#Accelerated Recovery

[healerofhope]

Recovering from an illness, injury, or surgery can be challenging, especially for seniors. Home health care offers a personalized approach to recovery, providing professional medical and personal care within the comfort of your home.

[peachcarechiropractic]

Physiotherapy is a comprehensive and evidence-based approach to healing, rehabilitation, and overall well-being. At PeachCare Family Chiropractic, we provide expert physiotherapy services to help you recover, improve your mobility, and enhance your quality of life Physiotherapy in Augusta GA

[howtomakeyousee]

[rehabmaxx]

Recovering from an injury often requires more than just rest. Engaging in regular therapy sessions is essential to get back on your feet faster. If you're looking to recover from an injury in the comfort of your own home, physical therapy can play a significant role. With physical therapy in Arlington Heights, Illinois, trained professionals will guide you through exercises designed to reduce pain, improve movement, and help your body heal more effectively. You don't need to leave your house to start regaining your strength and mobility.

[thedbahub]

Enhancing Database Resilience with SQL Server 2022 ADR Improvements

SQL Server 2022 has brought significant enhancements to Accelerated Database Recovery (ADR), a feature first introduced in SQL Server 2019 aimed at improving database availability and scalability. ADR’s primary goal is to reduce the time it takes for a database to recover after a restart and to make transaction rollback instant, regardless of the transaction’s size or duration. In this article,…

[betteratbeing]

Breathe Easier | Alexander Technique Singing

When a deep, calm breath is hard to come by

For some people, better breathing is the best and most important benefit of Alexander Technique (AT). These include people with breath-impairing conditions, ranging from allergies to asthma, COPD or post-COVID symptoms. Since the early twentieth century when Alexander Technique was first developed, it has been used to help people breathe more easily.

Your doctor’s office should always be your first stop if you suspect you have an underlying medical disorder interfering with your breathing. But your wellness journey may not end with a diagnosis, or even with medical treatment. You may already be following your doctor’s orders for a chronic breathing condition, and still crave greater relief, without increasing drugs that can cause unwanted side-effects.

For the best outcome possible, consider adding regular visits to the betterATbeing studio for Alexander Technique lessons. Your lessons can make breathing difficulties easier to manage. And AT is side-effect-free. For a better everyday experience.

Get More Info : Voice With Alexander Technique

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Contact Us : Alexander Technique Lessons In Manhattan 

[blessedhealthcarellc]

When you’re recovering from an illness or an injury, every step counts. That’s why ensuring a reliable and safe means of transportation to and from medical appointments is crucial.

[rescuefield-arch1]

this interview about rev2 sends me, gotta love how they explain why moira doesn't have t-p anymore then for claire it's basically "idk she's kinda fucked up" and proceed to not say yes or no

[mournthebird]

Shower Suds.

summary: You give Soldat his first bath out of captivity.

warnings: Post!HYDRA Winter Soldier | Non-sexual nudity | Mentions of scars and injuries | Self-Harm mention | Post!HTP and abuse | PTSD symptoms & behavior

a/n: This wasn't supposed to be so long, but somehow it always happens when I write about him. Something sorta comforting with some recovery thrown in there. Unedited because I worked on this for so long lol ignore mistakes please! ;; wc: 5.8k

Filthy. You felt bad, really.

There was a lot of problems to tackle with Soldat's condition, but first thing's first...the soldier needed a bath. Badly.

He was dirty, his hair knotted, matted, greasy, his skin was covered in sweat and dirt, probably blood under the black uniform he still wore. The poor man stunk, and he didn't seem to even notice. Or care.

You found yourself in a bit of a hard situation, unsure of the best approach to cleanse him. A bath seemed problematic; he would essentially be marinating in his own grime, which was far from ideal. Would he sit for that long? Would he fight you? You weren't entirely positive.

On the other hand, a shower presented its own set of challenges. Your observations over the past days had revealed his struggle with prolonged standing. He didn't seem to want to stand for very long and often sat or laid down when he could. The majority of his time was spent either huddled in the furthest corner of the room or barricaded within the confines of the small closet, as if seeking refuge from an unseen threat.

As you mulled over the options, weighing the pros and cons of each, you ultimately figured a shower would be better in terms of cleanliness…if anything, you could have him sit in the bottom of the tub. Better than sitting in dirty water with the increased possibility of infection.

But there was one problem. How the hell would you get him into the bathroom in the first place?

You took a breath in, preparing for the worst, and went to the room he stayed in. It was the spare room in your apartment you barely used, but had been furnished as a bedroom in case someone you knew needed a place for a night or something. Not that you ever figured your friends would want to stay with you, you didn't have many to begin with. When you came in, your eyes scanned the room until they landed on him, spotting him huddled up in the corner like expected.

He didn't look up at you when you walked in, his gaze fixed downward and obscured by the curtain of his long, unkempt hair. The stillness that enveloped him was almost unnerving. Only when you took a few steps closer did he react, his head snapping up at you. His eyes bright blue against the dark, messy ink that surrounded them, like he tried to smudge off the black paint but failed.

You took another step forward, your movements slow and deliberate. You could see the change in his demeanor immediately with your approach, even as careful as it was; his breathing became more rapid and shallow, his chest rising and falling at an accelerated pace like he was preparing to be harmed.

"It's okay," you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hand extended slightly, palm open to try to soothe him. Carefully, you lowered yourself to his level, bending your knees until you were crouching before him. This position, you hoped, would make you appear less imposing and more approachable.

In the few days he had been in your care, you had begun to discern patterns in his behavior, learning to recognize the subtle cues that indicated his comfort level. You had started to understand which actions he perceived as threatening and which ones helped him feel more at ease. It was a delicate balance, one that required patience and constant observation, but you were determined to create an environment where he could begin to feel safe and secure.

"I think...a bath sounds nice. Doesn't it?" You asked him softly, smiling slightly to show you weren't intending to do any sort of harm. "It will feel good to clean off all that dirt...nice and warm water too...you've been shivering." You noted how cold he appeared to be, he was still latched in his cold clothes from when you found him. You were surprised the uniform kept in water.

He remained motionless, prompting you to reluctantly take a step backwards to leave him alone, you’d try later. As you turned away, the faint sound of movement caught your attention. Glancing back, you saw the soldier had risen to his feet, his eyes fixed upon you with an air of expectancy. "Would you like to come and shower?" you inquired, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Да." His voice was a harsh, grating sound, reminiscent of shattered glass scraping against parched earth. It was as though he hadn't uttered a word or tasted a drop of water in an eternity. Despite the brevity and roughness of his reply, it carried a weight of affirmation. You found yourself oddly relieved by this simple acknowledgment. It wasn't much, but in that moment, it felt like a significant step forward. The fact that he had agreed seemed like a small victory.

You had him in the bathroom. That was a good thing.

You pivoted slowly to face him, your gaze carefully scanning his imposing figure. For behaving so meekly, he was an intimidating body to be this close to. Your eyes meticulously traced the contours of his suit, lingering on the intricate array of tactical belts and buckles that adorned his outfit. Each piece seemed to serve a specific purpose, hinting at the dangerous nature of his profession. Your hand tentatively reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they approached one of the sturdy buckles.

