#rubber testing instruments

[gester-tester]

ROSS Flexing Tester ASTM D1052/SATRA TM60/ISO 5423/EN20344

[effectivelabindia]

Where can we get a good and reliable ozone chamber & what features should it have?

In today's competitive production scenario, the product's reliability is crucial. For industries that work with various other materials exposed to rubber, polymer and ozone degradation, an ozone testing chamber is not just equipment; This is an important investment in quality control and the life of the product. If you are in India looking for a good and reliable ozone chamber, do not look more closely compared to reputable manufacturers and suppliers such as Effective Lab India.

Why is an Ozone Testing Chamber needed?

Before we buy it, let's quickly understand why ozone test chambers mean something. These chambers follow the effect of ozone exposure on materials such as rubber, polymer and plastic, which are usually used in products such as tires, gaskets, wires and seals.

An ozone chamber of high quality causes manufacturers to consider:

So, if you build something that can withstand the ozone exposure, you need a reliable ozone room for quality assurance and product testing.

Your Reliable Destination: Effective Lab India

While searching for a reliable manufacturer of ozone chambers in India, a name stands out - Effective Lab India.

With 15+ years of experience designing high-performance environmental testing chambers, Effective Lab India has established itself as an important ozone chamber supplier, which is with a solid reputation for distributing durable, accurate and user-friendly machines.

Know why our chambers are more reliable than others

Let's talk features, because not all ozone chambers are made the same. Here, you should expect a high-quality Ozone aging test chamber and what Effective Lab India delivers:

1. Precise ozone concentration control

A reliable ozone chamber should offer accurate monitoring and control of the ozone level, often from 10 to 300 pphm. This is necessary for reproducible results in rapid aging tests.

2. Uniform airflow circulation

Effective Lab India Chambers is designed with high-deficiency fans and air circulation systems, even to maintain ozone distribution, so that all samples get the same exposure, giving you more reliable test data.

3. Programmable Logic Controller (PLC)

Effective Lab India's modern chamber comes with a user-based PLC-based control system. This allows users to enter test parameters like:

You can automate your test process and save precious time.

4. Safety facilities

The ozone gas used is very reactive. This is why their chambers include the underlying safety alarms, automatic shutdown features, and ozone destruct units, which safely neutralise the remaining ozone before you vent.

5. Strong construction and compact design

Effective Lab India understands that the laboratory is valuable. Their ozone test chambers are compact, smooth and robust; both are ideal for industrial laboratories and R&D centres.

6. Customised size available

Depending on sample size and volume, you can request a custom chamber size. Effective Lab India offers bench tops and floor-standing models, giving you the flexibility to choose what your setup fits.

Ozone chamber price in India - what is expected?

The price of the ozone chamber in India varies depending on size, automation level and customised functions. On average, you can expect to start from about 1.5 lakh for basic models and can go up to 5-6 lakhs for advanced programmable devices with temperature and moisture control.

Effective Lab India provides competitive prices, and their machines are supported by fast customer assistance, installation help and training.

Why do you need to choose Effective Lab India?

Still wondering why so many laboratories, manufacturers and quality control departments throughout India choose Effective Lab India?

Here are quick answers:

In short, they do not just sell machines - they provide solutions.

Final Thoughts

When you invest in laboratory testing instruments like an ozone chamber, you need reliability, performance and expert support - and that's what you get with Effective Lab India.

Their machines are packed with smart features, which are complete and ready to meet the needs of modern testing and standards.

Therefore, if you are looking for a reliable ozone chamber manufacturer and supplier in India, do not look further. Effective Lab India provides the right balance between technology, price and support.

Are you ready to upgrade your content test games? Contact Effective Lab India Today and get an offer that matches your needs and budget.

Do you need more details or a customised solution?

Call: +91-9555155525

Website: www.effectivelabindia.com

[texcareinstruments]

Flex Meter Manufacturer and Supplier in India | Digital Flexo Meter | Flexo plate mounting machine

​Flex Meter Manufacturer and Supplier in India | Digital Flexo Meter | Flexo plate mounting machine

A Flexometer is a specialized testing instrument designed to evaluate rubber, leather, and coated textiles' flexing fatigue resistance and heat build-up characteristics.

It simulates repeated flexing or compression cycles to assess a material's durability and performance under dynamic conditions.

Applicable Standards for Flexo Meter: ASTM D623, ISO 4666-3:2022, ASTM D6182, ISO 5402-1, ISO 20344

TEXCARE – Testing Instruments You Can Trust 📞 24/7 Support: +91-8802270444 📧 Email: info@texcare.co.in 🌐 Website: www.texcareindia.com 📱 Contact: +91-9899309879, +91-9990592299 📍 Visit: I-84, Road No. 19, UPSIDC Site-C, Surajpur Industrial Area, Greater Noida-201306 (UP)

. .

Flexo #Durability #Endure #Bounce #Resist #Toughwear #FlexTech #Rubberized #Heatproof #FatigueTest #PowerWear #DynamicGear #MotionLab #Tested #Flexy #GripZone #TechCore #StyleFlex #CoreFlex #InnoWear #Grindproof #Stretchit #BuiltStrong #BendProof #ToughFlex #LabReady #TrendTest #Wearology #FlexLab

[fatuilavaaaarer]

→⟩°⌊FATHER DOTTORE X DAUGHTER READER⌋

.;`~☆ NSFW .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ TW : , Father-Daughter Incest, Noncon, Grooming, Experimentation, Use of Toys, Segment Orgy, Audience, Gaslighting, Manipulation .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

ᶻ 𝘇 Z Authors Note ?

- ⋮ ` Please Read @ Your Own Risk .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ I DO NOT ADVICE OR SUPPORT THIS IN ANY WAY .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ This Is For COPING PURPOSES IN NO WAY DO I SUPPORT THE FOLLOWING .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

Please ;  Keep Yourself Safe, Love From Author , Remember , You Matter 𓈒𓏸

-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~

Finding yourself hiding in his lab coat during surgeries, fiddling with his pockets, minutes might as well be hours to a child like you, looking at all the machines he would work with, hiding behind his leg while surrounded in his lab coat as you stared up at the way his hands held a mutation of sorts. Being a child and witnessing all the colorful buttons on the various interesting machines, any child would be frustrated after so long, just standing still, waiting for your father to finish his surgery.

So you would often fall asleep by his foot, an adorable and amusing sight to him once he looked down to find your head snuggled against his boots, a genuine smile. Was his smile genuine because he genuinely adored your adorable behavior? — Or was his smile genuine because he admired himself for his intellect and brilliance that led to creating you?

Your adorable childish attitude has indeed amused him, unfortunately, you would most likely just get in the way of his mobility, most likely to affect the surgery. He placed his bloody instruments back down, the snap of the rubber as he took his stained gloves off echoed through the operation room. With a soft dark chuckle he scooped you into his arms before a segment took you away so you wouldn’t bother anything.

You were no stranger to experiments, regularly having scheduled checkups or surgeries to study you. As a child you were used to the cold, used to the cold air in his lab, the freezing sanitized metal table you would sit and lay on, even your fathers cold gloved hands. Your fathers segments within the room, studying you as their prime examined every bit of your body. Various x-rays and scans, even spreading your legs and examining your folds. You were no stranger to crowds of segments just observing you as you solved various advanced equations and riddles, testing your iq, eq, even creativity. Studying until the next day had been built into your schedule, your fathers segments often lecturing you on various scientific fields.

