#this post is brought to you by my new compression gloves

[autisticbsdfan]

dazai, who does his work with compression gloves on. kunikida asks what they are. and then gets his own pair.

[unbridgeabledistances]

hi y’all<3 here’s a new section of the gallavich as seen from alternate POVs fic, this time featuring lip!!!! (i wanted to wait til after the ✨lickey drama✨ in the new ep before posting, but then i decided against it bc i didn’t want to re-write this lol)

i started to have way too many feelings while writing this so it’s a little lengthy and contemplative, but rest assured it features some domestic fluff/ian and mickey being disgustingly in love- i hope u enjoy<3

--

Lip shuffled into the kitchen of the Gallagher house, opening the fridge door and reaching past the clanging beer bottles to grab a metal soda can on the way back of the shelf, hearing a faint fizz escape as he popped the tab. It was late, the moonlight streaming in across the kitchen through the worn curtains and pooling on the kitchen floor— after Tami had crashed in their bed at the apartment after a long day at work and Freddie was sleeping soundly in his crib, Lip had come by the Gallagher house, without really knowing why. He just needed to clear his head, to get some distance from Tami and all her relentless nagging about moving and apartment hunting and his colossally obvious fuck-up with the bikes— he just needed some space, some less stifling air to breathe outside of their half-packed apartment crammed with boxes lining the walls.

It was funny; no matter how much energy Lip had poured into he and Tami’s first apartment, into painting the walls and agonizing over their kitchen backsplash like it was his first-born son, whenever Lip thought about home, whenever he felt that pit of uneasiness growing in his stomach and he just needed a place where he could lie back on a couch and loosen the knots in his shoulders and breathe in familiar air that would fill him up, instead of the too-clean smell of Tami’s flowery potpourri that she’d placed on the expensive coffee table in their living room— Lip always found his feet leading him across the slabs of sidewalk and past the chain link fences towards the Gallagher house, no matter the time of night. He had only been in the house for a few minutes before he felt the tight-knit something in his chest begin to unfurl— he didn’t even want to start to think about what was lodged there. This had been a crazy fucking couple of months, and he wasn’t going to start getting sappy about selling the house now, not when they were so close. He’d dug a hole too deep this time, and he needed the money. He couldn’t fuck up again— not with Freddie to take care of. No matter what it cost him.

So that’s how Lip ended up sitting at the Gallagher kitchen table at 2 a.m. on a Thursday night, sipping at an overly-sugary pop that was no substitute for what he really wanted to be drinking right now—he could imagine how it would warm the insides of his stomach, how it would cushion whatever weird fucking ache was in his chest right now. But— no. Fuck no. He wasn’t going to do that now. Everything about selling the house, about moving on, was about getting his shit straight— about leaving the bad parts of this sagging roof and these stained floorboards behind him.

Lip slouched in the wooden kitchen chair, scrolling on his phone and finally letting out a breath he didn’t really know he had been holding in all day, when he heard a creaking of footsteps padding at the top of the stairs— too heavy to be Liam or Debbie, too careful and unfumbling to be Frank dragging himself through the house. Lip flickered a glance up from where he was sitting and met Ian’s eyes as he turned the corner of the stairs, his skin looking translucent and overly pale in the moonlight like the ginger motherfucker he was.

Ian nodded his head towards Lip in acknowledgement, like he wasn’t surprised in the slightest that his older brother with a whole ass family and apartment of his own was decidedly squatting in the kitchen of his childhood home, drinking a pathetic-looking can of Dr. Pepper. Ian slid open the fridge door, grabbing a beer and swiftly popping the cap off by knocking the bottle on the side of the counter—and then in an instant it became one of those quiet, familiar nights when it was just Lip and Ian in the kitchen, sometimes letting easy conversations flow between them, but other times, just like this— just sinking into each other’s presence in the silence. Ian’s shadow mingling with the moonlight on the kitchen floor immediately snapped the atmosphere from lonely and self-pitying and stale to something lighter, something familiar—like the worn, buttery leather of a baseball glove that fits just right.

Instantly Lip was brought back to so many nights before this, of he and Ian orbiting each other in the kitchen at night— when they were kids and would creep down the stairs and eat fistfuls of junk food that Fiona had forbidden, or steal warm sips of the open beers Frank had left on the counter. This was where they’d processed Monica’s return, late at night while they passed a cigarette between them and Ian hadn’t tried to hide the tears that were freely rolling down his freckled cheeks, back when they were both just confused kids who clung to each other— this was where they’d processed Frank’s alcoholic meltdowns, too many to count, and all the love and loss and confusion that had passed between these walls, all the collateral damage of living in this fucking neighborhood. And Lip felt a sudden pang in his gut, sharp and present, when he realized that it might be one of the last nights that he and Ian got to spend in the kitchen like this.

Lip immediately shoved the thought down with all his might, a hydraulic press squeezing out any sentimentality. He had to do this— for Freddie, for Tami. He had to man up and move on, even if it meant physically wounding the crumbling walls to ease the pain of the parallel jagged wounds somewhere deep in his chest, or screaming and shouting until veins popped in his neck, so loud that he knew he was radiating his pain outwards like a fucking atomic bomb.

But tonight, Lip had no more fight left to give. He just wanted to let these four walls hold him one last time, without even realizing that was what he had needed until this moment. Ian slid a chair out from the kitchen table and sat beside him, leaning back and dragging out a slow, sleepy breath.

Lip cleared his throat, softly. “Where’s Mick?”

“Passed out upstairs.” Ian scrubbed a hand over his face. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Lip raised his eyebrow, almost involuntarily, and Ian immediately jutted his chin up in a half-nod, an affirmation, as he leaned back even farther and took the first sip of his beer. No, he wasn’t manic and yes, he was fine. After all the years that had passed since Ian was still figuring this shit out, Lip sometimes forgot that checking in on him wasn’t really his job, not anymore.

Lip took another sip from his soda can, a movement to fill the easy silence. “How was your guys’ night?”

