from an automated machine system onto an SPC, I would almost certainly have been planning an intervention. This was my first mistake:
I ignored the data.
Whether it was under the guise of “I don’t want to bother anybody” or “I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” I effectively buried my head in the sand and hoped the problem would disappear. Even when my partner measured my temperature, guess what?
I ignored her data too.
So now we arrive on Thursday morning. I drag myself out of bed and go across to have a shower. Looking down at my torso, I am aware that all is not well. My chest and stomach are covered in hundreds of red spots. My first thought is that I have chickenpox or measles. Given my lowered immune system, it is not beyond the realms of possibility, but it can’t be. Where would I have got it from? Again, in my mind, I convince myself that it is nothing to worry about because that is the easiest thing to do.
As 5S practitioners, we are taught that 5S helps us identify deviations from the standard so that we can take immediate corrective action to return to the defined standard.
This seems like an open-and-shut case. My standard skin condition is to have no spots. This morning, I have spots. There is a deviation from standard. Surely, I would phone the hospital and let them know?
Wrong! I ignore this new visual data.
That evening, my partner returns from work, and I show her the rash. She seems to be much more concerned about it than I do and takes my temperature. It is now over 38. I need to go to the hospital. So do we pretty much jump straight into the car?
No!
I manage to gain another night of denying the data by presenting the “let’s see what it looks like in the morning” defence. Stubborn to the end, and in the face of an ever-growing body of data, I refuse to accept that there is a problem!
We can seek to explain this phenomenon in any increasing number of ways, but I guess I have to be courageous and face up to the truth finally.
I was afraid.
I didn’t want to admit something was amiss because that was an uncomfortable mirror to look into. I only took action when inaction was the least painful option.
By Friday morning, it had become clear that something needed to be done. The rash was much worse, and my temperature was spiking. I phoned the helpline and spoke to a very knowledgeable nurse. She requested that I send some photos by email to see what my rash looked like.
Within minutes of receipt, the decision-making was no longer mine. The data was irrefutable, and now, in the hands of a medical expert, the action was demanded of me. My phone rang, and I was told to go straight to the hospital.
And this is where the problem-solving investigations began. I have no way of knowing, but had I taken action sooner, would the outcome have been different? Perhaps not, but my human system would have returned to standard far sooner.
Throughout, I had been adamant that I did not want to go to the hospital. Only now, it was inevitable, and I was to stay there for three nights.
I had allowed fear to convolute clear-decision making in the face of the evidence. I had ignored all data that did not fit my worldview and desired outcome. I had also bullied others into accepting my version of events under the “it will all be alright” argument.
I had access to experts and was ignoring them because, deep down, I knew what they would say.
I did what felt easy, and I did it without courage.
I take no pride in sharing any of this, but hope just one person might stumble across this article and find it helpful. Whether in a personal or work-life capacity, the first step of problem-solving can sometimes be admitting that there is a problem.
This might require swallowing some pride. It will undoubtedly take courage.
So, as I say, I didn’t want to go to the hospital. My obstinance led me to stay there for three nights.
In my next article, I will reflect on the time I spent there, but for now, thanks for reading!