Unfortunately, like your father, you had no friends. Often alone and entertaining yourself with a book or with a piece of scrap machinery. When you were given the opportunity to interact with other children your age, you were baffled and disgusted by their lack of knowledge, making it almost impossible for you to communicate. Your father had always told you how different the two of you were from the rest of society, and you couldn’t help but be thankful for it. It wasn’t any different with adults either, treating you like a toddler. Often making comments about your wide vocabulary, often saying such things as ‘Oh, that’s such a big word!’ It was truly tiresome and so you chose to spend your time with your father.

Reaching into your preteen years your father began a new routine. Your body is changing and developing, afterall, he must examine his treasured creation, he would say.

Your naked body laid on the pristine white hospital bed. Vulnerable to his gaze, looking at your chest, he gazed down your torso and to your hips. Your figure had begun to develop, focusing his attention onto your stomach before dropping his gaze further down to your hips, observing the growth of your pubic hairs. You had been softly mewling to yourself as he poked and prodded at your skin. With a cold gloved hand, he grazed the side of your hip, a signal for you to flip onto your stomach, his hand slipping under your hips, bringing your ass up. He squeezed your ass, his thumb pulling back the soft skin to reveal your hole. He remained silent as he mentally took note of all the changes that he had observed, his eyes drifting back to your flushed face, he couldn’t help the mischievous smirk that crept onto his face.

“Someone’s a bit frustrated, aren’t we?” He teased, his deep dark voice made your knees weak, as if he was mocking you for being so aroused. His gloved hand softly rubbing your ass.

Already well versed with human anatomy and reproduction at a very young age, you didn’t show much interest in the traditional ways of reproduction. But your hormones were working against your mind, the carnal desire rising every second your untouched hole and clit ached. It was freezing but you felt so hot, with his hands touching your naked body while your ass was propped up to reveal more. He was obviously just toying with you at that point.

You were an intelligent child, you knew what your body wanted, so with a devilish grin his finger trailed your folds, earning an unexpected soft carnal moan of desire from you. A side of your face was buried into a soft white pillow. Your father was a cruel cruel man, you knew that much. You were so utterly wet, you desperately needed relief, so at a desperate attempt you rubbed your hand against your folds. You looked so pitiful. His little creation, his daughter, on her knees, with her ass up and face down, itching for release.

His lips to your ears, sending teasing little breaths down your neck, taking pity on you, he decided to give you an ounce of satisfaction. “Look at yourself, utterly pitiful. A shame we all must bend to carnal desires, don’t you think, my child?” He let his middle finger slip through your folds, rubbing your aching clit for you. You whined in response, hoping he would rub harder. “You’re familiar with the concept of masturbation but I suppose you’ve never had the urge to do so until now. Poor little thing, yet to discover the pleasures of the flesh… the feeling of coming, and wanting to do so until your vision fades. But not to worry your pretty little hole” He spoke as his index finger pressed up against your opening “I’ll teach you very very well…”

You soon felt his finger press harder against you, screaming as you felt him circle your entrance, he began to drag it up and back down slowly, with a certain rhythm. His thumb playfully toying with your swollen clit, rubbing circles around it. You were left weak and crying, your moans getting louder as a knot in your stomach began to build. Moaning to your father about the strange sensation while his other hand had been leisurely playing with your ass, squeezing and slapping it to his content. Everytime you sobbed about the sensation, he merely shut you down, repeatedly telling you “not yet” until finally, you heard him calmly say “go ahead…” And so you did, you let yourself come undone by just his hand. A scream left you as you rolled your eyes back. Your first orgasm, achieved by your fathers skills. He pulled his slick finger out, the insane thought of licking his finger covered in your orgasm came to mind, and since when was he one for being selfless? You rode out your high and let your body collapse back onto the bed. Your mind still dazed, all you could think about was the pleasure.

Since that day your daily routine had changed. He’s been more affectionate to you, you used to think nothing of it when he kissed your neck and jawline but after the day he opened your body to new overwhelmingly addictive feelings, arousal was always in the air. Everything became so utterly lewd to you, surprised to discover your new test were to use dildos, vibrators, even having to ride a segments face to ‘check your endurance’. You were becoming a whore for your father well into your preteens, your evenings with him spent in lewd activities. He absolutely adores seeing his most precious creation be needy for him. He records, or rather films everything. When the two of you are alone at home, he loves to film you riding him. While he’s lecturing you, your face is buried into the pillow as your eyes try and focus on the words on the page, his hips slamming against yours as his words fall deaf to your ears. Loves to play with your clit and finger you while you still wore your underwear when he’s bored doing some menial important documents he can’t trust his segments with.

He’s become a very affectionate man to you behind closed doors, before he goes on a long mission he makes sure to ruthlessly love and fill you up the night and morning before he leaves. It’s required that you must make out with him before bidding him goodbye. You’ve grown used to the constant sex and affection, so has he, becoming separated for a long period of time without your presence is unnerving to him. Ever since he created you he had looked after you, cared for you, made sure you were well loved. It was hard for both of you whenever he had no choice. But once left alone, you can’t help but doubt his affections, wondering if it was just another way of manipulation. But once his segments and himself showered you with affections yet again, you’re reminded that he did admire you, adored your very existence, in his own sick and twisted way.

[andmybody2surgeons]

Hellu :)

I would love to know what your favourite "scene" would be. Is there something you'd love to do or perhaps have done already, that is the "perfect scene" for you?

Hi! I'm pretty boring ngl.

Perfect for me would be the ins and outs of running a fet clinic. Having regular specialists on staff, actually having a team and a colour-coordinated dress code. Having people to hold professional cameras because we're all fans of watching this stuff.

But I like scary. I'd want to gown and glove with my team. I'd want to help set out instruments on the surgical stand in a sterile way. A patient would already be on the operating table, fighting against their restraints, watching us, begging us to stop. It has the atmosphere of a vivisection. We are here to learn as much about our patient as we possibly can, and then dispose of them (but not really). We'd be rough, grabbing their face, forcing open their mouths, slapping the inside of their thighs.

We'd adjust the light and begin our work. Inspecting the patient's eyes, keeping them open with our fingers until they dry out and begin to hurt. Their mouths and throats. Their breasts and nipples. Their pubic region would need to be shaved, then carefully inspected, recorded for research. Measurements taken of penis size, clit size, any embarrassing "extra" labia and foreskin. The team would have a chance to chime in as whoever examines them pinches and tugs this and that, everyone making verbal notes into a tape recorder. The main examiner might ask assistants to spread the patient's vaginal lips or lift the patient's testicles out of the way while he or she takes necessary close-up photos for their files. Just pure porn of smooth genitals and our hands in perfect rubber gloves playing with them. At most a finger or two would be inserted into any vagina or ass, testing for muscle response and tightness, foreskins rolled back and urethras inspected. Blood work taken by those of us who love needles.

The patient would be properly draped for surgery. Maybe the procedure is simply putting instruments inside their holes and just seeing how much they can handle and visualizing the cervix and everything, testing out different spreaders and retractors, simple ones like Sims or Doyen to intricate ones like the O'Sullivan retractor that takes two people to set up inside the vagina. Because it's incredibly hot seeing it stretched out like that. Patients with penises would definitely need to be sounded and catheterized. Probes and fingertips inserted between tight foreskin and glans. Or maybe the procedure is needle-based, and the surgeon has a job to do, using all kinds of large-gauge needles on different parts of the patient's body, making them scream. Their heartbeats would need to be monitored the entire time with stethoscopes.