Ian shrugged non-committally, his shoulders still slumped back in the chair, his lips puckered around the mouth of the bottle as he stared off into the distance at the peeling kitchen wallpaper. “Eh. It was fine. I dragged Mickey out to try and make more gay friends. Ended up being a mistake.”

Lip held back a laugh, taking a sip from his own drink to mask his smirk. He had ample auditory evidence that Mickey was plenty as gay as Ian, but it was still hard to imagine Mickey leaning into all of this shit— Ian used to wear golden underwear and frequent gay clubs and go to social justice brunches, but none of that really seemed like it was Mickey’s scene.

“Oh yeah? Mickey not the easiest person to befriend?” Lip said it with his eyebrows raised, like the joke was obvious.

Ian looked up at him, like he’d been snapped out of a sleepy train of thought, staring earnestly like Lip’s jab had flown right over his head. “Actually, it was kind of my fault. I was the one who made us leave this dinner party thing we got invited to. They were all talking shit about the Southside, about how they hated their families, and I couldn’t really… connect with them, I guess.”

Lip pondered that, taking a breath and stretching his arms above his head. God, he was sore— he hadn’t even been fucking working, aside from hauling those bikes from place to place to avoid the cops, but all the pent up stress and tension was starting to linger in his bones.

“Yeah, it was the same for me. In college, or whatever. Joaquin was the only person I really talked to, because he got all the shit I was always going through.”

Ian nodded contemplatively—but he was staring off into space again, almost like he was half asleep. Lip took another sip of his soda. He could bring up the house shit again right now—it was all that they’d been talking about for the past few weeks—but for some reason it felt too raw, too intense to bring up right now, like it would cut through this peaceful moment, this island in the vast sea of uncertainty Lip knew he was bringing down on all of their heads. So in this moment, he opted for smoother waters.

“Why’d you guys go looking for new friends, anyways?”

Ian finally broke out of whatever drowsy, pensive trance he’d been in, his lips sloping into a smile. “Mickey kept giving me shit for always doing what you do, after breakfast today. I figured… I don’t know, I just got all pissy and tried to prove him wrong.”

Lip felt the corner of his mouth tick upward at that. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

Ian grinned, and held out his beer bottle, stretching his arm across the table. Lip tapped it with his soda can with a light “Cheers,” then took the final sip. He crushed the can to a disk on the table, pressing it down firmly with the heel of his palm and watching the sides compress. Ian’s eyes were cast downward at the table, watching his movements.

“How’s stuff with you and Tami going, all the packing and shit?”

Lip turned the flattened can on its side, contemplatively spinning it like a top on the table and fidgeting with it between his fingers.

“Honestly? I’m fucking exhausted.”

He could hear the breathiness as he said it, how deflated his own voice sounded. And Lip knew could make himself say more— he knew if anyone would get it, Ian would.

“It’s just… fuck, man.”

He looked up and Ian was staring directly at him now, his expression unguarded— listening. Listening like he always did in these moments. Lip let out a low chuckle, trying to shield his own vulnerability.

“How’d we get so fucking old? How is this… it, y’know? Finally leaving the fucking nest, or whatever.”

Ian smiled, placing his beer on the table. “I think you already left the nest when you had a baby and moved into an apartment with your girlfriend.”

Lip shrugged, fiddling with the crushed can again between his fingertips. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

“And you are the one making us do this, for the record.”

If Ian’s tone wasn’t as playful or as tentative as it was, Lip would have worried that he was upset— but judging by Ian’s still-comfortable slouch and his steady expression, Lip knew he was fine— he was weathering the storm, just like Lip was.

Ian leaned forward.

“Hey. Mickey was giving me shit—but it is true. You’re my best friend, even though you can be a fucking asshole sometimes.” Ian’s lips curved into a crooked smile. “Nothing’s gonna change that.”

Ian’s eyes flickered around the kitchen as he spoke, and Lip heard everything that was unsaid. Even though you’re kicking us out of the house. Even though you’re changing everything. Even though there isn’t a focal point to our lives anymore.

You’re my best friend.

And Lip felt that pang in his gut again, sharp like a dagger.

**

He’d said it before, and he’d had no problem saying it over and over again in Mickey’s absence, up until the months before the wedding— Ian did always go a little bit “loco” when Mickey was around.

Which, fuck him, I guess, for caring about his little brother with an undiagnosed mental illness who was off living in the Milkovich House of Horrors slash meth lab with Mickey fucking Milkovich, the bully with greasy hair who Lip wrote papers for in high school and who now was a literal, actual, godforsaken pimp. Lip had seen a teenage Ian bruised and drunk and curled into himself crying over Mickey too many times to ever think that this shit was a good idea— and years later, when Ian almost threw away everything, almost threw away stability and sanity and his fucking family to follow Mickey Milkovich across the Mexican border, Lip knew he had to say something, even though it was an unspoken rule that he and Ian didn’t really critique each other’s love lives since the Mandy-and-Karen fiascos of years past.

So he’d said it, that day in the kitchen, after Ian had returned on a Greyhound bus and they were still processing the dull pain of Monica’s loss— and Ian had taken the feedback with a closed-lip smile, like his head was somewhere else, as he picked at the corner of the beer bottle label with his thumb.

And then less than a year later Mickey was released anyways, and ended up standing in a tank top and boxers in the middle of the Gallagher living room, when the house was crawling with strangers and Freddie was barely two weeks old— and Lip had taken in a sharp breath, a bundle of hesitant nerves sprouting for whatever the fuck this situation was going to become; but not one that he could really give attention to, with all the other bullshit that was pulling at his focus, like the desperate screeching of his newborn kid and the mascara running down Tami’s face.

Later that night, when he’d had a spare moment to breathe and Tami was finally calmed down and sleeping in their cramped bedroom, he’d run into Ian in the moonlit hallway as he was stumbling his way out of the bathroom, drowsily rubbing his eyes with his hair sticking up. And Lip had stopped him with a whisper, placing a hand to tap Ian’s shoulder as Ian blinked the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey. So uh… I see Mickey’s out.”

He’d seen the defenses immediately raise in Ian’s eyes, like he knew what Lip was going to say next.

