When Are You Going to Sit Down?

An Unexpected Enquiry

Just over two years ago, a man whose history in journalism stretches back more than 45 years contacted me for a copy of my CV. He had held top editorial positions at four of the most prominent Nigerian newspapers and magazines, and he still writes syndicated copy today.

He had come across my blog and, from a link on the page, requested access to my CV. To satisfy his curiosity, he wanted to determine whether I had a journalism background that might explain how I had sustained a blog for 20 years. On reading my CV, he expressed both shock and surprise that I held no formal qualifications in the humanities; I am an engineer who has broadly pursued a career in IT.

Recognition and Striving

Acknowledgement and recognition come from many places, and I hope I am able to take a compliment with grace whenever it is offered.

However, even as one strives for excellence, there are others who observe what you do and for whom you are not yet performing at your best. There is always that feeling that you could do better, and that in itself overrides every other concern.

Why I Began

When I started my blog in 2003, I saw it as an outlet for my views, and I had no intention of turning it into a commercial venture. I did everything at my own pace and wrote as I was inspired, usually hoping to bring a fresh perspective to matters that others tended to cover with a common view.

I do not believe I ever came to any agreement with anyone that my blog would become a platform for other activities, such as publishing a book. The idea of writing my story only took hold after my first bout with cancer and the period following treatment in 2010. Things developed from there, and I also battled prostate cancer in 2024; today marks two years to the day since I received the diagnosis of adenocarcinoma of the prostate.

A Loaded Comment

Imagine my surprise, then, when a comment was left on one of my recent blogs to the following effect: “When are you going to sit down and assemble relevant topics of your writings into books for future generations, particularly in Africa, to benefit? Your use of the English language and construction is superb. Some of your writings could come under, for example, tourism, based on your experience in South Africa and Amsterdam, or business management.”

You could take a good deal from that comment; the commendation and the suggestion were both gratifying and informative. Yet you could just as easily miss the criticism buried within it, and I heard it in the voice of the writer, as I have many times before, whenever their expectations were not met by my application, rigour, or initiative.

Refusing to Please

One thing I learnt a long while ago was to jump off the bandwagon of trying to please people. I do my work to the best of my ability and constantly strive to do better. That is my conviction, and it is the energy I bring to every endeavour.

It is the phrase “When are you going to sit down…?” that does the heavy lifting here, implying that you are not directing your abilities and faculties towards the essential.

In this case, that means writing books for which I have so far received no commissions. I have no obligation to write either another blog or a book, but I do have the desire to, at a time of my own choosing, if and when I convince myself of that need.

Parents and Approval

I still have my parents, who are octogenarians. I receive the occasional expression of pride in me, but that can easily be a speck in a bowl of displeasure at one thing or another. The fact that I am totally estranged from one and barely in communication with the other is the sum of the difficult relationship we have had since my childhood.

I was a difficult child and adolescent; I had my own issues, just as they had theirs. However, I am so completely past seeking their approbation that the desire fizzled out at twenty, and, as far as possible, I resolved that their influence on me would be as minimal as it could be, just as my dear uncle, around that time, shielded me so that I could flourish in my own way.

Words That Matter

What could it have cost to word that comment another way? “Your use of the English language and construction is superb. I can see elements that might lend themselves to books on your travels to South Africa and Amsterdam. Other topics, such as business management, I have seen in your recent writings, show that you could benefit future generations, especially in Africa.”

Imagine how warmly I would have received that version, responding with gratitude and grace whilst taking the ideas into consideration. The manner and tone of a conversation, along with the order of the words, do matter. Instead, I am riled, annoyed, and spitting tacks. It might have been well-intentioned, but it failed to hit the mark.

I might just have lost the desire to write a book. The medal for royally pissing off your child must surely have been awarded in the King’s birthday honours list, released on Friday.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Adopting a healthy work regime after illness

Managing oneself back to work

My return to work after extended sick leave, was not structured or phased, because I did not plunge straight back into the work activities before my leave. Considering I worked through my radiotherapy treatment and for a month afterwards, despite the fatigue and sometimes-overwhelming side effects, I put in the hours, the time, and the effort to meet my obligations.

However, there was a point when I needed more support beyond living alone at home, along with a proper rest period to really recover. This led me to undertake the long journey to Cape Town for the care Brian could provide that was beneficial for my recovery.