And then the patient needs to cum. Just from the surgeons' gloved fingers. Maybe a vibrator, if needed. But after all this they should be right on the edge and all ready by the time I touched them with the intention of making them cum for me, finding their g-spot or gripping their shafts between my thumb and forefinger with the tiniest amount of pressure.

[randomwriteronline]

miscellaneous Krakua in the order of mata nui thoughts. all of the stupid variety

A) Krakua is one of the smaller members since most of the guys here are titan sets so hes used to being picked up like a suitcase or for a piggy back ride. this was initially so he would not wander off or get lost or make them waste time, but then they just kept doing that out of habit. he loves it, actually, so when hes around other beings who are his size or worse smaller and so cant just grab him like an apple to drag him around he gets a lil sad about it

B) hes the only person who knows where Jerbraz is at all times. everybody else has learned to sense him or figure his position via hyper awareness of their space but Krakua can just fuckin. hear him. he will run at full speed and jump at him so Jerbraz has to catch him every single time they meet just to blow his cover. theyre having fun :)

C) typical order of mata nui exercise to improve your minds abilities: meditate uninterrupted for two hours while directly next to Krakuas noise tests. this includes fending him off (still meditating) when he tries to move his noise tests onto you specifically

D) the aforementioned noise tests are, in theory, a good exercise of Krakuas sonic powers by applying them to his staff and figuring out how they can affect the target through it. they consist, in practice, of Krakua smacking his staff against the closest surface available while applying a different more insane soundfont each time. he can do this for hours. he will do this for hours.

E) a non comprehensive list of noises Krakua has bonked into existence in the bionicle universe through noise tests:

Half Life 2 crowbar sound effect

Spirit bod static

Killing Machines from MNOG

Earth-shattering dad sneeze

Disgustingly wet cough

Wilhelm scream

Down Under (instrumental) by Men at Work

At least three quarters of Nero's Day At Disneyland's discography

Saxophone solo

Train honk

Truck honk

Car honk

Bike honk

Clown honk

Cucaracha honk

Sea elephant honk

Hydrogen bomb explosion

Rubber ducky

An entire audio library worth of slapstick sound effects

Several positively insane conversations between the various order members via the magic of TF2 fanvideo-style audio splicing and rearranging, currently following a vaguely coherent plot as he got too carried away and started making lore for this on-the-fly youtube poop hes been smacking on the side of a wall otherwise motionless for about four hours now

Mashup of every single polka cover medley by Matoran Universe Weird Al Yankovich

Micheal Jackson vocalizations

Yodeling

[gester-tester]

Single Column Tensile Testing Machine GT-UA03

[effectivelabindia]

Effective Lab India is a leading ozone test chamber manufacturer, offering high-quality ozone aging test chambers designed for accurate rubber and polymer testing. Their advanced ozone test chamber ensures precise control over ozone concentration, temperature, and humidity, simulating real-world aging conditions. Built with durable materials and cutting-edge technology, these chambers comply with international testing standards. Effective Lab India provides reliable and cost-effective solutions for industries needing efficient ozone exposure testing.

[thecglcatalog]

Medfet Baby's 'Bathwoom' Set

Slave makes a widdle at the doctor’s office for analysis or humiliation purposes.

Adult babies need a special place to potty where Doctor Mommy can watch to make sure they’re doing it correctly.  Create that special corner at the sex-slave vet or in the science-themed ageplay nursery with the medical fetish essentials in the 20-piece Elimination Exam Set – or, as our little product testers like to call it, the “Scawy Doctor Bathwoom!”

Place the Measuring Cup Potty atop the Medical Potty Mat — the clear resin and etched gradations of the potty will reveal the volume of pet’s expressions, while the digital readout sleekly set into the mat will display their “mess mass.”  (The mat also has foot placement guides to help foolish littles understand how to spread their legs so nurse can watch them go.)

But other receptacles are needed for a complete doctor’s office pee-pee room!  When little one’s widdle requires further testing, use the roll of skin tape to stick on the flaps of a Silicone Urinalysis Bag, an external “sleeve” that catches wees as they spurt forth. Just boil between uses! If baby can’t go pee in the baggy when instructed, it’s time to get out the Stop-and-Go Sounds, three sizes of slim, hollow steel probes, each with a rounded tip that slips into the tinkle hole.  At the outer end, a small lever lets Doctor unseal the tip, draining a thin jet of fluid from the bladder and stopping the flow again — with fingertip control.

The sounds stand upright in a striking white enamel Instrument Case with asterisk logo and clear resin dust cover — sleek and attractive in the powder room or hung on the wall by the exam table.  This case also has space to store the masking tape and Urinalysis Bag … plus a Rectal Thermometer and the Babyhole pH Tester, a rapid-read probe for another metric of intrusive monitoring.

Complement the set with a sleek white enamel Test Tube Rack containing seven rubber-stoppered glass tubes for a week of samples or medication doses … plus a resin Pint Measuring Cup to match the potty, and a handsome enamel five-minute Timer.

Base color is white; specify accent color red or metallic silver.

[statecryptids]

ROSWELL ALIENS- NEW MEXICO

Finally finished all 50 State Cryptids! Time to start putting them together into a book!

I always have a bit of a quandary whenever I showcase an alien as a “State Cryptid”. For many people the term “cryptid” typically refers to unknown Earthly animals. But over time this blog has evolved into more of an overall tour of speculative creatures in American pop culture and folklore where the lines between “natural animal”, “supernatural entity”, and “extraterrestrial” become very blurry. I’m also much more interested in the history behind these sightings than the classification of each creature, or even whether it plausibly exists at all. Plus I’ve already featured several extraterrestrials already such as the Pascagoula creatures, the North Dakota Meccano-Mummy, and the Grays that allegedly abducted Barney and Betty Hill.

June 14, 1947- Rancher W.W. “Mac” Brazel and his son were driving on their property 80 miles outside of Roswell, New Mexico when they came upon “a large area of bright wreckage made up of rubber strips, tinfoil, and rather tough paper, and sticks.” What was it? They had no idea.

 Initially unsure about what to do with the strange find, Brazel collected some of the debris a few days later and drove it into Roswell to give to Sheriff George Wilcox. The sheriff, equally perplexed, contacted the nearby Roswell Army Airfield’s 509th Composite Group. They sent a team out to the desert to collect the remaining debris and ascertain what it was. A few days later Major Jesse Marcel made a statement to the local paper about the incident. Though he didn’t explain exactly what the object was, headlines claimed the army had captured a “flying saucer”.

Flying saucers were in the news a lot that year. On June 24th, 1947 amateur pilot Kenneth Arnold reported seeing an airborne, disk-shaped vehicle near Mt. Rainier in Washington. Later, Navy seaman Harold Dahl claimed he had seen a whole group of the strange objects on June 21st near Puget Sound. Soon people were sighting flying saucers everywhere. Much of this hysteria was fueled by fears of the growing power of the Soviet Union and worries about what secret experiments they might be conducting. Paranoia about unknown Russian flying vehicles soon turned upwards beyond the boundaries of Earth as people began to speculate that flying saucers actually came from other worlds. These mysterious objects were labeled UFOs- Unidentified Flying Objects- by the US military and the term quickly caught on in popular culture. Though UFO originally just meant an unknown aerial object, with no indication of origin, it became synonymous with extraterrestrial spacecraft.