“Yeah.” Ian had said it soft, quietly, like he was afraid of someone waking.

You sure that’s a good idea? Lip could feel the words itching on the tip of his tongue, and he was aching to say them again, all these years later— and yes, maybe his head was so wrapped up in his own shit that he didn’t really have the authority to be doling out relationship advice to his little brother right now, but so much of this reminded him of things that had happened in the past, of Mickey Milkovich crashing on Ian’s bedroom floor until he inevitably couldn’t anymore, until the pressure cooker of his presence mingled with Ian’s inevitably exploded— or at least that was how Lip saw it. There were too many wounds, and they were bound to leave scars— Lip was honestly surprised as fuck that the Gallagher house was Mickey’s first stop out of prison, after everything that had gone down between the two of them.

But, for Ian’s sake, Lip tried to reign it in—despite the fact that they’d just been commiserating about “being in love with crazy people” as they crouched on the living room stairs the night before as Ian sipped on a beer, sputtering out a “fuck no” when Lip asked if he was going to marry Mickey (which was an equally as batshit question as if Lip was going to marry Tami). Despite all of this— now that Mickey was back, Lip could see that this was something Ian wanted, that this was something Ian was treading carefully into, one more time. He was definitely stronger now; even Lip could see that.

“He gonna be hanging around here a while?”

Ian had given a gentle, sleepy smile. “Yeah. Think so.”

And Lip had just reached out, and clapped Ian’s sleep-warmed body on the shoulder. “Sounds good, man.”

Ian had walked the remaining length of the hallway, opening the bedroom door— and in the shadows, Lip could see that Mickey was curled on the old, concave mattress of Ian’s single bed that he’d slept on since they were kids— and Ian had lifted the thin blanket and pressed up next to him, the mattress sinking beneath their collective weight, settling in and pressing a kiss to the top of a snoring Mickey’s head without a second thought. Huh.

That was the beginning of Lip starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, this time with Mickey would be different— and it was. As Mickey started to become a daily fixture in the Gallagher house, constantly pinned to Ian’s side, Lip had noticed how something solid had shifted—they weren’t reckless kids anymore, for starters. He hadn’t really seen Mick and Ian physically together since Ian was catapulting off the deep end, in the weeks after Ian had gotten dragged away by the P.I.s and Mickey had gotten locked up for some crazy fucking stunt trying to murder Sammy. Things were too intense then, too technicolor—for some reason, Lip thought Mickey being back meant that they’d return to being that way.

But now here was this guy, placing a gentle hand on Ian’s chest and saying “Woah, wait a minute” to protect Ian from the batshit P.O. that had just barged through the door—and Lip couldn’t help but realize that was something that he would have done to protect Ian, in a universe where Mickey was still behind bars.

After then, Lip just kept seeing it— the ways that Mickey showed up for Ian. Not even in the ways that he used to, like forcing Ian to take his meds back when everything was uncertain and Ian was slipping through their fingers like sand in a sieve; but in a more solid, adult way, in a way that made Ian buzz whenever he was around him, in a way that made Ian happier and lighter. And maybe it was just the sex—part of it had to be the fucking sex, considering how loud they always were— but Lip realized, after a couple of weeks of Mickey’s presence in the house before their whole eventual engagement fiasco, that Mickey was Ian’s friend, in addition to all the other things he was. After all the years of uncertainty, they’d finally grown the fuck up— Mickey was someone who brought out the best in Ian, and it was like Ian had been waiting for this moment, for Mickey by his side, before he could fully and totally bloom.

And it was weird how emotional that made Lip— after seeing Ian as a hollow shell in a jumpsuit pushing garbage cans around a college campus, or pretending to be someone he wasn’t who wore patterned button-up shirts and threw around fucking useless five-dollar words that Lip didn’t understand like “gender identity” and “intersectionality”— Ian had finally made it, beyond being the bruised, scrawny kid getting sexually abused by a creepy 30 year old man in the back room of a mini-mart, or getting high off his ass every night and starving himself to fit into a golden thong, or wearing a baggy janitor suit with dark circles under his eyes and pallid skin. Ian had done that shit on his own, and made himself into something in Mickey’s absence, sure— but so much of him being the full, happy person he was in this moment was because of Mickey, and Lip could see that now.

Ian was himself— he wasn’t a shadow anymore.

And that was why Lip had said he thought he should marry Mickey, in the end— because there was no doubt in his mind that Mickey Milkovich wasn’t going anywhere, not anytime soon.

Lip could still see it now, in the way that Ian was lounging comfortably in the living room, like he had his whole life— but now Mickey was resting just as comfortably beside him. It was a few weeks after that night in the kitchen, and Lip had just pitched the FOR SALE sign in the Gallagher front yard— now everyone was huddled in the living room, for what they now knew was one of their last lingering nights in this space. Liam was sitting next to Lip, pressed into his side, seeking the comfort that Lip knew he needed through all of these massive fucking changes— Franny was playing on the floor and Debbie was sitting beside her, and across the room Ian and Mickey were pressed side-by-side on the fraying loveseat, scrolling through the lease document for their new apartment on the battered laptop. They were murmuring things to each other that Lip couldn’t really make out— but Mickey was pressed against Ian, slouching into him slightly, and Ian’s eyes were light. In his flicker of a glance towards them, Lip noticed that Mickey was playing with Ian’s hand, swiping a finger over his wedding ring, as Ian scrolled through the paperwork and started to read all the contract information out loud— and Lip smiled to himself as he tried to tune out all the sappy bullshit that was going on in that corner of the room.

Ian was going to be just fine.

**

Hour later Lip strode out the door to the front porch, a cigarette he’d bummed off of Ian wrapped in his fist— he didn’t smoke anymore, especially not under the same roof as Tami, but there was something about the gravity of this night, of the flimsy red and white sign rooted in the front yard, that made Lip’s fingertips itch for a cigarette and made his brain buzz with the want of nicotine to dull the sharp edges of everything he was feeling—for smoke to float in front of his face while he sat on the front steps just one more time.  

