When the appointment was made for my operation I thought it was going to be a routine affair in and out in a couple of hours. In the event I was only discharged from the hospital at midnight the night before a big pitch and was left with a huge gaping wound that was impossible to seal with the dressings provided.
The day of the pitch, my left arm was still paralysed from the operation, stopping me from driving.
Though I refused to cancel. I was stubborn, but this was a major pitch and the surgical operation I’d had the day before wasn’t going to hinder it. Once the decision was made, it felt a bit like a parachute jump: you can’t opt-out once you’re falling at 32 feet per second.
During the pitch process, the managing director who has since become a firm friend noticed that I looked hot and not inconsiderably bothered.
He asked me how I was feeling. I replied I was fine, but what I really felt was a sticky wetness through my shirt that was concealed by a dark jacket. Blood was seeping down my back and starting to creep past my ribs and down to the waistband.
He invited me to take my jacket off and relax. Clearly a slow death by bleeding is readily confused with the tension of a big pitch. However, by this time I was tugging at the ripcord and so my response that I was fine was the signal for the chute to open.
All the way home, using public transport, the situation worsened. The now crimson sodden shirt was consigned to the refuse; the client was none the wiser (and we won the account).
When PR peers sometimes claim to have been bled dry by clients, I dismiss them with a confident bluster. I have been there, done that and discarded the t-shirt.