Eventually the army explained that the debris found near Roswell had come from a downed weather balloon. But such a prosaic explanation did not stick with the public. The idea that creatures from outer space had crashed on Earth had firmly taken hold, and a good number of people believed that this “weather balloon” story was just a flimsy cover-up. It certainly didn’t help that the government was tight-lipped about many of its programs out of fear that the Soviets might get wind of them.

 It turns out, though, that the weather balloon story was actually close to the truth. In the late 1940s the government began Project MOGUL, in which massive balloons equipped with sensitive detection instrument were launched high into the ionosphere to look for signs that Russia was testing nuclear weapons. One of these balloons had fallen out of the sky, crashed on Brazel’s ranch. Not wanting to reveal their secret project, military officials had felt it was better to let the “alien spacecraft” idea percolate in the popular imagination instead.

A decade later In the 1950s rumors cropped up that people had seen government agents collecting alien bodies in the New Mexico desert. These stories were soon conflated with the Roswell crash legend, leading to conspiracy theories about frozen alien corpses preserved in secret government hangers. For many years any secretive government sight was rumored to have “aliens in the freezers”. Eventually accusations settled on Area 51, a classified military base in the Nevada desert.

 These reports too had a more down-to-Earth explanation, though. Investigations revealed that the “alien bodies” had actually been special crash dummies fitted with sensors and dropped from airplanes by the Airforce to test the effects of high-altitude parachute drops. Like Project MOGUL, these tests had been hidden behind a thick veil of secrecy which did little to dispel the rumors.

As for Area 51, though the government denied its existence for decades despite clear evidence that it existed, it was officially confirmed in 2013 as a base for testing experimental aircraft such as the U2 spy plane, the Archangel-12, the SR-71 Blackbird, and others. No word on frozen alien corpses, though. By the way, the name “Area 51” is more of a pop culture term. The base is typically just called “Groom Lake”, “Homey Airport”, or simply the “Nevada Test and training Range” by the CIA.

The Roswell Aliens story gained a major surge in popularity in the 90s with shows like “The X-Files” and “Dark Skies”, movies like “The Arrival” and “Independence Day”, and comic books like “Roswell, Little Green Man” by Bill Morrison. There was even a 1995 psuedo-documentary called “Alien Autopsy: Fact or Fiction” produced by the Fox Network and hosted by Star Trek actor Jonathon Frakes. It allegedly showed vintage footage of the dissection of an alien corpse from the Roswell crash.  This video was eventually revealed to be a hoax, with the corpse actually a rubber dummy stuffed with jam and animal organs from a butcher.

For my depiction of the Roswell aliens, I wanted to get away from the typical images of corpses lying on dissection tables or floating in preservative-filled tubes. I also wanted to avoid the trope of aliens as malicious, terrifying invaders like in Independence Day or any number of B horror movies.

Instead, I chose to portray them as normal beings adapting to a new life on Earth.   Here we see one of the aliens recovered from their crash with the help of a wheelchair and prosthetics. I’ve imagined them setting up a new life for themselves in New Mexico, just trying to keep to themselves. They’ve taken a keen interest in their new home, evident in their collection of local plants like ocotillo and yucca. They’ve also made friends with many locals, including Indigenous communities, evident here in the “Singing Mother” figure on the table. These figures were first created in 1964 by artist Helen Cordero of the Pueblo de Cochiti, a community of the Keres Pueblo peoples.

As immigrants themselves, the Roswell Aliens also feel a kinship with the many other people that have moved to New Mexico from other countries. This is reflected in the alebrije they got from a Oaxacan-born artist.

REFERENCES

The Roswell UFO Festival!

A Smithsonian article on the crashed MOGUL balloon

An article from History.com about the Roswell incident

An article from the Chicago tribune about the high-altitude dummies that were mistaken for alien bodies.

A Space.com article about Area 51

An article about the infamous "Alien Autopsy" pseudo-documentary

Another article about the "Alien Autopsy" film

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

Why won’t my interior car light go out?

The following five reasons usually cause your car's ceiling light to not go out, sorted by probability, with solutions attached:

🔍 Quick self-check steps (1 minute) Check the door status: Are all doors (including trunk/hood) completely closed? Close them again with force!

Confirm the switch position: Turn the lever switch next to the ceiling light panel/steering wheel to make sure it is in "DOOR" mode (door linkage).

Press the physical button: Press the ceiling light button 3 times with your finger to eliminate the jam (especially after being squeezed by luggage).

⚠️ Five major reasons and targeted solutions

1️⃣ Door switch failure (70% of cases) Symptoms: When a single door is not closed tightly, there is no "door not closed" prompt on the dashboard

Locate the faulty door:

Open the door and observe the black rubber column (door touch switch) at the door frame

Use a screwdriver to press the switch column (simulate closing the door). If the light does not go out, it needs to be replaced

Emergency plan: Unplug the switch wire plug (the light will go out, but the door prompt function will be lost)

2️⃣ Trunk/hood sensor misjudgment Verification method: After locking the car, observe whether there is a trunk opening icon on the dashboard (even if the appearance is closed tightly)

Repair: Clean the lock groove (cotton swab + WD-40), and manually turn the lock tongue 10 times to restore elasticity

3️⃣ Light switch logic error High-frequency misoperation position: The knob switch on the top of the left lever of the steering wheel is adjusted to "⚪OFF" or "🚪DOOR"

(Some models have the front ceiling light button)

4️⃣ Circuit system failure (operate with caution!)

Short circuit detection: turn the light to "ON" constant light mode → shake the wiring harness at the door hinge by hand → if the light flickers, there is a short circuit

Fuse problem: check whether the "ROOM" or "DOME" fuse (usually 5A/7.5A) on the side of the instrument panel is blown

If it is blown: replace the fuse of the same specification

If it blows again immediately: stop operation! There is a serious short circuit and professional repair is required

5️⃣ Control module failure (common in German cars) Features: The light will go out after 15 seconds after locking the car, or it will light up automatically for no reason

Reset operation: Disconnect the negative pole of the battery for 10 minutes, re-tighten it and test

⛑️ Emergency power-off plan (to prevent power failure)

If not solved in time:

✅ Pull out the fuse: Check the manual to find the location of the "interior light" fuse (commonly found on the panel below the steering wheel)

✅ Remove the bulb: Use a flat-blade screwdriver to pry open the lampshade and rotate it counterclockwise to remove the bulb (picture 👇)

graph LR A[Notch on the edge of the lampshade] --> B[Insert the screwdriver and pry] --> C[Remove the lampshade] --> D[Rotate the base of the bulb counterclockwise]

🧰 Repair cost reference Fault type DIY solution cost Repair shop cost

Door switch replacement ￥15-30 yuan ￥80-150 yuan Fuse replacement ￥1-5 yuan ￥30-50 yuan Circuit repair DIY is not recommended ￥200+

Ultimate suggestion: 👉 Prioritize the door switch (highest success rate) → trunk sensor → disconnect the battery and reset 👉 Immediately remove the bulb/pull out the fuse to avoid failure to start the next day! When professional circuit repair is required, be sure to choose a store that specializes in automotive circuits (ordinary quick repair shops may magnify the fault).

[thetomorrowshow]

glass and grey hoodies

empires superpowers au masterlist (not up to date)

mind the content warnings on this one, folks. in an altered mental state, jimmy attempts suicide several times in the first portion of the fic. the rest of it is an account of his time in the psych ward.

this story takes place between chapters 9 and 10 of ‘poisoned rats’.

cw: past abuse, suicide attempts, blood and injury, hospitals, flashbacks

~

It’s loud.