I eventually spoke with an occupational health professional, who suggested we adjust the work schedule on the parameters of volume, pace, and complexity. I was comfortable with handling complexity; I was ready for that challenge. However, managing volume and pace was something I had to learn through engagement.

Handling pressure before feeling overwhelmed

Implicit in this approach was a sense of pressure; the way urgencies, priorities, and dependencies demanded more from me to meet deadlines, often without the usual flexibility that would involve discussing the reasonableness with relevant stakeholders.

There was one occasion when an architect, discovering that a crucial piece of work—on which the entire deployment depended—had fallen through the cracks, suddenly created a lot of pressure on me, with the message that everything would pause if I didn't find a solution.

At that moment, I felt like a giant had stepped on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Recognising this reaction, I pushed back at once, saying that we would proceed methodically, and I would not shoulder the pressure caused by this oversight.

At that time, I informed my line manager, not seeking support, but making him aware that the whole issue could escalate because of my resistance to quick fixes.

This architect then committed a clear faux pas by suggesting he entertain my concerns because he didn't want me to cut corners. That was a stance I was never going to let slip. I don’t cut corners; I am a 37-year IT professional. No one at the conference dared intervene; the message was crystal clear.

Maintaining control on your own terms

With the space and time, I was able to find the right elements needed to resolve the problem, and we implemented a solution within 90 minutes. Exercising autonomy without letting pace be dictated by either my own failings or others’ is essential.

Despite modulating elements of my return to work, I find myself in the office for 9 to 12 hours, sometimes more. I tend to get absorbed in a situation, aiming to resolve, manage, or finish the task before I leave for home.

This occurs alongside lingering side effects such as urinary incontinence, bowel urgency, and nightly insomnia. The insomnia, I manage by sleeping as much as I can on weekends. Things are not perfect, but I am finding better ways to cope than before.

In terms of occupational health, I simply wanted awareness about side effects, fatigue, and hospital appointments. Beyond that, I believe I am meeting and surpassing my aims and goals, but I also need to be smart about it.

Thought Picnic: Under pressure

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Feeling pressure

Pressure and there are many definitions of it, the pressing, the feeling, the burden, the weight, a heaviness, a discomfort, an unease with a dissatisfying sense of being.

The pressure of time to get things done as demands and requirements tax your sense of calm, upsetting your equilibrium in ways you cannot properly account for.

The pressure of means or the absence of the same that limits your opportunities and choices, the things you want to escape that hold you bound like a slave to the moment, your only freedom is probably just that of your mind and only for a while before you are captivated again by circumstances.

Under pressure

The pressure of debts, bills due, rents late, sums of money owed, threats from faceless bureaucrats and intemperate businesses who cannot care less for the momentary change in your situation. You just need time when the time is not really on your side. You begin to wonder where it all began to fall apart around you.

The pressure of news, from places far and near, from family and relations some who have fallen on hard times just when you are enduring similarly hard times that there is really nothing you can do to help and that is just how things are.

The pressure that dictates, you are stuck in a place unable to manoeuvre, you can neither go home not stay where you are, just because you can’t. The horns of a dilemma begin to feel like the soothing hands of a masseuse as you hold desperation at bay.

Easing pressure

What can ease the pressure or take it away altogether, for there is only so much pressure a tyre can endure between it functioning optimally and the tyre bursting, just as an under-inflated tyre, where insufficient pressure renders it useless. An under-inflated tyre you can remedy and burst tyre calls for a replacement.

We must endure pressure as a course of life, the greater desire to be equipped to handle the pressure well can come out well having passed the test. I confess, I am quite under pressure and trying hard not to fear where I am at. Strength to the weak, hope to the forlorn, smiles to the saddened and relief to the burdened.

Clinical Notes

History in bodily detail

A 4-page printout from my local clinic this morning details a two-year medical history drawing in information from London, Wrexham and Amsterdam about observations, diagnoses, prophylaxes and treatments for a condition that is in its 15^th year.

Reading through, I am somewhat amazed at the ability of the human body to face the onslaught of infirmity and find recovery in help from medication, the state of mind and just sheer good fortune, to which I can only say, I have been blessed.

Under pressure to be at ease

Whilst away on a course yesterday, I received a call from my clinic to visit for a bicep cuff encounter with a sphygmomanometer. Yes, when I was last at the consultant’s just over two weeks ago, my blood pressure readings were a matter of great concern.

