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Nurse by Steve Bolduc

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Moaning Underwater

AI animated from my original hand painted work:

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medfet rp where you sit in the emergency waiting room for 12 hours before being seen

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1…2…3…4…

Come on baby, breathe for me!

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Reagan Lush electric torture

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If you don't whump your favorite character, who will?

CPR Awareness Week

Day 3 - Sudden Cardiac Arrest

Day 8 - Love Triangle

Human Cars AU - Story under the cut

TW : CPR

Heatstroke

The day is unusually hot, even for the small desert town. The sheriff leans against one of the abandoned storefront walls, fighting to stay cool in the sliver of shade it provides.

He's been tasked to watch the delinquent for the day as he repaves the main street. He'd barely made it past the fire station yesterday before pitching his little hissy fit. He'd thrown the shovel down and whined and moaned until the sheriff decided he'd had enough and threw him back in his cell.

Now here they are, out in the Arizona heat again as the boy grumbles and complains.

The clatter of a shovel on fresh asphalt snaps the older man back to the present. Not again, he thinks as he turns to look in the blond’s direction. What he sees sends ice cold panic down his spine.

The younger man’s cheeks and ears are searing red. He sways on his feet, stumbling toward the sheriff, slurring, “I d’n feel s’g’d.” No sooner had the words fallen from his lips, his blue eyes roll back and he crumples forward into the older man’s outstretched arms.

The sheriff’s knees buckle with the dead weight and he lowers both of them down into the red dirt. The boy's lips twitch and his lashes flutter, but his chest doesn’t rise.

“Doc!”

The panic in the sheriff’s voice makes the older doctor jump. He tosses his book aside and quickly stands to see what the commotion is about. Is the kid making a run for it, again? When he steps out into the street for a better view, his blood runs cold.

“The boy ain’t breathin’,” the sheriff all but sobs as he tilts the racer’s head back, cradling a flushed cheek and sealing his mouth over the other's. Both their cheeks round and McQueen's throat expands as the older cop pushes the first breath into the boy's lungs.

Doc is to them in a few long strides, bad hip and back all but forgotten in his urgency. He kneels down in front of the pair on the ground, pressing two fingers into the side of McQueen’s throat.

“Shit,” Doc spit, “he's got no pulse. Brace him.”

The sheriff does as he’s told, shifting his weight back into his heels and pulls McQueen’s limp torso flush with his broad chest.

Doc plants his interlocked hands over the smaller man’s chest and rocks forward. He slams his palms into the blond’s chest as hard as he can, counting under his breath as he works. When he finishes a cycle of thirty compressions, he reaches for the young man’s throat again, digging calloused fingers deep into the artery there.

Nothing.

The sheriff turns McQueen’s face towards him again and gives two more quick rescue breaths.

“Lay him down,” Doc urges. They cradle him gently as they lower him to the ground. Doc shifts him so that his back is flat while the sheriff removes his jacket and tucks it under the boy’s thick curls.

Doc moves to kneel next to McQueen, rolling his shoulders over his laced fingers to begin proper CPR. His hands sink deep into the blond’s chest, releasing just long enough to spring back before pushing down again. Small huffs are the only sound the younger man under him makes. His shoulders bow inward and his head nods where it rests between the sheriff’s knees.

“13, 14, 15, breathe!” Doc sits back to catch his breath as the sheriff leans over to seal his mouth over McQueen’s. The blond’s face is quickly going ashen and his lips are turning blue. Doc leans back into position, ready to start another cycle of compressions as soon as the sheriff lifts his head.

“Come on, hotshot,” Doc grunts, his arms pistoning into the chest beneath him like a well-oiled machine. The sheriff’s gifted air is forced up his throat with each thrust, some quiet huffs while others sound more like short moans or growls as the air passes through the vocal cords.

“Please, son, breathe,” the sheriff whispers as he run his fingers soothingly through matted blond curls.

Doc finishes another cycle and leans back on his heels while the sheriff takes over breathing. He turns to call over his shoulder, “my bag! Go to the clinic and grab my bag! The one with the blue cross on the front!” He's not sure who goes, but he hears their hurried steps crunching in the gravel.

A moment later Ramone appears. He drops the bag and takes a step back, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. Doc is still pounding into McQueen’s chest, his whole body rocking and jerking with the force.

“Go. You don't need to see this,” the sheriff says, voice tense.