Your action was met with an immediate and startling response from the soldier. His metal hand shot up with inhuman speed, grasping your wrist tightly, the cold metal a stark contrast to your warm skin. His hold was firm and unyielding, like a vice grip, yet it wasn't painful.

As his hand clasped around your wrist, his entire body tensed, transforming into a living statue. You couldn't help but flinch slightly at the abruptness of his reaction, your body instinctively recoiling even as his grip held you in place.

"I-It's okay, I promise," you managed to say, your voice deliberately calm and steady to avoid startling him further. You took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. "I'm just going to help you undress for the shower... I promise I won't hurt you or do anything you're not comfortable with. We're just getting you cleaned up, that's all."

Your words didn't seem to have much effect at first. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and his jaw flexed with tension. You remained patient, maintaining a soothing tone and open body language. "Take all the time you need," you added softly. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. It’s just you and me." His eyes scanned you intently, searching for any hint of deception or ill intent. You met his gaze steadily, allowing him to see the sincerity in your eyes. After what felt like an eternity, his grip on your wrist slowly loosened until he finally released you completely.

Second time's the charm. You reached out with steady hands, your fingers finding the first buckle on his tactical suit. With careful precision, you unfastened it, the metallic click echoing softly in the bathroom. Then, you moved to the next one, and the next, methodically working your way through each fastening. The process was slow but deliberate, each buckle giving way under your patient touch until, finally, the last one came undone. You paused, surveying your handiwork as the suit lay open, no longer confining him.

With the buckles undone, your attention turned to the decked out belt encircling his hips. You grasped the front, feeling the sturdy material beneath your fingers. You pulled the belt free from the thick buckle, the black leather sliding smoothly through the loops. As you removed the belt, you took care to lay it gently on the floor beside you, the heavy belt colliding with the tile was bound to make him jump and you didn’t want that.

The belt now removed, you returned your focus to the suit itself. Your hands found the straps, and you began to loosen them, pulling them out slowly and methodically. His uniform reminded you of a rehashed straight jacket, the uniform nearly acting just as one. When the tight suit gradually relinquished its grip, you noticed an immediate change in the soldier’s demeanor. The restrictive pressure eased, and you could see his chest rise and fall more freely. It was as if a weight had been lifted, allowing him to breathe deeply for the first time in who knows how long.

You watched, a mix of concern and relief washing over you, as he took in several deep breaths. The realization hit you then, a jolt of disbelief and worry. The suit had been so constricting that it had barely allowed him to breathe properly. The thought was infuriating. What kind of protection was that? What twisted logic had led to the creation of gear that endangered its wearer almost as much as it shielded them? You found yourself shaking your head in disbelief. What the hell...

"There we go...good..." You praised calmly, your voice a soothing whisper in the quiet room. He stood before you, now shirtless, his muscular frame tense with anticipation as he awaited your next move. Your eyes couldn't help but linger on his exposed torso, taking in every detail of his battle-worn body.

His skin was a canvas marked by the harsh realities of his past. Bruises in various stages of healing painted his flesh in a morbid palette of purples, yellows, and greens. Fresh cuts, angry and red, intermingled with older, silvery scars, creating a chaotic tapestry across his skin. Each mark had a different cause, accidental, intentional, self inflicted.

Your gaze was inevitably drawn to the most prominent feature: the junction where flesh met metal at his shoulder. The scar tissue surrounding his prosthetic arm was a sight that made your heart ache. It wasn't a clean, surgical line as one might expect, but rather a jagged, angry border that spoke of crude methods and little regard for the body it was attached to. The metal seemed to dig cruelly into his flesh, as if it were trying to consume more of him. You couldn't help but wonder about the pain he must have endured during the procedure, imagining how they had torn him apart with brutal efficiency, prioritizing function over comfort or aesthetics.

Despite the visible evidence of his suffering, he stood tall and stoic, awaiting your next move with a mixture of trust and trepidation in his eyes.

You offered him a gentle, comforting smile, you were acutely aware of his attempts to appear strong, but the reality of his fear was unmistakable. In that spare room, his demeanor reminded you of a cornered animal, flinching and retreating whenever the door creaked open. He cowered from you, even when you tried to give him water to drink. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, you didn’t know much of what happened just yet, but you knew whatever it was must’ve been utterly horrific.

"I'm going to help you out of your trousers now," you explained in a soft, reassuring tone. "Then we'll get you into the shower. The warm water will help you feel better, I promise." You paused, giving him a moment to process your words before adding, "Is that okay with you?"

He remained motionless. His lack of response was telling - not a nod, not a word, not even a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. He simply stood there, statuesque, as if bracing himself for whatever was to come next. The stillness was almost eerie, so you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was going to come. You truly hoped he wouldn't begin to put up a fight randomly, you knew you couldn't take him if he did.

You grasped the zipper of his pants and slowly pulled it down, the metallic sound echoing in the quiet room. As the fabric loosened, you gently tugged at the waistband, shuffling them down his muscular thighs and allowing the pants to fall around his ankles. Without a word, he stepped out of them, his movements controlled as he jerked his foot to get the leg of the pants off completely.

His gaze remained fixed on you, his expression betraying no hint of discomfort or self-consciousness at his state of undress. You found yourself averting your eyes, a mix of respect for his privacy and your own sudden shyness causing you to look away.

Turning your attention to the shower, you reached out and adjusted the taps, your hand testing the water until it reached a comfortably warm temperature, you could always adjust it upon request. The sound of cascading water filled the bathroom, creating a soothing ambiance. Once satisfied with the water's warmth, you looked back towards him, your arm extending in a welcoming gesture towards the bathtub. "Come on," you encouraged, your voice soft and inviting, "it's nice and warm." A gentle smile played on your lips, your expression meant to convey comfort and reassurance.

But even with your efforts, he remained motionless, his feet seemingly rooted to the spot where he stood. His lack of movement prompted you to maintain your encouraging demeanor, your smile unwavering as you waited patiently for him to make a decision.

The steam from the shower began to fill the room, creating a misty atmosphere that hung between you, yet he showed no signs of stepping forward or retreating. He just stood there, planted like a tree. You frowned, seeing that he wasn't going to budge.

"Hey, it's okay," you said softly, "It's just water, and it's nice and warm. I promise it will feel so good. You've been shivering for a while now, and I bet the warmth will be really comforting for your cold skin. There's nothing to be afraid of." You continued to encourage him, your tone patient and understanding.

The soldier's reaction was tense and wary. His metal arm plates made a series of soft clicking sounds as he shifted his arm and adjusted his stance, his body language radiating discomfort and distrust, maybe even a hint of growing agitation. The way he eyed the water, you could have sworn he thought you were about to subject him to some form of aquatic torture. His entire demeanor screamed of deep-seated fear and suspicion.