We agreed for an appointment for this morning and I walked up to the clinic just a little over 250 metres away. Observing the lady who went in, in front of me, she did not stop at the reception but touched a device where she entered her gender and date of birth to be informed about who she would be seeing and where to wait.

It is all now electronic, so I touched the device, entered my details and when the name of the nurse came up, I cross-referenced with a chart to the left of the device on a noticeboard that told me I should wait on the 1^st floor.

Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing

Just under 10 minutes later, I was called into a waiting room where my blood pressure was taken twice, with the second reading much lower than the first and both readings considered normal. However, I was told if there was any indication of abnormal blood pressure, I could be put on a 24-hour monitor to gauge what my blood pressure is on a typical day.

We discussed my meeting with the consultant two weeks ago, the suggestion of prophylaxis for pneumocystis carinii pneumonia (PCP) which was decided against without a consecutive blood test with similar indicators, I was told I needn’t worry about it. My drug regime might be changed in 6 months because the drug is now out of patent and there are more affordable variations of it, though I am not under any obligation to change them if I don’t want to.

In all, it was pleasant and I was back home within 30 minutes of leaving, looking forward to a more eventful day. Despite the many problems the NHS has, I owe a lot to the NHS for my health and wellbeing; long may that continue.

Hospital: That was brutal

What a start

Wednesday could only have been termed brutal in more ways than one, I returned home from the hospital and just went straight to bed to sleep off the feeling.

It was my biennial check-up, the one I was prepared to go for a month ago, only to realise that it was a month later. I got my appointment card and called an Uber cab to take me to the hospital and that is where my physiological problems began.

The Uber driver in the quest to cut out traffic ran into road blocks and other traffic that the 40-minute leeway I gave to getting to the hospital was being eaten up that I was getting anxious. The journey only takes 20 minutes, I arrived, just in time.

The pressure of the world

Then through the labyrinthic corridors to the Out-Patients’, I wended my way, half-hobbling and almost reduced to panting when at the reception I realised that I had forgotten to put my appointment card and treatment journal in my pocket. Though I did not need that to identify myself, I was at that point flustered when I was directed to sit in the waiting area.

Minutes later, I was called in for a weighing and blood pressure assessment. My weight has been going down, but the numbers that came up for my blood pressure were astronomical, both the systolic and diastolic measures in the 3 figures.

We tried the other arm, but I was already in a state, the numbers did not radically change. The nurse opined as did the doctor later on that certain patients have a white-coat syndrome that heightens their blood pressure in a hospital setting and that hospitals are rarely the best place to take blood pressure measurements.

A doctor I miss

I did not think I had a white-coat syndrome, I have known the inside of hospitals from the day I was born, there had to be other factors. My little sleep, the Uber ride, my forgetfulness and any other factor that is as yet undetermined. I did measure my blood pressure in the relaxed setting of my home yesterday and the numbers looked within the ranges of normal.

I was meeting the doctor for the first time, he introduced himself as a registrar, I have lost count of the different faces that make up this department. The head of this department when I first attended this hospital some two years ago, an affable and friendly man with a gentlemanly mien and comforting bedside manner had retired and was out in Burma doing charity work. I last saw him in October and he was the one who suggested I had a big do for my 50^th birthday.

Then I had had the opportunity to research the incoming head before I met her in the middle of the last year, we got on quite well. However, as the new doctor began to go through my notes, his apparently calming assurances left me in more discomfort and anxiety than I have ever felt meeting consultants in the last 8 years.

The whole works and working over

Maybe it was a confluence of events, but by the time I had seen a few more unpronounceable names to do with my liver, my kidneys, my gall bladder and my bile ducts, none of which on further research back home presented an alarming set of circumstances, I felt like I had gone in for acne and ended up in intensive care.

He was being thorough, at least that is what he told me and invariably, my drug regime might be modified in 6 months’ time based on cost, and I have a battery of tests to follow, bloods, liver scan, cognitive impairment and a ‘non-judgemental’ review of my sex life. Then he put my numbers through QRISK to determine my susceptibility to cardiovascular disease within the next 10 years and having stopped smoking 33 years ago, I was denoted an ex-smoker rather than a non-smoker; technically, he was right and thorough, if not pedantic. It was the full works and brutal.

I took copious notes and at the end, we did not even have a customary handshake before he was out to pick up the notes for the next victim, sorry, patient.

That was brutal

I put in my prescriptions at the pharmacy and joined the long queue at the phlebotomist’s, where a bit of gallows humour appeared to lighten up the day. When someone asked if they had lunch breaks, I quipped as to whether vampires ever took breaks from bloodsucking.