He perched on the front steps as the sun was just starting to set, the fish-scale shadows of the chain link fence encroaching further and further into the yard as he flicked at his lighter.

He heard a light cough from somewhere in front of him— and saw that Mickey was outside too, blowing smoke out of his mouth and leaning against the fence in the front yard facing the house. Lip nodded at him in acknowledgement, then took the first drag. Fuck, he’d needed this.

“You gonna miss this place?”

 Mickey said it into the open air, like he isn’t really talking to Lip— his eyes were off in the distance, staring at the paint-chipped front façade of the house. Which was fucking bullshit—why would Mickey be staring absentmindedly, almost fucking wistfully, at the Gallagher house?

It’s not like he and Mickey didn’t talk— they definitely did, pragmatically flinging banter across the kitchen to each other at breakfast when coordinating rides for Liam or grocery list items when Debbie was off at work, existing in the same space every morning— and Mickey helped him haul literal tons of iron when he’d helped him steal the bikes, had haggled over his cut. But never like this—never with any weight, never in a way that was this casual, or this familial, about fucking feelings.

Part of that was probably because it was hard as fuck to worm your way into the Gallagher family—as wide open as their door always seemed to be, with people filtering in and out and crashing on hallway floors or the lumpy couch, this house only continued to function because of its nucleus— because of Lip and Ian and Carl and Debbie and Fiona and Liam and yes, even Frank. Everyone else was a passerby, an impermanent blip crossing through the way station; Jimmy-Steve, Sean, Carl’s slew of girls, Mandy and Karen.

Monica.

None of them were Gallaghers— none of them considered this place to be home, or got all the privileges that came with that. The Gallaghers, the real Gallaghers, had seen every one of these people come and go— and something slippery suddenly crept into Lip’s realization that despite all the odds, despite all of his doubts about him—Mickey had chosen to stay close to these four walls just as much as Lip had.

“Mickey’s family.” Ian had said it over a mouthful of bacon at breakfast a few weeks ago, and Lip had immediately shot him down; but maybe there was some truth to what Ian had said, some truth to the oddly unfailing consistency to Mickey’s ten years. Which meant that maybe…

Maybe it was time to make a fucking peace offering, or whatever.

Lip hummed in acknowledgement to Mickey’s question, pulling himself out of his train of thought.

“Hey. Mick.”

Mickey looked up at where Lip was leaning on the porch, his brows furrowing like he was bracing himself for a confrontation. “Yeah?”

“My head’s been too far up my ass the past couple of months to say it, but, uh. I’m glad you’re family, y’know?”

He’d been passively thinking it for months— but he’d never said it to Mickey, never this directly. He hoped Mickey got it, without brushing it off or shooting him down with some snarky fucking comment like he always did. Lip meant it— he was glad, he was grateful, he was ready to let Mickey Milkovich keep being a part of his fucked up familial life. And he hoped that Mickey saw that.

Mickey just rolled his eyes, taking another drag of his cigarette—but he didn’t say anything in reply, not for a moment. And then:

“You’re as sappy as your fucking brother, Phillip.”

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 2

A/N I am breaking probably the only rule I gave myself when I started writing fanfic, which was Don’t Ever Post a WIP.  But lord knows I’m not immune to peer pressure and the narcotic that is reader feedback, so here it is, the second chapter of what is now an open-ended modern AU story about Jamie the Chef and Claire the Kitchen Disaster.  Still a first person Claire POV, so I apologize in advance for any stray pronouns.

For the first chapter, I recommend reading it on Ao3, since I’ve made some minor edits since I first posted it on Tumblr.  See above re. not planning on posting a WIP.

Oh, and funny story.  When I decided to check the location of the real Ginger Snap catering company in Edinburgh, it was squished between “FrazersOnline” and “McKenzie Flooring”.  If that’s not kismet, I don’t know what is.  The location I describe below, however, is based on a catering venue here in Ottawa called Urban Element, where I’ve attended a few team-building events.  I have yet to set anything on fire, though.

I checked my phone for the third time, confirming I wasn’t lost.  

Frank and I moved to Edinburgh over the summer, just in time for him to start his position as Associate Professor of History at the University of Edinburgh. Despite our years spent in America, neither of us cared overmuch for driving, so we chose a flat (or rather, Frank chose a flat and I concurred) not far from campus.  Therefore, this was the first time I’d ventured as far afield as Leith, a maritime enclave just to the north of the capital that couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to be grittily working class or artistically hip. 

When I finally reached the address, I had to smile.  No main street pretensions or non-descript commercial frontage for Ginger Snap Catering.  Before me stood a two-story red brick fire station, still emblazoned with the crest of the Scottish Fire and Rescue Services.  The two massive truck bays were now enclosed by see-through doors that could be drawn back on a sunny day.  Through these a warm yellow light could be seen, spilling onto the grey, damp pavement.

A petite woman with dark hair manned the small reception area, a red-haired toddler clinging to her like a marsupial.  She held a phone to one ear while simultaneously pacing the polished concrete floor.  I stood as unobtrusively as possible near the door, but in such an open space it was impossible not to overhear her side of the conversation.

“... they willna take ‘im back until ‘is fever goes down...  aye, an hour ago when I picked him up but it hasn’t... nay, i dinna think it’s... tis jus’ terrible timing with two weddings t’morrow... Could ye?  Och, I owe ye Mrs. Fitz, a million times o’er... Anytime, we’ll be here.  Alright, soon.”

The speaker turned to me, the harried look of a working mother sharpening her already honed features.

“I apologize fer keeping ye waiting.  What can I do fer ye t’day?”

Before I could respond, the young boy, probably no older than two, began to fuss, rubbing his flushed cheek against his mother’s shoulder.

“Och, mo ghille, Mam kens ye’re poorly.  Mrs. Fitz is coming as fast as she may.”

Unable to quell my instinct to diagnose and then cure, I spoke up.  

