Breathing Again: An Update from the Chamber
Clarity, cautious hope, and what three sessions inside a hyperbaric chamber are teaching me about recovery.
Three sessions in.
After my third treatment at Suffolk Oxygen Centre, the brain fog lifted. Not metaphorically. Not in a poetic, I-feel-a-bit-better sort of way. It genuinely cleared, like a mist rolling back from a field.
Last time it lifted too, but only briefly. By the following day, the familiar heaviness had crept back in. The fog descended, and the fatigue followed close behind, as it so often does. Long Covid has a way of giving you hope in the morning and humbling you by tea time.
So I am holding this lightly.
And yet, I cannot ignore what is happening.
There is, in general, a little more energy than before. Not the old energy. Not the pre-COVID “I’ll just get on with it” energy. But something steadier. Something that feels like a small upward nudge rather than a dramatic swing. It feels as though my baseline might be shifting. I find myself wondering whether the benefits are cumulative. There is no doubt that each session gives me short-term clarity. But am I quietly building something beneath the surface?
Time will tell.
For now, it remains a fascinating experiment.
Hyperbaric oxygen therapy is a strange thing to explain. You climb into a chamber, the pressure increases, and you breathe oxygen through a large mask that, at first, feels very artificial. The breathing has a different quality to it. You are aware of each inhale in a way that feels engineered rather than natural.
In the first session, I was self-conscious about the mask. It is not subtle. It covers much of your face and hisses gently as oxygen flows through. There is no elegant way to wear it.
But something has shifted there too.
I am more confident now. More relaxed. The novelty has worn off, replaced by familiarity. I know what to expect when the pressure changes. I know how my ears will pop. I know the rhythm of the session. So instead of enduring it, I settle into it.
I even take my laptop in.
That still makes me smile.
There I am, zipped into a pressurised chamber, wearing a substantial oxygen mask, writing away as if I am in a quiet café. The time flies. Words come. Ideas form. There is something strangely productive about being enclosed and slightly removed from the world. No errands or interruptions, just breathing and typing.
If nothing else, it is the most unusual writing studio I have ever had.
Another unexpected gift has been the people.
Our online Long Covid community is extraordinary. It has been a lifeline over the past months and years. Shared stories, frustrations, and small victories. It is a space where you do not have to explain why you cancelled something again or why a good day can be followed by three difficult ones.
Yet meeting others in person adds a different layer.
Inside the chamber and in the waiting area, I have met people with my condition and many others besides. Different diagnoses. Different journeys. But the same quiet resilience. The same calculation of energy and cautious, unsaid hope.
There is something grounding about sitting opposite someone who understands without a lengthy preface. You swap notes. You compare timelines and laugh about the absurdities. You speak honestly about the hard bits.
Illness can be isolating. Treatment, unexpectedly, has been communal.
Today, as I was leaving the centre, it struck me that the treatment will not last forever. The course of sessions will eventually come to an end. Sadly, at some point, I will no longer make regular trips to Suffolk Oxygen Centre. When it happens, I will miss the friendly staff who have quietly cheered me on. I will also miss the small conversations before and after sessions. I will even, I suspect, miss the ritual of putting on the big oxygen mask and settling in.
That surprised me.
When you live with a long-term condition, so much feels uncertain. You measure progress in tiny increments. You try not to over-interpret good days or catastrophise the difficult ones. You become wary of declaring victory too soon.
So I am not declaring anything, but I am observing.
The fog lifted again.
There is, perhaps, a little more energy overall.
The sessions feel less intimidating and more familiar.
And I find myself quietly hopeful.
Hope, for those of us living with Long Covid, is not naïve optimism. It is not pretending everything is fine. It is the willingness to notice small changes and to keep going anyway. It is making notes and learning to listen to your body. It is also allowing yourself to imagine that improvement might be possible, even if it comes slowly.
For now, I am taking each day as it comes.
I am writing in the chamber.
I am talking with others who understand.
I am recording honestly what happens next.
I will continue to share updates as the treatments progress. Not a polished success story, but a truthful account. If it helps others considering oxygen therapy, that would be a gift. If it simply documents the winding path of recovery, that is worthwhile too.
I am off to enjoy this brief period of energy, knowing that tomorrow may feel different.
Wherever you are today, remember: you are not alone.
Paul
Life with Long Covid is more than a few articles; it is also:
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