"It's alright, really... Look, see?" You demonstrated by reaching out and touching the water, letting your fingers trail through the warm liquid. You made sure he could clearly see that the water didn't cause you any harm or discomfort. Could he be afraid of the water? The concept seemed strange, but then again, you didn't really know or understand the full extent of his experiences or traumas. You had made so much progress with him already, and now all that remained was for him to sit under the water and allow you to wash him. It seemed so simple, and yet you could see the monumental struggle playing out behind his eyes.

He finally seemed to respond when he observed that you remained unharmed by the water, and he cautiously approached, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes wore wariness with a flicker of curiosity, carefully scanning your form and ensuring you made no abrupt or threatening gestures. As he inched closer, his body language betrayed a conflicting desire for comfort and an instinctive need for self-preservation.

Once he had convinced himself of a relative level of safety, he gingerly stepped into the bath. The warmth of the water seemed to catch him off guard, and with an almost childlike lack of grace, he unceremoniously lowered himself into a sitting position with a loud thud and for a moment, he appeared startled by his own actions.

Now fully seated on the bottom of the tub, he allowed the soothing warmth of the water to cascade down his dirt-encrusted body. The grime that had accumulated over time began to loosen and swirl around him, running down his body and creating murky patterns at the bottom of the textured bathtub.

He sat motionless, gradually acclimating to the comforting warmth of the water cascading down his back in a gentle, soothing shower. It was foreign to him, a luxury he had been denied for far too long. His time with HYDRA had been bereft of such simple comforts; the organization was a cruel and unforgiving entity, more akin to a heartless taskmaster than a nurturing presence.

His experiences with something as harmless as water was vastly different to what you were treating him with now - he was subjected to harsh, icy streams forcefully directed at him, the intense pressure through the hose so severe it felt as though it was stripping away layers of his skin.

He remembers being forcibly submerged by his handlers, a cruel and twisted game that shattered his expectations of a simple, cleansing bath. What should have been a moment of respite transformed into a nightmarish struggle for survival, where he was forced to submit to their ruthless whims.

The memory of sharp, abrasive bristles tearing at his skin and the application of painful, saline substances lingers. He didn’t want to think about the unnecessary groping he encountered either, something he wished he forgot along with his life during the chair’s wipes.

These traumatic encounters left an indelible mark on his psyche, turning what should have been a basic human necessity into a source of fear and anxiety. The handlers' sadistic approach to something as fundamental as personal hygiene served as a constant reinforcement of their control over every aspect of his existence, even the most intimate and essential.

For him, the act of bathing became synonymous with vulnerability, pain, and the complete loss of autonomy, a far cry from the soothing, rejuvenating experience it was meant to be.

This gentle treatment you were providing was so different from the abusive handling he had endured in HYDRA, it almost caused him to panic, the feigning comforts he were offered by handlers before tricked him too many times, and he refused to let his guard down.

His glacial eyes gazed up at you, the poor man looked absolutely pitiful under the steamy water, his once greasy hair now thoroughly soaked as rivulets ran down the contours of his entire body. You took a breath and exhaled out a soft sigh, your hand slowly reaching for your own body wash. You didn't have any products specifically designed for men, so your expensive shampoo would have to suffice until you went shopping.

You pumped the bottle twice, watching as the clear, slightly viscous shampoo pooled into your open palm and the refreshing scent of cucumber and mint permeated the humid air, filling your nostrils with its crisp, clean aroma. You turned and addressed him softly, "Alright, I'm going to wash your hair now. Just try to relax and sit still for me, okay? This might feel a bit cold at first, but I promise it'll feel good once I start massaging it in."

The soldier regarded you with an inscrutable expression, his eyes betraying only a hint of that fight-or-flight instinct, his mind was reeling as he battled the urge to respond to your presence. You knew he had the strength to easily break your arm if he chose to, so you tried your best to be as slow and careful as possible. Your fingers delicately threaded through his hair, methodically working the shampoo into a rich lather. You watched as the suds multiplied and foamed, the soapy shampoo pure white on top and slowly stained the closer it was to his scalp.

You noticed that every so often he would flinch ever so slightly or instinctively pull away from your hands. You wondered if he had hidden injuries or tender spots on his scalp, or bruises or cuts concealed beneath his hair, or maybe knots of tension that had formed from prolonged stress or blunt impacts. His hair must’ve been yanked around, his scalp was extremely tender and while you did your best to soothingly massage, he didn’t enjoy it as much as you hoped because of the discomfort there.

"It's okay, I understand it might be a bit uncomfortable. I’m just getting all that pesky dirt and grime out." You spoke in a gentle, reassuring tone, moving a little bit quicker so you could rinse and move on. After thoroughly rinsing his hair, you applied conditioner in the same manner as the shampoo, and then rinsed it out again. He looked much better now, his hair was now clean, wet, and sleek, with a smooth texture and a noticeable shine. It was so much better than before, and it had to feel better too.

Your hand extended under the rain of water, dampening a soft, handheld washcloth and applying a generous amount of body wash to it. You worked the cloth until it produced a rich lather. The soldier moved which caught your eye, you looked up at him and saw he had recoiled, his gaze fixed warily on the washcloth. He became noticeably slower and more hesitant, his eyes widening slightly as he regarded the cloth with apparent apprehension, as if it posed a threat. You furrowed your brow at his reaction to the cloth, he looked at it like you held a weapon of some kind.

"Hey, it’s alright…this won’t hurt. It’s just a cloth, see? A cloth with some soap," you said softly, you felt so torn up about his reaction to the simplest of things. "I won't hurt you, I promise, I'm just going to wash you a bit...get all that dirt and blood off you." You raised your hand holding the washcloth in a placating gesture. “It’s warm, it will feel good scrubbing off all that dirt, you’ll be nice and clean.”

Gradually, he relented and shifted backwards to where he had been sitting, permitting you to gently glide the damp cloth across his skin, meticulously removing every trace of grime from his body. After a few minutes of washing him, you noticed he was beginning to find comfort in the experience. His eyelids drooped, and his head dipped down slightly, a tired expression settling over his features as he succumbed to the soothing sensation of your ministrations. He wasn’t exactly serene, but he was too drowsy to focus on much else other than the feeling of the rag gliding over his back and flesh arm.

You adjusted him and you tended to his metal arm, diligently working the cloth between the intricate plates and joints of titanium, ensuring that no speck of dirt remained. You weren’t exactly sure how the arm was cleaned prior to finding him, but clearly there wasn’t a worry about rust or anything of the sort. The soldier remained motionless, allowing you unhindered access as the warm water cascaded over his back, leaving a rosy tinge in its wake. He enjoyed the hot temperature, he hadn’t felt hot water in decades.

Your focus then shifted to his lower extremities, concentrating on scrubbing his legs and feet. As the rag moved up to a more sensitive area, you paused, pulling the rag off his skin and slowly extending the washcloth to him. You pointed towards his privates, you softly instructed, "You can…get right there, I’d rather not touch you in that spot."