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.  Based on his age and the way he’s holding his head, it may be an ear infection.”  At the woman’s penetrating look, I hastened to explain: “I’m a doctor.  Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

Permission granted, I carefully palpated the boy under the jaw and peered as best I could without an otoscope into the offending ear canal.  Confident in my diagnosis, I recommended treatment with a warm compress, an over-the-counter analgesic ear drop, and children’s paracetamol to control his fever.  If, after twenty-four hours the symptoms had not improved, they could consider seeing his pediatrician for antibiotics, but these were only truly necessary for a persistent infection.

“Och, ye ‘ave no idea what a relief it is tae hear ye say so, lass.  He’s my first bairn, ye ken, an’ I can ne’er tell if I’m over-reacting or being negligent.   Can ye say thank ye tae the nice doctor, Wee Jamie?”

My stomach jumped.  “Wee Jamie?  Is he related by chance to Jamie Fraser?”

“Aye, tis his nephew.  I’m Jamie’s sister, Jenny.  Ye ken my brother, then?”

The pieces fell into place, and my insides settled.

“We’ve spoken before,” I explained.  “I’m Claire Beauchamp.  You and your brother helped me with a dinner party emergency last Tuesday.  I came to return your market bags, and to thank you again for coming to my aid during my hour of need.”

Jenny and I spoke for another ten minutes, sharing the superficial narratives of two strangers brought together by circumstance.  She was warm and thistly by turns, and I felt a longing for the honesty of female friendship that I’d given up when we left Boston.  Eventually a matronly woman arrived to collect Wee Jamie.  I carefully wrote down the exact names and dosages of my prescribed remedy.

After Mrs. Fitz and Wee Jamie had left, it occurred to me that Jenny needed to get back to work.  I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do, even if I hadn’t thanked Jamie himself.   As I began to make my goodbyes, however, Jenny interjected. “If ye’re no’ in a rush, why dinna ye join our afternoon cooking class?  My brother will be demonstrating how tae make quiche.  Tis the least we can do, after ye helped Wee Jamie.”

Which was how I found myself standing behind one of six cooking stations arranged across the fire station’s main area, a bright red apron covering my black slacks and saffron turtleneck.  My impetuous curls were slowly breaking ranks from where I’d slicked them into a bun that morning.  I worried I looked like a human Pez dispenser.

I glanced at the workstation immediately to my left.  A slight woman who I guessed to be roughly my own age was engrossed in her phone, a cheeky smirk playing on her berried lips.  Her strawberry blond hair was swept into an effortless chignon that made me twitch with envy.  She looked up from her screen and caught me looking her way.

“Geillis Duncan,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand.

“Claire Beauchamp.  Pleased to meet you.”

“Is it yer first time taking a class, Claire?”  At my nod, she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially: “Ye’re in for a treat.”

Before I could enquire what she meant, a murmur amongst the other students (all women, save one) was accompanied by the heavy tread of work boots on polished concrete and a familiar Scottish burr.

“Good afternoon, everyone.  Thank ye fer joining me on this dreich Scottish day.  I ken a few of ye are new, so let’s start with a brief overview of yer stations and some basic safety reminders, before we tackle the quiche.”

Today Jamie was wearing a pair of olive pants that tapered down his endless legs and a technical shirt that clung valiantly to his upper body.  He looked like he’d just stepped off the nearest rock climbing pitch.  I wondered if he owned anything that answered to the name of a professional wardrobe, but I couldn’t deny that he looked impressive, in an athleisure sort of way.

“See what I mean?” Geillis hissed at me as Jamie made his way to the front of the hall, speaking now about optimal burner temperatures.  “That man is a dozen kinds of yes.”

I concentrated on each step of the ostensibly simple recipe.  Pie crust had been the previous week’s assignment, so I had only to blind bake the prepared dough already at my workstation.  Once I had the crust centered exactly in the pie pan, pierced with a fork in orderly rows and placed in the oven, I rushed to catch up with the others.  I’d missed Jamie’s instructions regarding pan frying the bacon, so I increased the flame, thinking I could make up a little time.  The fatty meat crackled pleasingly as I set it in the lightly greased pan.  I was inordinately proud of myself.

Things went very badly, very fast.  First, my eyes wouldn’t stop watering as I meticulously peeled then dissected the onion into near-transparent crescents. Tears obscured my vision and I tried to wipe them away without contaminating my hands.  To my left I could make out Geillis skillfully cracking eggs into a glass bowl, her pie crust already elegantly filled with crispy morsels of bacon and caramelized onion bits.  

A vague sense of having forgotten something important tickled my mind.  My pie crust!  Grabbing a silicone glove (I wasn’t making that mistake twice) I rushed to the wall oven and extracted the pan.  Giddy with relief, I saw the dough was only a little dark around the edges.  

Before I could return victorious to my station, Jamie uttered a Scottish noise of alarm from his vantage at the front of the class.   We both rushed across the room to where my rashers of bacon now resembled blackened shoe laces obscured by a heavy veil of smoke.  With practiced ease, Jamie lifted the entire skillet into the adjacent sink and turned on the cold water.  A cloud of steam enveloped his head, highlighting his auburn curls.  I bit my lip as he looked my way in amusement.

“I hope ye werena planning on serving quiche to yer faculty guests t’night, Ms. Beauchamp?”

I stood meekly next to Geillis for the remainder of the class, no longer trusted around open flame without adult supervision.   She graciously allowed me to extract her quiche when it was done baking.  It looked like a magazine cover.  Meanwhile, my workstation looked like the scene of an industrial accident.

While we were waiting for her quiche to cook, Geillis and I got to know each other a little better.  She was a Highland lass from up near Inverness.  Married to a wealthy older man, her life sounded like an endless quest for diversion.  Despite this, or because of it, she had a sharp-witted frankness that I appreciated.  She was also a hard-core gossip.

“Wee besom,” she remarked with a nod towards a blond girl who was currently monopolizing Jamie’s attention with endless questions punctuated by manufactured giggles and flicks of her pin-straight hair.  “Tha’s Laoghaire Mackenzie of the Mackenzie brewing dynasty.  They’ve a live-in cook, so there’s only one reason she attends these classes, and it isna for the quiche.”

I watched Jamie laugh over something the girl said, mineral eyes alight and his perfect white teeth on display.  I suppose I couldn’t blame her.  I wasn’t here for the quiche either.