It’s loud, and his head hurts, and he doesn’t know where he is and he doesn’t like it.

He opens his eyes to see blurry white walls. Figures standing over him. The pinch of a needle in his arm. An ache that spreads from his neck all the way to the tips of his toes.

He’s back on the table, then.

He doesn’t remember what happened before now, but he knows what this means. If he’s back on the table, something bad happened. If he’s back here. . . .

He suddenly knows. They’re going to take it away.

He’d misbehaved enough that they’re going to take away whatever they put in him all that time ago, whatever it is that lets him control his powers and makes his life the least bit livable. And it’s his fault.

He knows what he has to do, then. He can’t go back to that.

The scientists know he’s awake, he thinks, but either they don’t care or they want him awake, because no one reacts to him looking around, taking stock of things the best he can.

There’s some sort of surgical instrument on a rolling table near his left arm. Something sharp. Something that, if he can sit up quickly, he can reach.

He does a little test of his stomach muscles, tensing them and moving as if to sit up. Painful, but certainly doable.

He has to do it now, then. Before it’s too late.

He sits up, and maybe it’s a bit slower than it should be, because there’s a rubber glove of a hand pressing into his shoulder, loud words that he doesn’t understand—but he isn’t slow at all when he grabs the sharp tool and plunges it into his gut.

-

He wakes up again later, still bleary and with a stabbing pain in his lower stomach.

Funny, he thinks. He did stab himself, after all.

The problem is, however, that he survived. He didn’t mean to survive. He meant to be completely out of this world, away from the lab, away from the scientists, away from his master and all the blood he’s spilt.

Luckily, the room is empty. He’s sure it won’t be soon, not now that he’s conscious.

It’s not easy for him to sit up. It’s even more difficult for him to stand, going all lightheaded and woozy from pain.

So, pretty much the norm.

There’s scissors on the counter that lines the right side of the room, no other potentially dangerous items in sight. He glances toward the clear glass sliding door. The curtain in front of it is pulled back, and anyone walking by could see him.

He hobbles to the counter, stuck by a tugging in his right arm that he realizes is because it’s hooked up to some machine of some sort. It luckily has wheels, so he pulls it along a few steps until he can reach the scissors.

His hand is firm when he starts slashing the blades across his wrists.

-

He wakes up restrained after they knock him out again.

He doesn’t like that at all.

Restrained means velcro around his wrists, holding him to the hospital bed. Restrained means quiet sobs as he pulls against them. Restrained means wishing over and over that he hadn’t failed, because now he won’t have another opportunity.

However, they don’t really . . . do much to him. Someone in scrubs comes by every so often, asks him a bunch of questions that he doesn’t care to listen to, and writes things on a dry erase board on the wall. A man sits beside him, also in scrubs, scrolling through his phone and lazily eating a bag of chips.

And that’s it, for a while. He even stops crying out of confusion, just lies there and stares at the ceiling. He’s good at that.

He realizes, eventually, that he’s wearing something like a big t-shirt, but the back feels uncomfortably open. Maybe some sort of sheet with sleeves? It’s got little green clovers as a pattern, and he stares at it for far too long, knowing he hasn’t seen anything like it in all his time here.

The next thing he realizes is that he isn’t wearing a mask. That almost gets him crying again, but he’s overwhelmed by hopelessness before he can even start. What’s the point? Really, he doesn’t belong to himself, doesn’t exactly have a life of his own. This was the natural next step. It’s not like he had any sort of ownership over the mask.

The man beside him talks sometimes, but he’s too out of it to understand. He’s too out of it to process much, really.

He just lies there, drifting in and out of consciousness, dreading the moment the pain will truly start.

It’s late, he thinks, when he feels like his head has finally cleared a little bit—the man beside him is now a sleepy woman, and the lights in the room are dimmed, curtains drawn.

If he does this right, he might get another chance.

It takes a while to get any sort of adrenaline built up, but once he has some sort of spark going, he aims it at the restraint on his left arm. After a moment, the plastic part of the velcro snaps and his hand is free.

The woman looks up at the noise so he doesn’t move, leaving his hand in the velcro as if nothing has changed. After a moment, she returns to the book she’s reading.

The dressings on his right arm should be easy to get through—it’s the type with the cloth tape, the stuff that rips off quick. And underneath is a thin tube, which presumably has a hidden needle.

His next moves are fast. He pulls his hand free of the velcro, tears off the dressing, and yanks out the IV line, the machine suddenly beeping very loudly. He jabs it back into his arm—no needle. Where’d the needle go? Is it in his arm?

There’s got to be another needle—he checks the rolling table still beside him, but of course they haven’t left any sharp items out, they’re learning—

And then his left arm is being pulled back down and held there while another woman rushes into the room.

-

“You’re at the E. James Hospital in Empires City,” a strange woman tells him, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed if he doesn’t believe her. She waits a moment longer, then sighs and writes something on the whiteboard.

When she moves, he can see it. Unresponsive, she’s written.

“You may be feeling a little funny for a while,” she continues. “We’ve got you on some anti-anxiety medication, and it takes a little bit to adjust. Does that make sense?”

Well, it explains how numb he feels. He stares at her, trying to understand her place here.

“We’ll send in someone from psych to evaluate you later on today, but until then, Anthony is going to be here with you. Anthony, could you wave?”

A man—the same man from earlier—waves from the chair in the corner. He doesn’t say anything.

The woman says some more stuff, but he doesn’t take it in. He’s not even entirely sure that he’s conscious.

All he knows is that if he tries, he can shatter that glass canister of cotton balls on the counter. And some of the glass shards are likely to be sharp.

-

The person from psych is nice enough. She introduces herself, but he doesn’t catch the name. She asks him how he feels. She unstraps his left arm when he doesn’t answer and asks him to point at the scale of one-to-ten faces paper that she pulls out of a binder.

He points at the seven, the face that’s orange and frowning. She then shows him a poster that has emotions written on it, attached to images of kids acting out those emotions. She asks him to point to the emotions he feels right now.

This is the first moment when he starts to wonder if maybe he isn’t in the lab. Maybe the woman from earlier wasn’t lying.

The emotions on the poster aren’t complex enough to describe how he feels, but he eventually points at ‘confused’.

He’s not entirely sure what she says after that—he has vague flashes of her asking him to write something, and him not even looking at her (pets can’t write, who does she think she is?) before she leaves, writing a string of numbers on the whiteboard, then using a magnet to pin a list there.

He’s alone, if only for a moment.

She hadn’t left his arm unstrapped—she’s not stupid—but he can break the straps without issue. One splits down the middle, one just cracks enough for him to tear it the rest of the way.

He’s more steady than he was last time. And somewhere, deep down, he knows that they won’t give him the opportunity again. They want him alive.

This is his last chance.

It takes one touch for the glass canister on the counter to shatter. He picks up the largest shard, pauses as he aims it first at his wrist, then at the inside of his elbow as the bandages at his wrist deter him.

There’s an artery in the thigh, isn’t there? And his thigh is practically bare, due to the shirt-thing he’s wearing.

Wait. Is he . . . is this a hospital gown?

He stabs the glass into his thigh. It doesn’t go as deep as he would’ve liked, but it hurts like the devil, breaking through the numb state of his mind.

For a moment, he panics. That’s a lot of blood spilling out over his fingers, his grip on the glass slippery. He doesn’t want to die, does he?