The furrow on the soldier's brow gave away his visible confusion, his eyes darting between you and the offered rag with a mixture of uncertainty and hesitation. It was clear that he was contemplating with the decision of whether to accept your gesture or not, if there was an ulterior motive, or if this was some sort of test. After what seemed like an eternity of internal debate, he finally extended a trembling hand towards you. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a wild animal rather than a simple cloth.

He grasped the rag from your outstretched palm, his fingers curling around it slowly. Once in possession of the cloth, he set about the task of cleaning himself. His actions, though quick, lacked the assurance of someone accustomed to such basic self-care. Each motion seemed so carefully calculated, as if he were relearning a long-forgotten, essential skill. It had been so long since he was allowed to clean himself. His movements were unsteady, his hands quivering slightly as he went about his ablutions.

It had clearly been an extensive period since he had been granted even this small measure of independence. The concept of autonomy was a luxury he had been denied for far too long.

When he was done with his hurried cleansing, the soldier's gaze immediately sought yours out. His eyes, still holding the rag, were filled with expectation, awaiting your next command. His posture tense and ready to respond to whatever instruction you might provide. The rag remained clutched in his hand, as if he were unsure whether to return it or continue holding onto this small token of independence.

"Good, you're all done," you offered a warm smile to him. Despite the wounds still visible on his body, you felt a sense of accomplishment knowing that at least the layers of dirt and grime had been washed away, your work getting him clean would pay off and be better for the both of you. You reached over and turned off the water, the sudden silence broken only by the soft dripping from the showerhead. "Let's get you dried off," you said softly, gesturing for him to step out of the shower.

He complied wordlessly, his movements careful as he stepped onto the bathroom mat. You couldn't help but notice how vulnerable he looked, standing there dripping wet, his eyes never leaving your face, his body completely littered in discoloration. Reaching for a large, fluffy towel, you unfolded it and wrapped it around his shoulders, enveloping him in its warmth to fight off the rapidly cooling water droplets all over him.

As you began to slowly dry his body, you noticed a change come over him. His softened expression now returned to its usual blank mask and the brief relaxation he showed in the shower was long gone by now. His body returned to the stiffness he had before he got in. His eyes remained fixed on you, following your every movement with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

You worked in the quiet calm of the bathroom, carefully patting dry each part of his body, mindful of his injuries. The soldier remained motionless, allowing you to maneuver him as needed, but offering no assistance, like a doll. It was as if he had retreated back into himself, leaving only an empty shell for you to tend to. You wondered what he was thinking behind those watchful, guarded eyes, they were pretty up close. Glacial, stormy blue irises that had been glued to you since you started to tend to him.

After drying him off, you were lucky to find a pair of boxers in your apartment and helped him into them, where they came from wasn’t something you could remember at the moment, but you were glad you had them. He cooperated as you dressed him, then stood there clutching the towel around himself like a security blanket.

His gaze fixed on you with a mixture of expectation and vulnerability, as if silently asking for further guidance or comfort. His wide eyes blinked languidly, and his soft pink lips formed an almost imperceptible pout, giving him an endearing, slightly lost appearance.

Lost. He embodied the word entirely. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Taking in his disheveled state, you smiled a little, "How about we get your hair detangled, hm?" Your voice was warm and reassuring as you reached up, your fingers lightly brushing against the damp strands, feeling the water practically seep out of the ends.

The soldier's reaction was a mix of acceptance and hesitation. While he didn't outright reject the idea, there was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm in his demeanor. However he didn’t dare reject the idea, worried about any kind of retaliation. So he made his way to the stool nestled beneath the counter and lowered himself onto it. As he settled into position, maintaining a stoic silence, his eyes continued to convey that enigmatic expression, hinting at unspoken thoughts or emotions.

You positioned yourself behind him, your hands instinctively reaching for a comb and a bottle of detangling spray already sat out from your use earlier that day. You recalled how your fingers had encountered numerous knots and tangles when you washed his hair, and thinking about how knotted it looked dirty made you sigh outwardly.

The fine mist of the detangling spray settled on his hair as you applied it methodically, you guided the comb through his locks, working patiently to untangle any knots you encountered. You tried to be as gentle as possible, knowing not only were there a ton of knots, but you remembered his scalp was especially sensitive and sore.

Soldat remained still as a statue, his posture composed and unwavering. His disciplined demeanor allowed you to work unimpeded, your movements careful and unhurried. He maintained a firm grip on the towel draped securely around his body, the fabric acting almost like a barrier and protecting him from the world. You continued to work the comb through his hair, encountering tangles and knots that spoke of recent exertion or neglect.

The process of detangling was slow, your touch continued to be gentle yet purposeful, muttering soft apologies when you ran into an unexpected knot. Teasing apart the snarls with patience and skill, the resistance lessened, and you found yourself able to run the comb smoothly through his hair, the strands falling into neat alignment.

"There we are... much better," you praised softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The sight of his hair, now brushed out and free of tangles, felt like a monumental achievement. You couldn't help but admire how the clean, detangled strands caught the light, a stark contrast to their earlier disheveled state. Your fingers ran through his locks, gently ruffling the hair from being so flat against his scalp.

You couldn't help but notice the angry red lines marring his skin, peeking out from beneath the towel. The blotchy colors on his skin that ranged from purple to blue, it made you frown. Your instincts as a caretaker kicked in, and you found yourself wondering if he would allow you to tend to those wounds. Hesitantly, you reached out, your fingers barely grazing the edge of the towel just wanting to get a better look at them.

In an instant the soldier suddenly sprang to life, standing with such force that the stool he had been perched on skidded across the tile floor, the harsh scraping sound shattering the previous calm. He retreated to the far corner of the bathroom, his body language screaming defensiveness.

His eyes, which had been closed or downcast for most of your interaction, now bore into you with an intensity that made you freeze. They held fear, yes, but also a raw, primal aggression that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the look of a cornered animal, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

You immediately backpedaled, not wanting to trigger any aggression from him. "Okay, okay... no wound checks," you reassured as you raised your hands in a gesture of surrender. You took a step back, giving him more space, silently cursing yourself for pushing too far, too fast. The fragile trust you had built over the past few minutes seemed to hang by a thread, you didn’t want to snap the little you had.

Your words had a calming effect on Soldat, who clutched the towel tightly in his fists, ensuring it remained securely wrapped around him. His gaze drifted down to his soiled attire, prompting you to shake your head in disapproval. "No, those definitely need to be washed," you explained, your voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur, "And to be honest, these can hardly be called proper clothes. I'll make sure to get you some suitable ones tomorrow, alright?"

Soldat's eyes met yours once more, his gaze still carrying a hint of coldness and wariness, but he managed a brief, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. You gathered his discarded garments and deposited them into the washing machine, silently hoping that the combination of leather and other materials wouldn't prove too much for the aging appliance. The damn thing had to be ran twice already, you just couldn’t afford to buy a new one right now.

As you busied yourself with setting the appropriate wash cycle, Soldat seized the opportunity to hastily retreat to the room that had been designated as his temporary living space.