When I finally got home, I just went to bed, too much had happened in such a short day. Yes, it was brutal, by all standards. I am not looking forward to meeting this doctor again and it is probably nothing to do with him, I was just completely ill at ease chatting to him.

From measuring liver stiffness to stiffneckedness

Probed from the side

Please pull up your shirt, lie with your back on the bed, then have one arm down your side and the other up and folded with your lower arm under your head and hand down the middle of your back as much as you can stretch.

I was arched like this for just over 10 minutes when a cold gel was applied to my right ribcage and then a pulsing probe pressed again the gap between my ribs to take measurements, 10 of which were successful out of 14.

In another age, this would have been a more intrusive and uncomfortable invasive procedure requiring a biopsy of my liver.

Another amazing gadget

The liver is a big deal in human anatomy and it is presumed to perform close to 500 functions, its critical need within the body cannot be overestimated and yet we abuse it with excess and other vices. It is quite resilient, but it can only do so much.

My visit to the hospital was for a FibroScan, a non-invasive means of measuring liver fibrosis or stiffness. The FibroScan [Wikipedia] is new technology and extensive study indicates it is literally as good as having a liver biopsy whilst covering more area of analysis than a biopsy will offer.

In the end, the only discomfort I had was in the application of the cold gel and the stretching, I did consider having a conversation whilst being probed, but I thought the better of it.

Comfortable and comforted

The letter fixing this appointment is better worded than the original one that invited me to attend a clinic and I was not to have taken any food for at least two hours before the FibroScan. This compared to when I had an ultrasound scan of my liver to check for scarring some 19 months ago which required I had not ingested anything for almost 6 hours.

At the end of the session, I asked the nurse for a basic opinion and she said things looked good, I also asked for explanations of the readings before she wrote them down for me to conduct further research.

Within a healthy range

When I checked the kPa reading against the Liver Fibrosis card; for my condition and health, I found that I was well within the green range, which for me means, any considered deterioration in my liver function can be arrested and even reversed with the right treatment.

The kPa (kilopascal) which is 1,000 pascals is a multiple of the International Standard of Units measurement for pressure.

Before going for these tests, I was not sure of what to expect, but I am happy that on moving my treatment to another hospital, they are keen on learning things first-hand than relying on the aging reports from my other medical interventions.

Now looking forward to the next appointment. Meanwhile, you wonder if there is an instrument for measuring stiffneckedness or headstrongness.

Though Picnic: I could have died out of foolishness

I’m done with this

Just about 10 years ago, after an expletive laden meeting where my manager displayed a level of unreasonableness I had never ever encountered in all my working life, I decided I was done with that job.

I walked out of that meeting and put myself on the job market, within a week I had an offer and I submitted my resignation letter.

To spite me, he said, he was expecting my resignation and that anyone could do my job, with that he started a campaign of undermining me and frustrating my efforts at a smooth exit. It took writing a letter to the senior management to get him off my back and stop his calumnious activity.

Why this stress?

I loved my job but I could not work under the circumstances I was made to work, especially by the time we got to that rotten meeting. Of all the managers I have ever worked for in my 28-year career, he takes the prize for the worst ever sociopathic person I ever had to call a manager, I have avoided every prospect of ever meeting him again since I walked out of that job.

However, before I got to write that letter to senior management, I found myself under pressure, extremely stressed, having sleepless nights and seemingly out of control of the situation.

Wake up to reality

I came to myself one day wondering how it could be that I was moving on to another job, about to return to school for a postgraduate degree, just returned from a two-week holiday and yet be at a point where my health was threatened by conditions at work. It was so bad that I took a week off sick just trying to get it together.

That situation was unnecessary, untenable and unreasonable, it was the point where I decided no job was worth dying for and that if I could not control the circumstances in which I found myself, the very least I could do for my sanity was to leave.

Sadly for Komla Dumor

Which brings me to the very sad story of the passing of Komla Dumor in January 2014. I have for long wanted to write about this, but felt the issue was almost too raw to tackle at that time, I did however post some tweets on the broader issue of personal welfare at work.

Komla Dumor was a distinguished, accomplished journalist and presenter who worked for the BBC, it was always a pleasure to watch the programmes he anchored. A few days ago, a friend on Twitter remembered him, and opined that he would have been packing his bags to travel to Brazil to cover the World Cup, alas, that was not to be.

