And So We Rise

Fourteen dives completed, now. Either six or sixteen more to go, depending on what my doctors decide. My cancer surgeon said twenty, originally, but the doctors who run the chamber treatment say that thirty is optimal for oxygen penetration. I float in the middle somewhere, anxious to get as much cancer out as soon as possible, but also anxious to allow for the best healing of my jaw infection and my future wounds.

The jaw infection was frightening, the reality of not being able to open or use my mouth normally incredibly intimidating. Next week I will see an oral surgeon who is also an M.D. to discuss the possibility of trying to pull my right rear molar, clean up the exposed bone there, and graft tissue to cover it as part of one grand procedure in which the cancer excision also takes place. I'm not sure if it's possible or reasonable, but I do not want to be at risk for another infection, as exposed bone in my mouth puts me every day. And, as appalling as it is to consider waking up hurting inside my mouth and outside around my ear on the same side, at the same time, there is part of me that wants to get the whole thing over with. It may not be my decision; we'll see.

In the meantime, there are the dives. The time spent in the oxygen hood continues to be relatively benign; an enforced period of moments with oneself if I choose to use them that way. The staff are helpful and kind. They strive to keep us smiling and praise our "good work." "Are you doing okay?" is the refrain each time a hood is removed. I am grateful for their conscientious attention. They are all EMTs: Matt, Gina, Trevor, Ryan, and a couple others whose names I haven't quite gotten down yet. Some have the additional designation "DMT" or Dive Medical Technician. They call us "Mrs." and "Mr.", assist us to safely enter and exit the chamber, make sure they don't overinflate our hoods or catch our hair as they connect the hoods to our collars. They are a reassuring presence every day.

I have found the dives to be a prime example of time's relativity. Very few of the thirty-minute sessions on oxygen actually "feel" like thirty minutes. Some feel shorter, some seem longer. I use some of the time to close my eyes and focus on my breathing, some of the time to read, and some of time to be distracted by whatever images are running across the tiny TV screen I can see. During only one dive was that made difficult, but it merits a post of its own. All in all, when my hood is removed after our third session, I feel calm and ready to ascend.

Ascent is quicker than descent. Ears clear on their own going up. Most of us ask for a blanket, because the air becomes quite cool as we get closer to "the top." It is six minutes to think about the rest of the upcoming day, to fantasize, for a millisecond, that the hatch will open and we'll find ourselves in Tahiti, instead of the basement of the UCSD Medical Center, or, perhaps, that miraculously we'll all be well. I exit down the ramp, staff carefully remove my collar, I remove my shoe covers, grab clean scrubs for the next day's dive, and head for the elevator. I hope it has been another day of healing.