The interminable ninety minute lesson finally ended.  I thanked Geillis profusely and we exchanged numbers before she rushed off for her reiki treatment.  Gathering my trench coat and purse, I tried to slink away without calling any further attention to myself.

“Ms. Beauchamp!”

I cursed under my breath, then turned to face him.

“Please, call me Claire.  After I nearly burned down your place of business, we should probably be on a first name basis.”

Jamie chuckled. It sounded more natural and lived-in than his earlier response to Laoghaire, but I was likely fooling myself.

“Och, wha’s a cooking demonstration wi’out a wee bit of drama.  Will ye be joining us next week?  We’ll be making ceviche, sae I willna need tae put the fire brigade on stand-by.”

“Bastard,” I replied to his cheeky smirk.  “Alas, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a cook.  It appears to be the one science I can’t master.”

“Cooking isna a science, Claire,” he explained with sincere intensity.  “Tis an art.  Perhaps tha’s the root of yer struggle.”

“Perhaps it is.  But in that case, I may as well give up now.  I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.”

His languorous perusal of said body lit a different kind of flame in my belly.  Geillis was right; he really was a dozen kinds of yes.

“I canna say as I agree.  Come back any time if ye’d like tae try again.”

I blushed, thoroughly discomfited by his blatant flirting.  He knew about Frank.  He’d fled from him onto my fire escape, for Christ’s sake!  Maybe when you looked like James Fraser, every interaction with a woman was merely a chance to hone your craft.  Or maybe he was truly ignorant of his effect.

“I’ll take that under advisement.  Thank you again, Jamie.”

“Until the next time, Arsonist.”

[harcourtholmesii]

An Officer’s Loyalty (Part 3)

Pairing: Medic X Reader

Words: 1408

Warnings:

- Swearing

- Some Gore and Body Horror

- Surgical/Medical Situations

- Some Slight Nudity (Half Nudity)

Enjoy!

The cool of the underground seeped through your uniform, even past the extra layer that was Medic’s coat. Probably the most high-tech part of the building, the basement level was a labyrinth of concrete, a dull grey with only a singular, painted red line that ran continuously across the walls on either side. It was quiet for the most part, save for the occasional groan of pipes and the flicker of the lights.

 You had passed by many doors, but hadn’t been allowed to take in your surroundings properly. You had all but lost track of where to go when you passed the sad excuse for a kitchen. Your ‘escorts’, Heavy and Medic, had kept a quick pace as they led you into the depths of your new home. The belly of the beast, if you will.

 Before you had left the billiard room and your interrogation behind, Medic had insisted that he take you to have your surgery completed first.

 ‘Vouldn’t vant to forget und zhen haff jou’re heart explode on zhe battlefield!’

 It had been the first time you had heard him speak in his usual, manic glee since he had first found you and Spy in the mine shaft. It had been unnerving, but you didn’t feel like it was safe to, so quickly, go back on your agreement.

 When he had started guiding you out of the room, Heavy had been quick to follow. You had never seen the two apart for long; perhaps because they had a history before their careers at Mann Co. or when they would have had to learn English for the job. Considering how often Medic’s tongue dipped back into his maiden language, you suspected he hadn’t spoken much English before his work at Mann Co.

 Heavy hadn’t said much at all since you arrived, but he seemed less agitated by your presence. You still noticed how his eyes would occasionally glance at you if you trailed behind, but he didn’t do much more than slow his pace ever so slightly.

 Finally, after too long trying to follow Medic’s quick footsteps, you came to two large doors, with a painted red cross upon them. Medic pushed them open easily and gestured for you to enter. You hesitated, on account that you had been expecting the medical bay.

 Not a bloody slaughterhouse.

 The medical bay still had some utensils here and there; a bonesaw or three, pliers, syringes, and a surgery table with a different kind of medigun attached to the roof, hanging down like some James Bond torture device. The drawers were in a disarray, buckets of blood, bones and feathers dotted the linoleum floor, and an open bird cage filled with pigeons and the occasional bird shit made you feel sick to your stomach. The remnants of the medical bay, surely, were not where you would be having this surgery?!

 Heavy nudged you inside, and Medic moved about the surgery table, going to wash his hands in a bloodied steel sink. Heavy offered you an almost apologetic smile, as he took to sitting by the door and crossing his arms.

 ‘Bitte, haff a seat.’ The German rolled his head to one side, to gesture to the operating table. You let out a scoff.

 ‘You’re kidding.’

 Medic turned to look at you, almost confused by your unwillingness to sit or lay down upon the surgery table. You looked back over the steel table, eyes landing on leather straps at about where ones ankles, wrists and neck might be. You cocked a brow, gesturing to the straps.

 ‘And, what surgery might need those? Or did you run out of anaesthesia?’

 ‘Oh, zhose!’ He almost laughed, the smile returning full force to his face. ‘Das is nozhing! Scout vas just moving around too much during his surgery, so I had zhem installed. Ve don’t haff to use zhem if you don’t vant to.’

 ‘That doesn’t answer my question about the anaesthesia.’

 ‘Ve don’t use it.’

 What?

 ‘I said it before, and I’ll fucking say it again; ‘you’re kidding me?!” You stepped back, closer to the door, your legs shaking. Heavy had stood, but he didn’t seem threatening. He just seemed encouraging. You shook your head. ‘Like Hell I am going to let you cut me open like that! I’d rather be killed!’

 ‘Doktor does not use anaesthesia because it is not common.’

 ‘Excuse me?’ You turned on Heavy, giving him the most furious glare in your arsenal. Too bad that due to your lack of stature, it was nothing intimidating. You would have liked to see the big man show a hint of something other than indifference or great ferocity.

 ‘Vas Herr Heavy means, is das I do not often haff access to anaesthesia.’ You turned your furious glare back on the German, and much like Heavy, he didn’t even blink. ‘Razher zhan using it for all surgeries, I haff zhe medigun dull zhe pain instead, und save zhe anaesthesia for vorse injuries.’