BBC World News – Focus on Africa - Komla Dumor profile

An unfortunate backstory

A few days after his death from a cardiac arrest at the age of 41, some stories emerged about the stress and the racism Komla suffered at the BBC. Worse still were the palpable warning signs his body was giving him that he apparently put to one side until it culminated in his death.

The New Statesman - Did stress and racism at BBC push Komla over?

Ever the professional, Komla did not once show the problems he was having as he appeared on television, yet this issue was eating away at his very being that it is rather unfortunate that he never got to walk away from it, for his health, his welfare and his well-being.

What the story in The New Statesman revealed was that Komla Dumor collapsed in a BBC studio and almost suffered a stroke 7 months before his death, which should have been the loudest ringing alarm bells to him to slow down, to rethink, to review, to reconsider or probably to resign.

The situation and warning signs

In a message he purportedly sent to a friend, he wrote of his high blood pressure, long hours at work; especially for a man with a young family, he was exhausted, aching, mentally and emotionally drained and all this seemed to be related to – ‘having “to endure lots of jealousy driven vicious insults, backstabbing from petty people” at the BBC.’

How did Komla Dumor deal with this? In his own words, “I kept going, I smiled for the camera, I volunteered for extra shifts, I showed respect to my colleagues from directors to the security guards … I remain silent in my personal strife and misery. I kept smiling and pushing on to present better and to engage with my audience and increase my following, long days and frustrating times, but I kept going.”

Only one thing is evident from that last two paragraphs, this job was killing him and what did he do? He threw himself more into it hoping it would fight for his validation, his respect, his survival, his recognition and more.

At what cost?

There is no doubt that his boss, the head of television recognised what a star performer Komla Dumor was, as “he said Komla we have decided to make you the anchor presenter for our coverage of the World Cup in Brazil.” That was not to be, Komla died in January, and the World Cup starts in 4 days’ time.

Maybe for not talking about what he was experiencing, he never got the therapy and needed support necessary to stabilise his health and save his life.

The salutary lesson is best left unspoken, to have to write of the death of someone younger, but there is much to learn from this about any situation with regards to what fights you should fight and the ones you should walk away from, not out of cowardice or weakness but out of knowing exactly what your body is saying to you and for self-preservation.

Beyond this, is not ignoring the symptoms, the circumstances and the burdens that accompany the dynamics at work where your health could be at risk. The fear of loss of status and livelihood when the loss of health and possibly the loss of life is impending is one to face boldly, for with life and health is the hope to face another day and challenge.

I was a fool

I look back at my own situation just five years ago too when for a year of observation from the chef de reception where I went for holidays in Gran Canaria, he noticed that it appeared my health was failing, yet I ignored all the issues, bounding along as if I had no care in the world.

I was more tired, sometimes particularly weak whilst the blotches that appeared on the soles of my feet, I dismissed as athlete’s foot that never healed. I then had shingles and soon that disappeared without any long-term postherpetic neuralgia, I hoped for a miracle cure that never came before I succumbed to the last resort of medicine, a resort that I should have taken probably over 12 months before. By the way, Javier, the chef de reception, predeceased me and he was younger.

I was dying

When I was finally diagnosed, I had just 5 weeks to live, if I did not respond to treatment. It was a kind of foolishness that was part of my cultural exposure in Nigeria where we never talked about how we felt whilst we prayed fervently visiting faith healers hoping for instant Shamanist cures after some ritual of the mind and the body – I could have died, it was that close.

Blog - A primer on cancer and chemotherapy – Explaining my diagnosis and treatment

In the process, I lost everything I hoped to keep through not addressing an existential health issue; my status, my job, my home of 10 years, my viability for the market, things I had acquired over 20 years given away without any return of value, it took me rock bottom, but I still had my life and my hopes.

Well…

It has been difficult, but the experience has become a story, one told in many blogs, and whilst I would never want to relive the experience, I do not regret that what I have learnt would probably make me a better man.

Do not play with your health, and no job is worth losing your health or your life for.

Thought Picnic: Of Justin Bieber in London with that look

Unconcerned

Now, apparently, a Mr Justin Bieber has been on a UK tour, having been in Manchester the week before when I was up there and then in London as the weekend rolled in.

I do not particularly care for his kind of music but I have seen the female folk swoon and squeal with glee at his appearance and performance that I can quite patently say I do not want whatever they are on to make them see whatever they are seeing or hear whatever they are hearing.