Ramone nods once and turns on his heels, half jogging back to where everyone is gathered in front of Flo’s Cafe.

Doc unzips the duffel and pulls a pair of shears from inside. He slides the blades under the hem of the white undershirt and snips, cutting it open in three fluid snips. He brushes the fabric aside, revealing the racer’s bare chest. A lump starts to form in Doc’s throat when he sees the darkening bruise already forming over the boy’s sternum.

He shakes himself, willing the stinging tears back from his eyes as he turns on the portable defibrillator. He sets the paddles to analyze and presses the cold steel over the blond’s heart. After a moment, the machine shows what he already feared. Still flatline.

He passes an ambu bag over to the sheriff, “seal the mask over his mouth and nose. Every time I get to fifteen compressions squeeze the bag.”

The sheriff nods, and Doc goes back to his task. Pump. Pump. Pump. Breathe. They continue this pattern for two more cycles before Doc presses the paddles back onto McQueen’s chest.

There!

The monitor reads a weak VFib and Doc takes his chance. He turns the dial to 150J and sets them to charge. “Keep breathing for him,” he commands, finally glancing up at the older man in front of him. His eyes are glassy and red, but his brows are set in determination. He squeezes the bag, filling the boy’s lungs again and again.

When the light finally blinks Doc pulls the paddles from their slot and covers them in conductive gel. He presses the cold metal against bare skin. As his thumbs hover over the triggers, he looks up at the sheriff, “stand clear. Don't touch him.” He does as he’s told, scooting back and raising his hands.

Doc nods.

“Clear!”

The boy's arms and legs spasm as his chest jerks inward. His head lolls to the side as his body stills.

“No change,” Doc mutters, turning the dial to 200J. “Clear!” This time, McQueen’s back arches off the sand. His head falls back with an involuntary grunt and his fingers and toes flex and curl. When he slams back to the ground with a dull thud, the monitor whines.

“No…no, no!” Doc dives forward again, driving his palms down into the blond’s chest. He feels more than hears the snap when one of McQueen’s ribs gives way under the pressure. Without it, the chest softens and his hands sink even deeper. He can feel an ache forming in his jaw from gritting his teeth. He’s stopped counting and is now just yelling at the man below him. “Come on! Don't do this to me, rookie!”

There's a huff, then a grunt. The sheriff is watching McQueen’s face like a hawk for even the slightest sign of life, and when his golden lashes begin to flutter he feels the first shreds of hope bloom in his chest. Come on, that's it.

McQueen’s lips twitch like he's trying to suck in a breath, then suddenly his face screws up in pain as the air is forced from his lungs again.

“Doc-”

“I'm not giving up!”

“Doc!” The sheriff reaches out and catches the older doctor by the wrist, halting his movements, “he’s back. He’s back.”

Doc reaches a shaking hand forward, pressing his fingers against the side of the rookie's, his rookie’s throat and feels the quick tapping of a pulse against his fingertips. He allows himself a few moments of relief, leaning over to rest his forehead against the sheriff's shoulder. “We need to move him to the clinic,” he mutters, “gotta get his temp down and get him on some supplemental oxygen.”

The sheriff nods, shifting to slide his arms under McQueen's back and knees. He grunts, his knees cracking and popping as he lifts them both from the dirt. He awkwardly reaches out, helping Doc to his feet before they start across the street to the small clinic.

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cardiophile mood🫀

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something new :)

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A commission that was maybe possibly perfectly tailored to me cause I ship these twooooo so muuuchhh omg If you are here from the star trek community be careful exploring the rest of my tumblr lol. its a lot more of this and a lot less of star trek

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think she'll make it?

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Some Friday the 13th resus fun

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Jason Voorhees and Jessica Rabbit visit Camp Crystal Lake by TheKrypt

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Tickle the Clown - Part II

“this is what happens to the plans of humans, it is when they make them in the midst of their pleasures that death cuts the thread of their days without pity, and in the midst of life, without ever concerning themselves with this fatal moment, living as though they were to exist for ever, they disappear into the obscure cloud of immortality, uncertain of the fate which lies in store for them.” ― Marquis de Sade, Eugenie de Franval and Other Stories

Part III continues with another fetish.

Part I:

https://www.tumblr.com/ipaintyourfetish/786026626350825472/tickle-the-clown-part-i?source=share