 ‘How are your employers this…’ You dare not finish your sentence. The administrator had cameras everywhere, and you did not doubt that she, or rather Miss Pauling, would find a way to sneak a camera or bug into your opponent’s base.

 ‘And… you expect me to let you cut me open in this…’ You gestured about. ‘… In this mess?’

 ‘Vell, I haff never been too picky, und after zhe first surgery, I haff had few complaints. No one has gotten sick because of it.’ He assured. ‘If it vill make jou feel better zhough, I can keep zhe gloves on.’

 You held back a retch. Your chest had tightened and you felt your lungs compress, as if trying to expel all oxygen. You felt some form of small relief when there was the snap of red rubber gloves, and Medic gestured once more to the table. You looked between Heavy, the way out and the crazed doctor, contemplating your options.

 ‘Do I need a surgical gown?’ The Medic laughed, a great guffaw of something almost sinister. You didn’t join him.

 ‘Nein! Of course not!’

 You stepped hesitantly towards the surgical table and took a seat on the cold steel. You were shaking, goose bumps shuddering their way up and down your skin. You removed Medic’s coat and then, having thought about it, removed your own. The medical bay was even colder than the halls, and you brought your arms around you in a sorry attempt to trap as much heat as you could.

 As Medic approached, you laid down, gripping onto the edges of the table. You didn’t want to give him an excuse to use the straps. Looking up at him, you could swear you had been thrown through time and space and ended up in a Twilight Zone episode. Some creepy, fucked up, science fiction-horror show, where you were the helpless victim. You hated it.

 He reached up, first switching on the red, translucent beam of the medigun that hung above your head. The scarlet, smoke-like tail sunk low and into your chest; you could feel a warmth behind your ribs and a numbness run all across your body. Your fear still gripped as tightly to you as you did the steel table when Medic pulled out the saw.

 He didn’t wait for you to shakily undo the buttons of your shirt, or remove the bandages underneath. He placed the bonesaw down and replaced it instead with surgical scissors, cutting the cloth open with a few quick snips. Despite the warmth of the beam, the cool of the room was enough to tense your body for the first blow.

 The medigun’s powerful, relaxing beam did little to make the initial incision any kinder. You watched in terror and pain, eyes already filling with tears, as the saw split your skin straight down, from collar to naval. You tried not to scream, but you couldn’t hold back your cries when you witnessed the doctor holding your own heart in his hand.

 Your head was spinning and your vision becoming dotted with black smudges. You felt a warm hand on your shoulder and a wet glove against your cheek before your brain overheated from the pain and stress.

 You would have considered it embarrassing that you had fainted and your old team would never have let you live it down. You didn’t feel shame though when your world went dark, however.

 Instead, it was anger boiling in your blood.

~~X~~

I just wanted to thank a couple of readers of this little series for their words and just wanted to say how thankful I am that they have been enjoying it!

 One reader helped to motivate my interest in continuing the story when I was suffering major writer’s block, after they messaged me asking if there was more to come. I had no idea that anyone really read my Tumblr stories anymore, so I wasn’t expecting to continue, so I really appreciate the little boost.

And then the other was one reader who, after they reblogged the post, gave me a good laugh and reminded me how much I love this series, the Medic and this fandom simply by adding some amazing tags to the end! This was a little while ago, but I only just realised, and I loved it!

Thank you though, to anyone who takes the time to read my works. I truly appreciate it, and I am glad you have been enjoying yourselves reading them!

[intubatedangel]

Out of Body: Chapter 2

Sorry for taking so long to get back. A bad year followed straight after by a pandemic hasn’t been great, but i’m slowly getting back to my old self and another recent return inspired me to start trying to write a little bit more. I’ll be honest this part isn’t totally new, I did post it somewhere else around the time of the first chapter, but i noticed I hadn’t updated it on here. I’ll probably do a bit more on this story before going back to Anna Swifts stories. Anyway, it’s been nearly 2 years since chapter 1, so you might to check out the previous parts.

Prologue | Chapter 1 |

********

Once I was strapped down on the orange back board, my broken leg packed into a splint, Dave moved down to my feet, positioning himself to lift me into the ambulance. The cop was still compressing my chest as Jane squeezed another breath into my lungs. “After this round, we move. Grab the gear.” She said to the cop.

 “27…28..29…30” The cop finished with a nod, immediately shifting back and pushing himself to his feet. Jane and Dave had already lifted me into the air. The cop hurried to pick up the monitor, the leads stretching close to their limit before he made up the ground.

 I followed, too caught up in the rush to even notice when my legs passed through the wreckage of my bike. The ambulance doors stood open, the bright lights spilling out across the road. Keith was already standing there, even though I hadn’t seen him move.

 “I think I’ve blown your mind enough for now. I’ll explain later.” He glanced down just in front of my chest. “Lifeline’s looking fragile. Best to stay close for now.”

 He was right. The thread was thinner than before, more wispy. I climbed into the ambulance as the back board was slid onto the gurney. Jane took the monitor from the cop. “Drive.” She commanded as she placed the monitor in its dock. The cop hesitated for a moment, before Jane’s glare seemed to pierce right through him. He spun and headed for the cab, grabbing his radio, telling his partner what he was doing.

 For a second, I was concerned about his partner, but realised that Patterson was not that stupid. His plan was in place. I would die, he would spin the story into a tragic accident and spread some tale of how he tried to save me and the people of the city would eat it up. Dave pulled the doors closed and took up position on my left, commencing compressions without Jane saying anything. She was hooking up a saline bag to the central IV, along with pushing in some syringes, and giving me regular breaths with the ambu bag. I sat down on the bench across from my feet, watching my sister as she danced her steth across my bruised chest.

***

In the bright light of the ambulance I could clearly see the deep purple, almost black, bruising fade through to the pallid grey tone of my flesh. After a cycle of compressions Dave grabbed a pair of shears and snipped off my bra. A smaller bruise was starting to form in the valley between my breasts. As soon as the cups were spread to either side, Dave’s blue gloved hands returned to their position and started thrusting down into me. I could see the wave of each compression translate through my abdomen and down my legs, my feet rocking gently despite the straps of the board and the leg splint.