But he has to get out. He can’t live in this place any longer. He can’t take it, can’t be a pet for the rest of his life, can’t kill person after person at the whim of a maniac—

He digs the glass in further, and feels his head go fuzzy before his vision blacks out and he crumples to the floor.

-

For a long time, life passes from blur to blur. He’s aware of what’s going on, he knows he is. He recognizes that the drugs are upped, that he’s a high-risk case and there’s always someone at his side. He hears when they tell him that his wounds are healing well and he’s gained a bit of weight, so they’re sending him on a seventy-two hour hold to the psych ward. They tell him he’ll be safer there.

He floats by all these blurry moments, crying one moment and unresponsive the next. The day they put him in a wheelchair and take him away is a day where he can barely feel anything, thoughts slower than molasses crawling down the side of a bottle.

When he arrives, they don’t give him much. A room. With a roommate. Some clothes.

He doesn’t really process any of it. He just lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He takes things that are offered to him—pills, food, water. When a voice tells him to shower, he obediently gets up and limps to the shower. When a voice tells him to go somewhere, he follows them and sits in that place until he’s led back to his room.

He’s not sure how long he’s there before things really start to register, but it starts with his roommate’s voice.

“Are you ever gonna stop being a zombie? When they told me you were a suicide risk, I thought you’d be way more exciting.”

He blinks.

“What?” he croaks, because that really is a weird thing to regain awareness to. His roommate laughs, and it’s a laugh that he recognizes as somewhat sad.

“Yeah, it’s okay, half the people here act real weird for the first couple of days on the meds. That’s what my last roommate told me, anyway. I’ve only been here for a week.”

He doesn’t remember much. But he knows now, with a strange clarity, that the horrible detached memories of that place from before are not of the lab. This may all be a dream, but he hasn’t been taken back to that place.

Taken back? When did he leave?

-

They call him TJ, for some reason. Drugged-up him had been happy to accept that, not really sure that there was another option.

But he’s TJ now, and that’s okay.

Josh (his therapist, who is actually really nice) explains to him, in as little detail as possible, what happened when it becomes clear that he’s confused.

Josh tells him that they know he’s the Canary, that he was rescued by a group of heroes and that Xornoth is dead.

Maybe it’s still the drugs working, but he doesn’t feel much more than a small sense of vindication at learning that. Not that he believes it at first, of course, but Josh explains at length the various pieces of evidence for him actually being here.

He doesn’t really believe that either, not until the next day, when he is suddenly vividly eating green beans in a common room, a dead-eyed woman eating the same beside him.

And Jimmy’s properly here, and he knows he’s here, and he wants to cry from the relief of it. Because that means it had all been real, and Xornoth’s dead, and he’s out.

He’s been rescued. He’s alive.

Maybe he does cry, a little. No one judges him.

Josh is proud of him for having that breakthrough. Unfortunately (or fortunately, according to Josh, despite their emotional exhaustion), that breakthrough is just the first in a line of many.

It feels wrong to talk. He hasn’t willingly spoken in close to a year, and it’s definitely taking some getting used to—but it’s really the easiest of his issues. He still thinks of himself as a pet, he still expects punishment at the slightest provocation, he struggles to remember to walk instead of crawl and sit on chairs—and each of those come with a plethora of their own issues, such as the hour he spent sitting at the feet of a nurse, the closest figure of authority he could find.

He knows he locked away a part of himself, compartmentalized his brain until he could truly be subservient for his master. But reintegration is difficult, and scary, and Josh is his only guide.

“I know I’m in here,” he tells Josh one day, his quiet, raspy voice not an adequate instrument for conveying just how frustrated he feels. He picks a bit at his sweatpants, not quite daring to look Josh in the eye. “I can remember. I know I’m different. Supposed to be different.”

“That’s a very normal feeling for those who have been under the influence of a telepath for a long time,” Josh says gently, and Jimmy just . . . doesn’t bring up that he wasn’t. He knows it’s lying, and he knows it’s wrong, but someone had given him that cover story and it somehow kept him from going to jail, so he’s keeping it.

“Is there anything I can do for you right now?” asks Josh not ten minutes later, when it becomes clear that Jimmy isn’t going to say anything else.

And there is something he wants, actually. The only way to find out is by asking, and he knows logically that Josh isn’t going to hurt him for such a request, but he can’t shake the fear.

“Long sleeves?” he whispers eventually, and he doesn’t miss the way Josh’s eyes fall to the word scarred on his left arm.

“We can do that,” Josh says. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I actually saw a nice hoodie the other day while out shopping, so I can pick that up on my way home tonight. They’ll take out the drawstring, if that’s all good. Or do you want, like, a long-sleeved shirt?”

“Hoodie,” Jimmy says, not wanting to cause more of an inconvenience.

The next day, he’s got a grey hoodie, a little large (but everything hangs loose on him) and without drawstrings.

He wears it every day.

-

Jimmy knows he’s getting better, even if it’s frustratingly slow. Josh helps him map out his progress one day, reminding him that he went from nearly vegetative to actually asking for what he wants.

Sure, he doesn’t really eat the way they want him to (he’s always got one of those terribly chalky protein shakes in hand now), but he’s trying. He wants to eat more, and he always tries to get at least a bite down at every meal (they’re too frequent, too regular, he never gets to eat that much there must be a catch).

And of course, all of his other problems that he hates to get into. Problems that have him changing bandages around his wrists and stomach and thigh. Problems that leave him crying on the floor at random times, mourning pieces of himself that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get back.

But, like Josh says, he’s getting better. He’s really starting to think for himself again.

Until it all seems to reverse.

One day, he’s fine. He talks about a happy memory (as few as they are) with Josh. He’s brave enough for the first time to actually venture out into the common room, play a game of Battleship with his roommate Peter. He actually considers joining the group therapy session when it rolls around. He eats half his meal at dinner that night. He takes his evening pills without complaint and sleeps through some of the nightly checks.

The next day, everything is wrong.

The next day, Jimmy collapses on his cell—bedroom—on the floor of the place where he sleeps, certain that there are people surrounding him and grabbing at his clothes and pulling on his hair and he thought he was safe, they told him he was safe—

And then he’s back, Peter shaking him and calling for help.

It keeps happening after that. He can’t go more than an hour or so without believing he’s back there, without being strapped to a table or kicked by a heavy boot or having knives thrown at him. Each time he comes back to reality, he’s more exhausted and scared than before.

Josh calls them flashbacks, and as soon as Jimmy hears the word he knows it’s right. He has one during therapy (he’s so hungry, he was left here for hours with no one and nothing and it’s a test, he knows it’s a test), and when he comes to, he’s laid out on the couch with Josh speaking quiet words of reassurance.

“Sorry,” he mutters roughly, and Josh just shrugs and gives him a list of grounding activities, and breathing exercises for homework (not that he has a home to take it to).

It doesn’t work, though. It should work, and it doesn’t, because half the people here dress like they’re from the lab. The whole place smells like a hospital, sterile and awful. He’s alone—Peter had gone home that day. It’s just him, in a white room, and he’s fine by himself, he’s always been by himself, but he can’t help but think that maybe, if his caretakers had put a bit of thought into it, they wouldn’t have left him on his own. Not that he’s going to try again—he wants to be here, to some extent, he thinks—but he’s been alone for so very long and he can’t control what he does while in a flashback.

He tells that to Josh—Peter had apparently been here for a longer period of time than expected, struggling to handle an eating disorder, but had finally been deemed well enough to return to his life (with constant check-ins and therapy appointments). And while that was  all good for him, there don’t seem to be any other viable roommates at the moment—those safe to share already have roommates, but Josh assures him that he’s first on the list for either a new admittance or a leftover patient when their roommate leaves.