He immediately gravitated towards the floor, as he had been the past few days. You hadn't seen him use the bed at all, rather stay cuddled in the corner or inside the small space of the closet. The towel long forgotten and laid splayed out on the floor, he ripped the blankets off the bed in one fluid motion and proceeded to wrap himself up in them, burrowing beneath the layers of fabric for comfort and security. The blankets having replaced the towel's symbolism for safety.

You wished he’d rest on the bed rather than the floor, but you knew better than to try to alter what he was doing. Leave him to be comfortable on his own, that is the best thing to do in this situation. And if Soldat wants to sleep on the floor in a huddle of blankets, then fine.

You approached the doorway, peering inside to see him nestled in a cocoon of blankets. His exhaustion was written on his face, yet there was a noticeable improvement in his appearance. The layer of grime and perspiration that had clung to his skin was now gone, you knew he had to feel somewhat refreshed.

You cautiously stepped into the room and made your way towards him, acutely aware of how his body tensed at your approach. In response to your closer proximity, he burrowed deeper into the thick comforter that enveloped him, seeking refuge from your presence.

A soft, reassuring sound escaped your lips as you placed a water bottle within his reach. As you anticipated, he remained motionless under the comforter, offering no acknowledgment of your thoughtful action. He stayed hidden beneath the layers of fabric, like a child seeking shelter from imaginary monsters lurking in the shadows.

"Get some rest, Soldat..." you whispered gently, your voice barely above a murmur. "I'll be down in the other room if you need anything. Don't hesitate to call for me, even for the smallest thing." With that reassurance, you slowly stood back up and turned to walk out. A faint noise suddenly caught your attention, causing you to pause mid-step.

The gentle rustling of the comforter drew your gaze back towards the floor, curiosity piquing your interest. The soldier cautiously peeked out from under the blanket's edge. His tired, weary eyes met your inquisitive ones, there was a beat of silence.

"Спасибо," the soldier rasped out, his voice meek and slightly hoarse from disuse, but still loud enough for you to hear clearly.

"You're welcome..."

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover images from Pinterest. I do not claim them as my own.

[reasonsforhope]

"Researchers at the National Cancer Research Centre in Spain (CNIO) have discovered a mechanism that is triggered just minutes after acute liver damage occurs—and it could lead to treatments for those with severe liver problems.

The avenues for future treatments of liver damage include a diet enriched with the amino acid glutamate.

“Glutamate supplementation can promote liver regeneration and benefit patients in recovery following hepatectomy or awaiting a transplant,” wrote the authors in a paper published in ‘Nature’.

The liver is a vital organ, crucial to digestion, metabolism, and the elimination of toxins. It has a unique ability to regenerate, which allows it to replace liver cells damaged by the very toxins that these cells eliminate.

However, the liver stops regenerating in cases of diseases that involve chronic liver damage–such as cirrhosis—and such diseases are becoming increasingly prevalent, associated with poor dietary habits or alcohol consumption. So activating liver regeneration is key to treating the disease.

Learning to activate liver regeneration is therefore a priority today, to benefit patients with liver damage and also those who’ve had part of their liver cut out to remove a tumor.

The research has discovered in animal models this previously unknown mechanism of liver regeneration. It is a process that is triggered very quickly, just a few minutes after acute liver damage occurs, with the amino acid glutamate playing a key role.

“Our results describe a fundamental and universal mechanism that allows the liver to regenerate after acute damage,” explained Nabil Djouder, head of the CNIO Growth Factors, Nutrients and Cancer Group and senior author of the study.

A “complex and ingenious” perspective on liver regeneration

Liver regeneration was known to occur through the proliferation of liver cells, known as hepatocytes. However, the molecular mechanisms involved were not fully understood. This current discovery is very novel, as it describes communication between two different organs, the liver and bone marrow, involving the immune system, according to a CINO news release.

The results show that liver and bone marrow are interconnected by glutamate. After acute liver damage, liver cells, called hepatocytes, produce glutamate and send it into the bloodstream; through the blood, glutamate reaches the bone marrow, inside the bones, where it activates monocytes, a type of immune system cell. Monocytes then travel to the liver and along the way become macrophages – also immune cells. The presence of glutamate reprograms the metabolism of macrophages, and these consequently begin to secrete a growth factor that leads to an increase in hepatocyte production.

In other words, a rapid chain of events allows glutamate to trigger liver regeneration in just minutes, through changes in the macrophage metabolism. It is, says Djouder, “a new, complex and ingenious perspective on how the liver stimulates its own regeneration.”

The research also clarifies a previously unanswered question: how the various areas of the liver are coordinated during regeneration. In the liver, there are different types of hepatocytes, organized in different areas; the hepatocytes in each area perform specific metabolic functions. The study reveals that hepatocytes producing a protein known as glutamine synthetase, which regulates glutamate levels, play a key role in regeneration.

According to the CNIO group, when glutamine synthetase is inhibited, there is more glutamate in circulation, which accelerates liver regeneration. This is what happens when the liver suffers acute damage: glutamine synthase activity decreases, blood glutamate increases, and from there, the connection with the bone marrow is established, reprogramming macrophages and stimulating hepatocyte proliferation.

Possible therapeutic applications

The experiments have been carried out in mice, but the results have been tested with bioinformatics tools, using databases of mouse and human hepatocytes.

According to Djouder, “dietary glutamate supplementation may simply be recommended in the future after liver extirpation, and also to reduce liver damage caused by cirrhosis.”

The first author of the paper, CNIO researcher María del Mar Rigual also wants future research to explore using glutamate supplements in humans who have undergone liver resection for tumor removal."

-via Good News Network, March 30, 2025

[peachcarechiropractic]

Therapeutic Exercises Augusta, GA | PeachCare Family Chiropractic

Therapeutic exercises are a crucial component of our holistic approach at PeachCare Family Chiropractic. Physical therapists work with patients in a wide variety of ways to help relieve pain and restore functioning. Therapeutic exercise has great potential to reduce pain and improve muscular strength, balance, and range of motion in individuals with osteoarthritis. 

[howtomakeyousee]

Alchemy: in order to obtain a particular something, something else of equivalent value must be given in exchange or lost.

[jungwnies]

wreckage - charles leclerc (3/4)

୨ৎ : pairing : charles leclerc x wife!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : as charles fights for his life, his wife faces the hardest decision: let go or fight for him. a small miracle gives hope for recovery.

୨ৎ : genre : emotional fiction, very... very... emotional, again ୨ৎ : tws : car accident/injury, arguments/conflict, anxiety/panic, trauma, medical trauma. ୨ৎ : wc : 1676

part one | part two | part three | part four

They say that the hardest part of love is knowing when to let go. The decision to hold on is easy—it’s the decision to release, to trust that the other person will be okay without you, that’s the hard part.

You’ve been sitting in the sterile, white hospital room for hours, each minute feeling like a year. Charles’s body is hooked up to so many machines, monitors flashing with numbers that seem foreign to you. His face, once so full of life, now looks pale, bruised, and still. They told you to prepare yourself for the worst, but you haven’t let yourself believe it. Not yet.