Then again, for the kind of music the young man purveys, he has become rather financially successful and some credit for his upbringing should go to his tenacious mum, Pattie Mallette whose intrusion into the public sphere has now included her sententiously religious opinions about abortion.

Unabashed

He turned 19 on the 1^st of March and he allegedly was staying at The Langham London which along with its luxurious opulence will not be lacking in the class and grace of a decent gourmet restaurant, however, the dear boy thought he might have a kebab instead, we cannot for now vouch for what kind of meat might be on the skewer with the food industry horsing around on pigs and cows that we might just be racing camels at the Grand National if all the horses enter the food chain.

One should not begrudge the man the need for something less exquisite, the presence of means does suddenly accrue to good bearing and exemplary mien, these things cannot be brought and only so much can be taught.

Unimpressed

It turns out that he left the hotel topless and what a body he appears to have but the low-hanging trousers exposing the full complement of his underwear must be the lowest expression of oafish conduct I have seen since I last told some boys on an Amsterdam shopping street to pull up their trousers and stop assaulting and outraging public decency with cack-ridden slips.

Every picture captured of the boy, because it does not become a man to be in such a state of undignified exposure, rankles with revulsion that makes one give up the hope of rescuing a fashion victim that has no doubt become a fashion suicide.

The worst bit of this display of gaol fashion that was attributed to men in prison who allowed themselves this demonstration to suggest they were available to be used as sex objects is the many others who will model their slouching gait and backside exposure tendencies after this Justin Bieber enterprise which should attract much excoriation and opprobrium.

Unacceptable

If my life had taken another course, a 19-year old kid would probably have been a 3^rd or 4^th child and I cannot see how regardless of situation, circumstance or peer pressure where any of my children would have been allowed to walk the streets inappropriately dressed to fit in with a nominally uncouth culture and appearance.

Being proper and properly attired is a matter of breeding, class and comportment without having to be dependent on means.

At this point, if there were occasion to warrant a cacophonous imposition on my aural faculties of this man’s crooning croaks my estimation of this very successful man who William Shakespeare would have effusively praised by saying, “You show yourself highly fed and lowly taught,” would not move one to find the slightest respect for his standing.

You only have to see the pictures to understand where I am coming from.

Averting insanity

The need to talk

My write-up last Saturday about the need for a corporate counsellor in high-pressure environments or highly stressful jobs which require competences that tap resources of human virtue as mental strength, courage, boldness and calmness cannot have been too apt for its time.

Reading yesterday that a co-pilot broke down completely to a point that he had to be restrained and then committed to care makes for a disturbing development in the workplace.

Co-pilots are real pilots

The usefulness of a co-pilot cannot be overstressed as one can remember that the crash-landing with the survival of all passengers just two weeks ago at London Heathrow Airport was handled by a co-pilot.

It might be easy to dismiss this unfortunate person as crazed and hence an exception, but one must consider why people who seem to appear normal suddenly collapse into a heap of nerves or irrational behaviour requiring restraint.

There must be trigger factors which some sort of assessment or review should be able to detect or determine before things get out of hand.

The pressure they are under

That this happened to a commercial pilot whose responsibility includes the safe transport of souls and the expert management of an expensive conveyance vehicle in interesting.

Interesting because pilots are supposed to be tested every six months – psychologically and physically – these tests being conducted to arrest extreme situations as the one reported.

The typical flight time from Toronto, Canada (YYZ) to London Heathrow (LHR) is 6 hours 50 minutes (SideStep.com), which means for almost 6 hours the man was calmly doing what a pilot would do until he suddenly went bonkers.

Crew together or not at all

He was then restrained in an Economy Class seat as the captain requested a medical emergency landing at Shannon Airport (SNN) in Ireland, whilst donning a regulatory oxygen mask for the remainder of the flight.

Airline crews work as teams and since of the crew had taken ill, the same crew had to be grounded for alternative crew to take the aircraft and passengers to its original destination of London Heathrow some 8 hours behind schedule.

Meanwhile, I do hope the co-pilot recovers from his illness; it is unlikely that he would resume flying soon.

Needs must be addressed

There however has to be opportunities to address mental health concerns with sympathetic professionals without attracting the stigma of being mad or the sobriquet of being a loony.

Our work environments now require ample space to vent our spleens before we implode on our circumstances and self-destruct in minutes.