Jimmy has another flashback that session, one of a noose around his throat that he is being forced to tighten. He doesn’t know where he is afterwards, or what’s going on, and a smiling man with dark hair who smells funny leads him to a bed and gives him a pill to swallow. Jimmy doesn’t care if it’s going to kill him. He swallows it, and falls asleep shortly after.

The days go on like that. Jimmy wakes up, struggles through a day lived half in the past, at some point panics badly enough that he has to be drugged to sleep, and so on. His eating habits slowly go downhill, only managing half of the daily protein shake that he’d always pushed to finish before.

And he’s really, genuinely trying—on days when he can find his voice, he talks in therapy. He starts attending group therapy, even if he only listens. He sits in the common room and watches TV with other patients as often as he can drag himself there. He tries to eat every meal, tries to talk to other people, tries to get better.

It’s those vile flashbacks throwing a wrench in everything, of course. One day during therapy, Josh theorizes that the flashbacks are so frequent and so awful due to a constant trigger, and when Jimmy wryly points out that he has a lot of trauma around medical situations, Josh grimaces and tells him to keep a trigger journal.

Which only serves to prove what Jimmy had suggested. His most common trigger is the smell of rubbing alcohol or hand sanitizer, as far as he can tell. And right after that is the sound of someone snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. Things aren’t looking all that hopeful until one day in therapy, when Josh mentions a very familiar name.

Jimmy’s drawing during the conversation, little squiggles and spirals around various words—emotions, mostly. It’s something that Josh had introduced fairly early on, a place for him to identify his emotions without getting too far in his head trying to think about them. Here, he can just write them down and move on with the knowledge that what Josh just said makes him feel anxious, or sad, or angry. And then, Josh can ask why that statement made him angry, and it’s easier to explain with a marker doodling in his hand.

“Now, TJ, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but Major made arrangements for you to be here.”

That draws Jimmy up short. His marker point bleeds into the paper as he looks up, forces himself to speak. “Um—but, the hospital—with the, uh, the hold—”

“Right, but Major had been in brief contact with them—along with some other important people, I’m sure—to make sure you got the help you needed. He offered to take care of any bills, I think.”

Jimmy bites his lip, jots down a quick ‘anxious’.

“He wanted to make it clear that you don’t owe him anything,” Josh says, clearly noticing what Jimmy’s written. “And I know that for a fact—I talked with him yesterday. I asked if he would meet with you, and he said yes.”

And if that doesn’t send his blood pressure through the roof.

What on earth does Major want with him now? To make sure he’s mentally okay before sending him to prison?

Not that that’s turning out very well for him so far.

“I think meeting with Major might help you get a proper goal,” Josh hints, and Jimmy frowns. This whole time, Josh has been on him about getting a goal. Doesn’t he realize that Jimmy hadn’t expected to survive? Doesn’t he realize that Jimmy was stuck with no future but the one that Xornoth had planned for him, that he’d been willing to kill himself to escape it and it’s a little difficult to regain his footing after that?

“It’s up to you, but I think talking with Major will help a lot. I think he’ll be able to open up some opportunities for you.”

Well. It’s not like he has much else to do, does he?

[aticoscientific]

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Vernier Calipers

Micrometer Screw Gauge

Spring Balance

Masses and Hangers

Simple Pendulum Setup

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2. Optics

Optical Bench with Accessories

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Mirrors (Plane, Concave, Convex)

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Sound Level Meter

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[sorcerous-caress]

Oh my god hiii, tucks hair behind ear, are we talking about obscure characters we simp for, can we take a moment of silence for Stornugoss and her honey rich voice, why did they hire this VA for her, and why was it used on such a short lived NPC, rattling my cage

Also she's just generally very hot imo and I love her dark hair, I'd fake an illness to get close to her /j (but fr she's a ghustil, the nurse roleplay scenarios are right there)

I'd volunteer as tribute for her experiments. I'm not joking when I say crazy scientists women with questionable morality and borderline obsession are my fucking weakness.

I stayed in that room for god knows how long just to listen to her dialogue. Fuck Imagine the medical play with her? Imagine her putting on rubber gloves to inspect your body and maybe finger you with it.

Imagine all the medical instruments githyanki have and how alien they'd be to you, how easily she can lie to you about shoving an entire dildo or vibrating toy inside you and tell you it's how they measure temperature or some other lie <3 but you don't dare question her, oh never.

LOOK AT HER GAZE. That is a women who will tie you to an examination table and edge you for hours. She would run so many tests on you and reward you with a handjob or rubbing your clit. She is so detached and cold but so intense and passionate.

[ausetkmt]

A physician explores the obstacles keeping Black people out of medicine

When Dr. Uché Blackstock and her twin sister graduated from Harvard Medical School in 2005, they became the school’s first Black mother-daughter legacies. Their mother had received her medical degree three decades before and had an enormous influence over Blackstock’s career ambitions.

“She was a leader of a black woman physician group in Brooklyn. And so for many years, I thought that most physicians were Black women,” Blackstock said in an interview with “Marketplace” host Kai Ryssdal. “Until I got to college and medical school, and I realized that we actually are only about less than 3% of all physicians.”

From an early age, my twin sister, Oni, and I loved to play with our mother’s doctor’s bag. It was an old-school, heavy black leather bag, worn and cracked around the edges, that snapped open from the top to reveal the medical instruments inside. Her full name was written in faded golden uppercase letters across one side of the bag, followed by “M.D.” The bag lived in her bedroom, under her bureau. As children, we were always getting into her business, whether it was looking through old papers and photographs in the small file cabinet in her room or pulling out shoes and scarves from her closet. We knew that the medical bag was important to her, so that made it important to us.

Whenever we could, we snuck up into her room, emptying out the contents of the bag on the floor: her stethoscope, with its long rubber tubing, the little hammer to test reflexes, the otoscope for ear exams, the ophthalmoscope for looking at the eyes. Then we’d sit and play doctor together. I’d listen to the thump, thump, thump of my sister’s heart with the stethoscope in my ears or I’d hop up onto the bed so Oni could hit just under my knee with the reflex hammer, making my leg flip up quickly. If our mother came in and found us mid-game, she would smile warmly. She was a petite woman who wore her hair natural and in a small Afro.

“Girls, please be careful with those. They’re all quite delicate,” she warned us.

Except for the stethoscope, I didn’t know any of the names of the precious contents of the bag, but I understood these were the tools of our mother’s trade. By the time my sister and I got to Harvard Medical School, the instruments were as familiar to us as the forks and spoons in our kitchen.

The children’s advocate Marian Wright Edelman once famously pointed out, “You can’t be what you can’t see.” Growing up in Brooklyn in the 1980s and ’90s, we saw Black women who were physicians all around us. Our mother practiced medicine at Kings County Hospital Center and its state affiliate, SUNY Downstate Health Sciences University, not far from our home in central Brooklyn. Our own pediatrician, Dr. June Mulvaney, was a Black woman. We loved going to see Dr. Mulvaney, even if vaccinations were involved, because she was a bespectacled, kind older woman with soft hands and an even softer smile, who was a good friend of our mother’s. Another Black physician, Dr. Mildred Clarke, an obstetrician-gynecologist, lived on our block. We would often see Dr. Clarke while out running errands, stopping to chat about the most recent neighborhood news. Our mother was the president of an organization of local Black women physicians that included Dr. Clarke and Dr. Mulvaney. They were all very put-together, fiercely intelligent women who held themselves with pride and devoted their little spare time educating their community through holding events like local health fairs.