Not while there's still hope.

You’re not even sure what you're hoping for anymore. Some miracle, maybe. But deep down, you know the odds. They’ve been giving you the numbers—stats you can’t quite process, numbers you can’t make sense of. His condition is critical, and they’ve told you, over and over again, that his survival chances are slim. His organs are struggling, his internal injuries severe. The brain scans were grim at first, showing little to no activity.

But you can’t let yourself fall into that darkness. Not yet.

The room feels too cold, too empty.

"How are his stats?" you ask quietly, though you already know the answer.

The nurse glances at you, her face trying to remain neutral. "Not good. His heart rate’s been fluctuating. His oxygen levels aren’t improving, either. We’re doing what we can, but his body’s fighting against us." She hesitates, looking back at the monitors. "We’re not sure how much longer we can keep him stable."

You nod, feeling the weight of every word, but you can’t give up. Not yet.

Minutes turn into hours. You stay by his side, holding his hand, whispering to him. Every time you speak, you tell him how much you love him, how much you need him to come back. You’re not sure if he can hear you, but it doesn’t matter. You need him to know.

And then, just as you’re beginning to feel the overwhelming weight of your decision, something unexpected happens.

The steady beep of the heart monitor suddenly begins to accelerate, growing faster and faster. You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. Something’s wrong.

The nurse rushes over, her face pale as she watches the monitor. "His heart rate’s spiking," she mutters. "It’s too fast. His blood pressure’s dropping."

The room erupts into action as doctors rush in, all moving in synchronized chaos. You’re shoved aside as they begin adjusting the equipment, calling out orders, but your mind goes blank. You try to focus, but it feels like everything is spinning.

"His stats are crashing," one doctor says, his voice tense. "We need to stabilize him now."

"Is it time?" you ask, barely able to speak over the noise. "Should we—"

But before you can finish, a loud, sharp sound cuts through the room—the unmistakable alarm of a failing heartbeat. The doctor turns toward you, his eyes filled with grim determination. "I’m afraid we’ve reached the point where his body might not be able to hold on much longer."

Your breath hitches in your throat. Everything feels like it’s slipping away. You squeeze Charles’s hand tighter, as if willing him to come back to you.

But then, as if the universe is playing some cruel game, the chaos calms, just for a moment.

The alarms start to fade into silence, and the doctor presses his fingers to the side of Charles’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Your heart lurches, praying for any sign of life. The seconds feel like hours.

Suddenly, the doctor looks up, his eyes widening. "Wait… there’s something." He leans in, checking the monitors again. "His blood pressure’s stabilizing. His heart rate’s slowing down to a more normal rhythm."

You barely dare to breathe, your eyes never leaving Charles’s face.

The nurse who’s been working on him moves closer, shaking her head in disbelief. "It’s like he’s coming back."

You don’t know what to think. The last few minutes have felt like an eternity, and now, you’re afraid to believe it. "What’s happening?" you whisper, your voice trembling.

The doctor looks up at you, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes. "It seems like he’s fighting. His body’s responding… it’s too early to say for sure, but this is a good sign."

You stare at Charles, trying to process the sudden shift. Is this the miracle you’ve been waiting for, or just another false hope?

The minutes stretch on, and then, just as you begin to allow yourself a small breath of relief, the monitor lets out another shrill, jagged alarm—the unmistakable sound of a fatal arrhythmia. A shocking wave of panic shoots through you as the machine flashes with an erratic, spiking rhythm.

"V-fib!" The doctor shouts, his voice urgent. "We’re losing him. Get the defibrillator ready."

The nurse scrambles to prepare the machine, and you feel your stomach drop out. This can't be happening. Not now.

"Charles!" you whisper, gripping his hand harder, your eyes welling up. "Please."

The doctors are already on him, paddles in hand, but it feels like time is standing still. Your eyes dart from the monitors to Charles’s face, feeling as if your heart has stopped with his. Then, the shock.

The force of the defibrillator sends a jolt through his chest, and the monitor flickers. Nothing.

You close your eyes briefly, bracing for the worst.

"Again," the doctor orders, and another round of defibrillation. This time, there’s a slight blip, a change. It’s not much, but it’s something.

The doctor presses the paddles down once more, adjusting the settings. "One more time. We need him back."

The seconds stretch as they try again, and then finally, the heart monitor begins to beat again—slowly, but steadily.

"Heartbeat stable," the nurse breathes.

Your breath escapes your lips in a shaky exhale. You look at Charles again, feeling a rush of relief flood through you as the panic of the past few minutes settles into a wary calm. But it’s still not over. His fight isn’t done.

Just as you think the worst is behind you, Charles’s mother bursts into the room, her eyes frantic as she surveys the scene. Her voice cracks as she calls out his name, "Charles!"

You feel a flash of guilt. You should’ve called her sooner, but there had been no time. The doctors had been focused, and you’d been too overwhelmed to think clearly.

You step aside, giving her space, but you can’t look away from the man you love, still unconscious, his body fighting to survive.

The doctor steps over to you both. "We’re stabilizing him, but we’re not out of the woods yet. We need to make some decisions."

Charles’s mother looks at you, her face pale with concern. She reaches for your hand. "Whatever it is… I trust you. You’re his wife, and you know him better than anyone. What do you think we should do?"

You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "I… I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do. He’s… he’s still fighting. But we’ve been here for so long, and I don’t know how much longer we can wait."

Her gaze softens. "You don’t have to do this alone. I trust you. We’re a family. We make these decisions together." She squeezes your hand tightly. "But if you think there’s still a chance for him, then we have to keep fighting too."

You look back at Charles, uncertainty and fear clouding your judgment. How do you even begin to make this decision? His body is failing him, but his heart—his spirit—is still trying.

"Let’s give him more time," you decide, your voice shaking with fear but firm with resolve. "But if his chances are too slim… if we’re just keeping him alive on machines, then we need to think about letting him go."

The doctor nods solemnly. "We’ll run more tests. But if things don’t improve soon, we may need to consider other options."

As the minutes pass, the machines continue to monitor Charles’s every movement, every breath, and the room remains tense, every decision weighed in silence. But then, something begins to shift.

"His blood pressure’s coming back up," the nurse announces quietly. "And… there’s more brain activity. His oxygen levels are improving too."

You feel like you might be dreaming. "Is this really happening?"

The doctor steps forward, shaking his head in disbelief. "I’ve never seen anything like this. His vitals are stabilizing. I think… I think he’s fighting."

"Fighting?" you ask, still not quite believing what you’re hearing.

The nurse, who’s been checking his monitors, speaks softly, her voice a little hopeful. "He knows you’re here. I think he’s holding on for you."

And in that moment, you realize: you’re not alone in this fight. Charles is fighting for you too.

The room fills with a cautious optimism, but the road ahead is still uncertain. Will he wake up? Will his organs continue to improve?

Only time will tell.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

"His breathing," the nurse says, voice shaky, "it’s improving. He’s trying to breathe on his own. We can extubate him. He doesn't need the tube anymore."

