On Community

Now that I am most likely down to eleven more "dives" before surgery, I am drawn to think about the the ebb and flow of our little chamber community over the weeks. The dictionary defines community as "a feeling or spirit of cooperation and belonging arising from common interests and goals." But I would expand that definition to reference, "common experiences, interests, and goals," knowing as I do that my understanding of and feeling of connection to others is enhanced if, as in this case almost literally, we are all in the same boat.

In the chamber, despite all the vocabulary of the dive, the word used by staff members to describe us is still "patients," not "divers," as in, "All patients off O2, safety check completed, clear to begin ascent." We are certainly all aware that we are patients, that in some way or another the three to five fellow human beings with whom we "dive" have suffered some sort of illness or injury that either in or of itself or due to the radiation used to treat it, now requires pressurized oxygen therapy to promote healing. As patients, we spend an hour and a half together in small quarters every day for up to weeks at a time, depending on how the dates of our treatment overlap, and our common experiences and goals bind us in ways both expressed and unspoken.

We are male and female, white, black, and brown. Although I'm sure that some patients who need this treatment are younger, those whose treatment times have coincided with mine are more likely in the forty to sixty-five year old range. Some of us are more comfortable talking, perhaps more quickly forthcoming with the why of our presence and accompanying details. Others are initially less so, but usually open up at least a little over time. We've had breast cancer, salivary gland cancer, and esophageal cancer, amputated toes and necrotic bone. We're in varying stages of overall treatment, some with surgery yet to come and some hoping for our dives to bring resolution to stubborn wounds refusing to close.

My community initially included T. - a smiling, friendly woman, probably about my age, maybe younger, who chatted easily with the other patients. Looking back, I feel fortunate that she was part of my first weeks of treatment. She had a lovely smile, and was willing to tell me, a novice, that, although she'd struggled initially to get over some anxiety associated with the dive process, in the end it really wasn't bad. She was a fan of the staff putting on DVDs of movies to help the time go by, and would ask us our opinions about aspects of them when we were done, a nice way to keep the focus off of our ailments. Although happy for her sake when her time with us was up, I was sad to see her go.

G., also gone now, is an African American, who admitted to being 57. He would usually be waiting in a wheel chair when I arrived, the cast on his foot and calf preventing him from walking without crutches, and staff always assisted him in and out of the chamber. Occasionally a bit of a loose cannon verbally, he was often willing to express his opinion about just about anything, but he promoted the hyperbaric treatment as having already made a big difference in his healing. I came to really like him. He could be funny, sometimes bordering on outrageous, but seemed good-hearted. We wished each other luck when he was done.

Now the only member of my community with more time in treatment than I is J., a soft-spoken, petite, older woman with long greying hair that she wears up to accommodate the oxygen hood. Like me, she varies her activities in the chamber, sometimes reading magazines, sometimes watching TV. Recently, having watched a staff member work a Sudoku puzzle, she brought a Sudoku book into the chamber with her, determined to give them a try. There is a funny sort of hierarchy of positions in the chamber, with the patients who are furthest along in their treatment placed at the far end, and the newcomers closest to the hatch, perhaps in acknowledgment that sitting closer to the exit may reduce feelings of claustrophobia. For the most recent week's treatments, J. and I have occupied the two farthest back positions, and I have enjoyed having her as a neighbor.

These three were the first with whom I felt connected, with whom I cooperated and with whom I felt I belonged. Now there are others, whom I may write about another day. Although I would not wish the needing of this treatment on anyone, I remain glad that I'm not doing this alone. I am fortunate to have a community.