From the day she gave birth to us at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan, our mother was determined that my sister and I should have every opportunity she had lacked. We grew up in the home our family owned on St. Mark’s Avenue in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. Back then, Crown Heights was a bustling neighborhood that was home to many middle-class and working-class families, a uniquely Brooklyn mix of Black Americans and immigrants from the Caribbean like our father, Earl Blackstock, who was born in Jamaica. Our mother was constantly reading to us as small children, bringing us to the library for story time or taking us on educational adventures in Prospect Park and the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. When we got older and entered grade school, she was the kind of mother who didn’t hesitate to give us extra assignments if she felt our teachers weren’t assigning enough challenging work. If we had friends over for sleepovers, she’d cue up the movie and popcorn, and when the movie was over, she’d announce it was time to do our math worksheets. Our friends, who also had to do the worksheets, didn’t seem to mind too much—somehow, she made it all seem like part of the fun. Saturdays were for a host of extracurricular activities: violin lessons, music theory, modern dance, and gymnastics. I can still picture her, leaning against the sink in our old kitchen, scouring the newspaper for educational activities while we were on vacation from school. Her goal was to keep us stimulated—always. Much to our dismay, we were rarely allowed to watch television. On weekends and holidays, we went to the most popular NYC museums, the United Nations, science exhibits, with our mother narrating, explaining, pointing things out as we went along. Even a walk around our neighborhood was an educational adventure, with her perusing her pocket-size book on flowers and pointing out the different types in our neighbors’ front yards.

“Girls, come over here. Look at these gorgeous azaleas,” she’d say to us, bending down to touch the flowers lightly with her slender fingers. “They bloom only in the springtime,” she’d continue as we peered over her shoulders.

Looking back, I think she understood that this world was going to be tough on us and she needed to make sure we were fully prepared, but also that we experienced moments of joy.

For our mother, science was part of that joy. Once we went to a science exhibit where there was a real cow’s eyeball on display so that kids could pick it up and see how an eye worked. At first, my sister and I recoiled from touching the large white eye with its spidery blood vessels, but our mother persuaded us to cradle the strange object in our hands, then she leaned in close and explained the mechanisms of the eye to us in great detail. What had scared us a few moments before became a way to introduce us to the wonder of sight.

When summer came around, she signed us up for science programs, including one at her hospital, where she taught some of our sessions. Her specialty was nephrology, the study of the kidneys, and I have a clear memory of sitting in class at age twelve, with a small group of other students, watching her standing in front of the chalkboard, wearing her long white coat over her small frame. I felt so proud to have her up in front of the room teaching a classroom of my peers.

As she took a big piece of white chalk, she asked us, “Did you know that the kidney is one of the most sophisticated organs in our bodies?”

She drew a long looping shape on the board, exclaiming, “And this is the nephron, the smallest unit of the kidney! It’s a powerhouse.”

I remember her pulling a cylinder-shaped filter from a dialysis machine, to show us how it processed the blood from patients. She explained to us, in easy-to-understand terms, how this plain looking filter saved lives. It was in that moment, sitting in that classroom as a twelve-year-old on a hot summer day, that I realized the power of my mother’s work—to heal, to repair, to care. To be the difference between someone living and dying. I felt in awe of her.

I later learned that our mother chose her specialty, nephrology, because it’s one of the most difficult specialties in medicine—the kidneys are incredibly complex organs, and she loved a challenge. But I believe she also went into the field because kidney disease disproportionately affects Black people, and she wanted to help in some way. Because poorly controlled blood pressure and blood sugar negatively impact the kidney’s function, many of her patients also had these conditions, which were the result of lack of access to quality care and the chronic pressure of living with racism and other structural inequities. In her work, my mother was determined to address these entrenched health problems to the utmost of her abilities.

It wasn’t only patients who benefited from her time and attention. Black medical students and junior faculty at Downstate sought her out for inspiration and advice and she became a mentor to a generation of Brooklyn physicians, even inspiring those in health care who weren’t physicians, but physician assistants, nurses, and social workers. Many years later, as an adult, I ran into a former student of my mother’s at a medical conference in the city. We made eye contact across the room, and she smiled and made her way toward me, later saying that she had recognized me because I looked so much like my mother. She immediately introduced herself, hugged me tightly, and told me that when she was a third-year medical student doing her clinical clerkship, she had gone to see my mother and confessed how nervous she felt about presenting patient cases. She had explained how she was immobilized with fear and anxiety when it came her turn to describe the patient’s medical history and plan for treatment to the team. From then on, my mother met with her every morning, before the start of the day, so they could practice her oral presentations together. This wasn’t part of my mother’s role or responsibility at Downstate—she wasn’t even on the woman’s team. But my mother knew how it felt to be a student looking for that kind of support, and so she became the mentor she wished she’d had. Today, that student is the associate dean in the Office of Diversity Education and Research at a New York City medical school.

Our mother was tireless in her work ethic. Even after she left the hospital, her work wasn’t done. Back then, she was president of the Susan Smith McKinney Steward Medical Society, a local organization of Black women physicians named after the third Black woman to obtain a medical degree in the US and the first in New York state. During the society’s regular meetings, Oni and I would sit in the back of a large conference room, doing our homework, whispering, or passing silly notes back and forth, as my mother and her colleagues handled their serious business. They spent considerable time planning community health fairs, where they would dispense information about diabetes, high blood pressure, and other health issues rampant in our community. At the fairs, they would take people’s vital signs, recommend follow-up services, and counsel neighbors about healthy diet and exercise. Our mother and the other women in her organization were our role models. They worked, they raised children, they took care of their households, and they gave back to their communities.

I don’t think it ever occurred to Oni and me to do anything else with our lives but to follow in their footsteps.

From Legacy by Uché Blackstock, MD, published by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2024 by Uché Blackstock, MD.

[stankycowboy]

I love how efficient you are at using the tools around us to be as annoying as possible.

He looked up from his strange construction. Five rubber bands were strung taut over a yardstick he had shoved through an old coffee can, all detritus that had been scattered about the wreckage of the abandoned building.

“Oh, now I s’ppose a man can’ en’ertain h’mself”, he huffed impatiently, resuming his attempt at tuning the haphazard instrument. When at last it twanged something resembling a note— flat, but not all that discordant—Severen gave a short cheer. “It’s alright to be jealous in the wake of my…what was that? Efficiency?” he winked at her, and leaned back into the crumbling plaster wall.

Giving it a few test strums with a run up and down the chords, the would-be guitarist nodded to his sole audience member. A jaunty tune began, pointedly out of place amongst their dreary trappings, but certainly brightening the atmosphere. He cleared his throat, lifted his chin to the ceiling (what remained of it) and began an accompaniment to the notes reverberating around them.

“I got spurs that jingle, jangle jingle”, he sang, voice carrying well in the open acoustics; whether that was a good thing was yet to be decided, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant if not obviously untrained. “As I go riding merrily along…” He tapped his foot in time, his spurs indeed giving a faint ‘clink’ to the beat of the tune. Severen was entirely caught up in his little act, completely jubilant with his craftsmanship and his impromptu performance. Juliet was left to figure a way out of this predicament herself, so lost was he in the thrill of his own minor success; pleased as punch to sit here and warble amongst the ruins.