You stare, wide-eyed, as they carefully begin the process of removing the intubation tube, your heart in your throat.

Everything changes in a moment.

There’s still a long way to go, but for the first time in hours, you feel a flicker of hope.

He’s still here. And he’s fighting.

But you know deep down that the next few days will be critical.

You stand there, feeling like you’ve crossed a line between despair and hope. But Charles has always been a fighter. And if he’s fighting, so will you.

For him. For the life you built together. For love.

You look down at him, and the smallest of smiles begins to tug at your lips.

Maybe… just maybe… he’ll make it through.

And for now, that's enough.

taglist: @emryb , @htpssgavi , @aleatorio1234 , @ayap4paya , @prttylight , @meadhbhcavanagh , @iluvnewtie , @hiireadstuff , @armystay89 , comment to be added

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[utkuerdemozerblog]

UTKU ERDEM OZER (2)

Welcome to our comprehensive guide on advanced orthopedic solutions, where we address some of the most pressing musculoskeletal conditions affecting individuals today. From Dupuytren’s disease, a condition that leads to the thickening of tissue in the palm, to the complexities of a distal biceps tendon tear, we provide insights on innovative treatments that restore function and quality of life. Additionally, we delve into the advancements in hip and knee replacement surgeries, which have transformed the landscape of orthopedic care. At Utku Erdem Ozer, our commitment to excellence ensures that you receive top-tier medical expertise combined with compassionate care.

Dupuytren’s disease

Dupuytren’s disease is a progressive condition that affects the layers of tissue beneath the skin in the palm and fingers, leading to the formation of nodules and cords that can limit hand movement. Early diagnosis and intervention are crucial in managing this condition effectively. At our clinic, we specialize in tailored treatment options that cater to the unique needs of each patient.

One of the key benefits of seeking treatment for Dupuytren’s disease is the restoration of hand function. This can significantly improve the quality of life, enabling individuals to perform daily tasks with ease. Our experienced team employs a combination of surgical and non-surgical techniques to ensure optimal outcomes, reducing the risk of complications.

We understand that navigating treatment options can be overwhelming, which is why we provide comprehensive consultations. During these sessions, we discuss all available treatments, including the latest advancements in care that have shown promising results in alleviating symptoms.

Take the first step towards regaining your hand’s full functionality. If you or a loved one is suffering from Dupuytren’s disease, contact us today to schedule a consultation. Together, we can develop a personalized treatment plan that helps restore your hand’s mobility and comfort.

Distal biceps tendon tear

A distal biceps tendon tear is a significant injury that can lead to impaired arm function and discomfort. This injury occurs when the biceps tendon, which attaches to the forearm bone, is either partially or completely torn. Individuals who engage in repetitive overhead activities or heavy lifting are particularly susceptible to this condition. Recognizing the symptoms early on can greatly influence recovery time and treatment options.

The primary symptoms include sudden pain in the elbow, a popping sensation, and weakness in the arm, especially when trying to lift objects. Swift diagnosis through physical examination and imaging tests is crucial in determining the extent of the injury.

Treatment options vary based on the severity of the tear. Minor tears may heal with conservative measures such as rest, ice, and physical therapy, while more severe cases might require surgical intervention to reattach the tendon. This is where the expertise of a specialized orthopedic surgeon comes into play, ensuring that the best possible outcome is achieved.

Rehabilitation following surgery or conservative treatment is an essential part of recovery, helping restore strength and flexibility to the elbow. Engaging in a tailored rehabilitation program can significantly accelerate the healing process, allowing individuals to return to their favorite activities in no time.

If you suspect you have suffered a distal biceps tendon tear or are seeking treatment for related injuries, it's important to consult with a specialist. Early intervention can lead to a better recovery experience and prevent long-term complications. Don't let an injury hold you back—take the first step toward recovery today by contacting our expert team for a thorough assessment.

Hip replacement

Hip replacement surgery is a transformative procedure designed to alleviate pain and restore mobility for individuals suffering from severe hip conditions. Whether due to arthritis, injury, or degenerative diseases, the hip joint can significantly impact daily life.

This surgical option involves replacing the damaged or diseased hip joint with an artificial implant, providing enhanced stability and reduced pain. Many patients experience remarkable improvements in their quality of life, allowing them to return to hobbies and activities they once enjoyed.

Furthermore, advancements in technology have made hip replacement surgeries more precise and minimally invasive. With shorter recovery times and less post-operative discomfort, patients can often begin physical therapy just days after their procedure.

If you are struggling with hip pain that affects your daily routine, consult a specialist today to explore whether hip replacement is the right option for you. Regaining your freedom to move could be just a conversation away!

Knee replacement

Knee replacement surgery is a transformative procedure designed to alleviate chronic pain and restore mobility for individuals suffering from severe knee conditions, including osteoarthritis and traumatic injuries. This intervention can significantly enhance your quality of life, enabling you to return to daily activities with greater ease and less discomfort.

At the forefront of advancements in orthopedic care, the techniques used in knee replacement have evolved, offering patients minimally invasive options that promote faster recovery times and reduced hospital stays. Not only does this mean you can get back on your feet sooner, but it also often results in less postoperative pain compared to traditional methods.

After undergoing knee replacement, many patients experience improved joint function and a significant reduction in symptoms associated with conditions like Dupuytren’s disease or the limitations caused by a distal biceps tendon tear. This surgery allows individuals to engage once more in physical activities they may have previously avoided.

Choosing a skilled orthopedic surgeon is crucial for achieving optimal outcomes. When considering knee replacement, trust in the expertise provided at Utkuerdemozer.com, where patient care and advanced surgical techniques come together to ensure the best possible results. Don’t let knee pain control your life—explore the possibilities of a knee replacement today!

[huxhsz]

✈ — weightless paradise

transmigrated non-mc!reader x caleb

prev ch: 02 - experiment┆series masterlist ┆next ch: 04 - helplessness

This isn’t how the game was supposed to go. You're not supposed to be here. You're an anomaly. But if you’re already here, then… can’t you just enjoy it for now? Just for a little while? Before the main story begins? Before everything inevitably falls into place? ...Right?

— content warning/s:

non-consensual medical & scientific experimentation

torture and pain

implied abuse and dehumanization

physical violence and injury (cutting, burning, blunt trauma)

blood and gore

powerlessness and loss of agency

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

CH. 03 — REGENERATION

You know it’s coming long before they take you.

The way the scientists look at you has changed. The whispers when they pass, the lingering stares through the observation window—it’s been building for days. They’ve been patient. Watching. Waiting.

Today, they’re done waiting.

The guards come for you after morning rations. Caleb’s still chewing on a stale protein bar when they grab your arm. He freezes, his gaze sharpening.

“No,” he says flatly.

One of the guards shoots him a warning look. “Stay out of it.”

Caleb moves anyway, standing before you. His hand catches your wrist, fingers curling tightly.

“You’re not taking them,” he says.

“Let go,” the guard snaps.

