slightlyfeverish

[slightlyfeverish]

not a want but a NEED

You've been really jumpy tonight. Are the fireworks getting to you? Aww, I'm sorry, they really shouldn't set those off this late. Want me to go ask them to cut it out? Well, you can't say I didn't offer. Is there anything else I can do? Maybe a distraction? I mean, you're practically shaking, your heart must be going crazy. I could give it a listen, see about helping it settle down, yeah? Sound good? Okayyy, come here—woah. I was right, you're so fast. I didn't realize the noise outside was doing this to you. The neighbors have been playing with firecrackers since this morning, how long has your heart rate been so high? Fuck. I mean, I guess it's for the best I didn't know what your insides were up to; I would have dragged you away from that cookout in a heartbeat, would have had this steth on this racing pump all damn day. I would've... I wish I had an EKG to hook you up to. The racing of that pretty jagged line has to be a better show than dumb ol' fireworks. Ah, wait, I'm supposed to be making you relax. My bad.

Let's try some deep breaths? C'mon, feel your ribs expand into my hands. It's like my fingers could just sink into your intercostal spaces. Now, let it go—slowly, slowly—that's it, you're doing such a great job. May I be of assistance? I can compress the sides of your ribcage, I'll be gentle, get the last of that air out. Feels nice, doesn't it? There's practically nothing between me and your heart. Alright, breathe in again, be loud for me, I wanna hear your lungs. God, they sound so good. Annnd out, there you go, your pulse is already coming down, did you notice? You're not kicking so hard against the diaphragm, it's not so loud... oh, great. I felt a bit of that tension leave you just in time for them to start this next round of pyrotechnics.

How about I grab another stethoscope and you can listen too? I bet the steady thumping inside your chest will drown out all those explosions ♡

[slightlyfeverish]

Realising I really have a thing for unhealthy hearts.

Aggressively pounding just to keep going at rest. A few steps up the stairs are enough to send it into a frenzy, thrashing about, nestled between 2 lungs rapidly filling and emptying. The heart can’t take it anymore; just taking those same steps back down would exert it to the point of losing its steady fast rhythm. It would start skipping beats entirely.

An unhealthy heart would make every beat feel laboured for and special.

[slightlyfeverish]

you're joking this is perfect

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.

[slightlyfeverish]

coming here to say that after years of specifically searching up your blog i have finally made my own ty for your service to the community 🫡 tumblr won't let me comment on this with my secondary blog but just know you have singlehandedly made me comfortable with embracing all this you rock

It seriously makes me so so happy to think of someone not only checking out my blog once but returning to it and feeling encouraged to love this interest openly... wowww that's just so wonderful. I hope you have a ton of fun blogging around here 💕

[slightlyfeverish]

QUICK don't think about your royal physician and their prince having an Emergency while traveling home together after some big Event somewhere, all on their own and the physician desperate to keep their prince alive until they get to safety

TOO LATE IM THINKING ABOUT IT!!! This is such a fun scenario, it could be taken in so many different directions

Maybe a slow-acting poison kicks in during what should have been a peaceful ride. The healer suspects the prince needs an antidote and he needs it NOW, leading to absolutely disastrous horseback resus. Believe it or not, rubbing someone's chest, breathing into them, coaxing their failing organs to hang on for just another minute, this all gets exponentially more difficult while goading a steed into carrying two people home at a canter.

Or maybe they've taken a carriage and it's attacked. With the coachman killed and prince wounded, the physician has to make some rough decisions. Drive their prince to the nearest safe place, possibly heading right into another dangerous encounter? Or is that risk amplified by remaining on the road? Should they leave the carriage altogether, dragging their prince into the woods to hide and patch him up? The clock is ticking as the prince bleeds out. No matter what option they'll go with, they're on high alert, glancing around every few seconds as they check the prince's weakening pulse.

What if, knowing how impulsive some princes can be, this one stops to admire some wildflowers growing near the road, only to learn he's deathly allergic to one of them when his throat closes up and he collapses. This might throw his companion off if they were engrossed in a map when he deviated from the path… glancing up and noticing he's gone, how would they find him? Practically tripping over his body amidst the tall grass, or following the desperate wheezes emanating from their suffocating prince?

[slightlyfeverish]

thinking about polygraphs... being sat down on a cold chair and having a test administrator roughly pin your arm to the table, attaching the cuff as another one unbuttons your shirt to strap the chest sensor just underneath your underclothes. someone grabs your hand and puts the pulse monitor on your finger and immediately, everyone can see your frantic heart scribbled out on the lines. they sit, and ask you questions. one of them stares at your face, the other at the monitor. maybe it's an older model, with a needle that scratches on paper, too many wires to count leading up to your chest and arms. or maybe its a newer kind, and the test administrators sit behind a thick screen, the peaks and valleys of your heart, breathing, and blood pressure reflecting in their glasses so you can just barely make out the obvious result: the fact that you've never been a good liar, and even now, your throbbing heart gives you away.

[slightlyfeverish]

it's giving first blog after lurking for years

hi <3 you all can call me keylime or key (any pronouns), and after lurking for genuine years on some of y'alls incredible pages i am finally biting the bullet and making a blog-- the rp urge was too strong with all your amazing ocs so here i am! i'm a queer genderfluid writer (rper for 8+ years) and write pretty much anything and everything resus/medfet/cardio/whatever! some of my favs include: - medical facility (lab, hospital, mad scientist, checkup, u name it) - ROYAL <333 (talk about a sickly prince.. a poisoned prince.. a war-injured prince... get out of town) - fantasy style (faerie, dragons, SIRENS, etc etc etc) - all-american gay boy (wdym we're on opposing soccer teams and you stayed back and caught me when i collapsed on the pitch...) - victorian era medicine (like ok yes bleed me doctor. i'm sure that will help my illness and not send me into shock at all.) - and more! i primarily enjoy writing mlm, but i am not opposed at all to switching that up! pitch me your best ideas i love reading them. i do have a few existing characters, but one of my favorite things is character creation! i love to work on stories together so always feel free to reach out with a concept :-)

love u see u soon <3