Caleb doesn’t. His grip tightens. His eyes burn cold and sharp, something dangerous flickering behind them.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “It’s okay.”

He doesn’t look at you. “No, it’s not.”

The guard’s hand falls to the baton at his side.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, more firmly this time. You pry Caleb’s fingers loose from your wrist. His grip lingers just a second too long.

The guards drag you away.

The room is cold.

They strip you down to the standard medical gown—thin, scratchy fabric that clings to your skin. The table beneath you is hard and metal, straps digging into your wrists and ankles.

“You’re Subject 000,” one of the scientists says, speaking more to his clipboard than to you. “Chronosight.”

You don’t answer.

“We need to test your regenerative capabilities.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

The scientist doesn’t even look at you. “We’ve seen indications of accelerated recovery, but no confirmed data.” He taps his pen against the clipboard. “Today, we’ll be determining the limits.”

Your stomach turns.

Limits.

“What—” Your voice breaks. You swallow hard and try again. “What does that mean?”

The scientist gestures toward one of the assistants. You hear the tray before you see it—metal instruments clattering faintly against one another. Blades. Syringes. Scissors.

Your blood runs cold.

“I don’t…” Your breathing quickens. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“It’s necessary,” the scientist says. “For research.”

You flinch as one of the assistants grabs your arm, forcing it flat against the table. Something cold swipes over your skin—alcohol.

“It’s okay,” you tell yourself. “I’ll be fine. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The scalpel gleams as the assistant lifts it.

The blade sinks into your arm.

The pain is white-hot, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs. You barely hear yourself scream. Your body jerks instinctively against the straps. Blood spills across your skin, bright and wet.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

The assistant pulls the blade away. The wound gapes open—too deep, too wide. Blood drips steadily down your arm.

The scientist leans closer, watching. Waiting.

You wait too.

For the pain to fade. For the wound to close. For something—anything—to fix this.

Seconds pass. Your arm still burns.

“It’s not healing,” one of the assistants mutters.

“Wait,” the scientist says.

The pain sharpens, a dull throb radiating through your bones. You squeeze your eyes shut, clutching at the flickering threads of your ability—the tangled web of timelines twisting behind your eyes.

There’s too much. Too many outcomes. Too many paths. None of them end with this not hurting.

Then—slowly—the pain fades.

When you open your eyes, the wound is closing. Flesh knitting back together, skin smoothing over as if nothing happened. Blood still stains your arm, but there’s no sign of the injury.

“She’s stable,” the scientist murmurs. “Accelerated recovery confirmed.”

“Again,” someone says.

The blade returns.

They test burns. Blunt trauma. A puncture wound to your side. Each injury sears through you—sharp, overwhelming, impossible to forget. The worst part isn’t the pain.

It’s knowing they’ll just keep going.

You lose track of how many times it happens—how many times they hurt you, watch you heal, then hurt you again. Your mind swims, flickering in and out of focus. Everything is red and white and wrong.

At some point, the scientist’s voice cuts through the haze.

“That’s enough for today.”

Cold hands unbuckle the straps. You feel yourself being lifted—your body heavy, limbs numb.

You barely remember the walk back.

When you wake up, you’re in your room again.

Your body aches, every nerve still buzzing faintly with pain. The cuts are gone, the burns no longer blistering your skin—but you feel them. The memory of it lingers, crawling beneath your skin.

Something warm presses against your hand.

You turn your head.

Caleb’s sitting beside you. His hair is a mess, his jacket wrinkled like he’s been here for hours. His fingers are wrapped tightly around yours, his knuckles white.

“You’re awake,” he says quietly.

Your voice shakes. “Yeah.”

His grip tightens. His head dips forward, his hair falling over his eyes. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

You blink slowly. “For what?”

“For not stopping them.”

His voice is quiet, but there’s something raw beneath it.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

His fingers twitch against yours. “It should’ve been me.”

“It shouldn’t have been anyone,” you say.

He doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches between you, thin and fragile.

Finally, his hand lifts. His palm presses lightly against your face, warm and steady. His thumb brushes beneath your eye.

“You’re okay now,” he says softly. “That’s what matters.”

You don’t know if that’s true.

But you close your eyes, lean into his hand, and pretend that it is.

[ms-demeanor]

Hi. I've followed you for a while and your advice to others always seems pretty good. You seem very knowledge about therapy and driving. This may be a bit out of your depth, feel free to delete this ask if so, but if you have any advice I would greatly appreciate hearing it. I've got a problem: the field I'm studying for and love doing will require frequent trips to places I cannot walk/bike/bus/fly to, and I'm terrified of driving. My father decided the best way to start teaching me was to put me behind the wheel on a small road in a big city with pedestrians and bikes on the road, and tell me to drive. It's been 4 years and I can't even think about getting behind the driver's seat without bursting into tears. Riding in the front passenger seat is fine. I want to get over this fear and finally learn to drive, with paid therapy if necessary, but I don't know what terms to search for to find a therapist that can help me with this. Any ideas?

So I think pretty much any decent therapist will be able to help you with this fear, just like any decent therapist will be able to help you figure out how to approach any fear that you've got.

But I'm also not sure this is something you need a therapist for so much as some very good friends and a lot of time. If you don't have your learner's permit I'd recommend getting one, and from there I think I'd say to ask some good friends, who you know are good drivers, to help teach you the rudiments of driving.

I think that you should do this by starting on a closed private property where there aren't people or pedestrians or anything else, and just put the key in the car, put the car in drive, and drive up and down a driveway until you are capable of doing so without panicking. From there, have your safe trusted driver friend take you someplace with no traffic of any kind but that does have some kind of lane markings (school parking lots on weekends, shopping center parking lots late at night, etc) and begin practicing things like stopping, turning, and acceleration. Do that until you're comfortable driving around empty parking lots, at which point I'd say that you should look at enrolling in a driving school with a closed course.

You were put in a very stressful situation that frightened you a lot, but there are ways that you can build up that should help you to see that it doesn't have to be stressful like that. Sit in the driver's seat of a parked car. Turn the car on without putting it into gear. Drive it back and forth just to get used to the car being in motion at very slow speeds.

If you want to work on this with a therapist you're probably going to want to be looking for someone who specifically discusses dealing with phobias around driving or accident-related trauma and recovery; cars can be terrifying and there are a ton of people who have had bad times with cars so there are lots of professionals who have dealt with getting people comfortable around cars as a necessity of our car-centric culture. That's the kind of stuff I'd be looking for, is people who talk about vehicle-related or accident-related trauma.

But also I think that's just a good thing to say out front if you're shopping for a therapist. "I am scared of driving and want to learn to drive, that is my primary current interest in therapy and I'm looking for a professional to support me while I work through this." Say this out loud as you call offices, and DO make calls, don't just look for reviews. People may not advertise this kind of thing specifically because it may just be taken for granted that it's something that their office can help equip you for.

Though, again, I think that you can likely do a lot of that yourself with the help of a good friend or a patient family member who is willing to respect your boundaries and work within them, but you need to think about what your boundaries are and what your goals are before you get to work.