 Jane gave me another breath then grabbed her radio. “304 to control. We are en-route to City Hospital with an RTC, severe left chest trauma with collapsed lung, multiple limb fractures and currently in full cardiac and respiratory arrest. Resuscitation underway.” She didn’t wait for a reply as she gave me another breath the said to Dave. “One more round then I’ll intubate.”

 There was a sudden rumbling as the cop brought the ambulances engine to life, followed by the sound of the sirens as the vehicle began to accelerate away from the scene. I glanced back to see Keith’s upper body sticking through the back door.

“Could you please not do that?” I asked. In response he shrugged and seemed to drift into the back of the ambulance.

“Sorry, you get used to it after a while.” He sat down beside me, careful to keep himself from interposing with Dave’s legs.

 I shook my head, focusing my attention back on the efforts to save my life. Dave counted out each compression, then once he reached 30 he straightened up. Jane had already prepared the intubation kit. The neck brace already held my head in the proper position as she slid the blade of the scope into my mouth. She followed it up with a size 7 ET tube, pushing it down until only a few inches stuck out between my greying lips, and inflated the cuff. Tossing the mask from the ambu bag to one side, she attached the bag to the tube and gave me a few breaths as Dave listened to my lungs.

“You’re in, but I’m barely hearing anything on the left. Suction her out again.” He told her before looping the steth over his neck and restarting compressions. Jane simply nodded and disconnected the ambu bag, laying it next to my head. The suction tube was threaded down the tracheal tube and began to draw out more blood from my lungs. While the suction tube cleared my lungs, Jane taped the breathing tube securely, two thick strips going from each side of my chin, around the tube, and up onto my cheeks towards my studded ears.

 The suction tube ran dry, so Jane pulled it out and resumed bagging while she studied the monitor. I leaned over to see what she was looking at. The line on the monitor was perfectly flat.

“Epi going in.” Jane said, hoping the drug would stimulate my heart into at least a shockable rhythm. She also attached an oximeter to the ring finger of my right hand. It was brief, but I noticed her squeeze my hand. Dave completed his most recent round of compressions, panting slightly, and turned to look at the monitor. The alarm changed from the persistent whine to something more two tone. “V-fib. That’s it sis, now come on back.”

“Sis?!” Dave exclaimed. “I figured you her but…”Jane didn’t answer, she just forced him out of the way, bringing the paddles down onto the orange squares. After a quick glance to make sure Dave was clear she pressed the buttons. The shock slammed through my chest, the straps of the backboard holding me down as muscles around my chest suddenly contracted. The only thing that didn’t react was my heart. “No change.” Dave said quietly.

 Jane didn’t even look at him as her thumbs manipulate the other buttons on the paddles. “360. Stay back.” The defib signalled its readiness a moment before another shock jolted my body. The monitor began to whistle before I was even still. Jane cast the paddles aside, her professional façade starting to crumble as she began rapid, almost frantic compressions.

 The way her body rocked over my chest I could finally see her aura clearly. The fear had grown, almost over-riding everything else. The anger was there, but different, not directed at me, but inward. The gold of determination was little more than a thread, and it was fading, as was my lifeline.

I looked at Keith. “Can’t you do something?”

He frowned, biting his lip. “I…”

“You can clearly do something. Please. Please do it.” I begged.

“It’s not so simple. It takes a lot of energy. I’ll need to return to my source. I won’t be able to guide you.”

“That won’t matter if I’m dead!” I had gotten to my feet, clipping through the gurney where my body rocked. Dave was bagging me with one hand, while his other held a penlight, running it over my eyes.

“Pupils are sluggish.” He said with a sigh.

Keith mirrored the paramedics sigh. “Ok. It’s not a guarantee, I can’t take control or give her any ideas. All I can do is reinforce an emotion. Then it’s up to her. Just stay close to yourself. I’ll find you when I can.”

I nodded and watched as he stepped up right behind her. He reached out, his hands on either side of her head. I tried to figure out what he was doing, but all I could see was the thin gold thread strengthening. It grew rapidly, crowding out the other emotions. As it grew, Jane’s compressions became steadier, her face more focused. Then, with a flash, Keith disappeared.

***

Jane, almost glowing with determination, finished her round of compressions and grabbed the orange gel pad from my left side. She ordered Dave to take over compressions as she started to root around in one of the cupboards.

“What are you doing?” He asked, as she placed a sterile cloth on the bench beside the ethereal me. She didn’t reply as she placed a scalpel, some gauze, a bottle of iodine and an uncuffed size 7 ET tube with a stylet on the cloth. “You aren’t planning on…”

She cut him off. “She needs a chest tube, or she dies.” Jane dabbed the gauze with iodine and began to spread it over the side of my chest.

“You’re not qualified Jane! We don’t even have the proper equipment!” He reached over for the ambu bag and squeezed it twice, before Jane shunted him to the side. “If you screw this up you’ll kill her!”

 Jane turned on him, a blaze of anger, scalpel in hand. “She’s been down for 20 minutes Dave. We’re 10 away from the ER. She’s already dead, unless I do this. I won’t lose her too.” With that last whispered statement, she leaned down over my lifeless body and started using her fingers to count down my ribs. I didn’t realise I’d moved until I watched my ghostly hand pass through her shoulder.

“That wasn’t your fault.” I whispered, even though she couldn’t hear me. “You were 15.”

“4th intercostal space.” Jane muttered as she lowered the scalpel toward my flesh, her hand steady. With one smooth motion she sliced through the skin, a trickle of blood running down my side. She quickly sterilised her finger with the iodine and pushed through the hole, nodding to herself. She grabbed the tube and eased it in alongside her finger, keeping a close eye on the depth indicators along its length.

There was a sudden rush of blood into the tube, held in by the cap of the insertion stylet. “It’s in!” Jane shouted with a grin. She grabbed a carboard spit tray and held it underneath the end of the tube before pulling out the stylet. The blood flowed out of the tube for about 10 seconds, gradually slowing to a trickle. “Give her a breath.”

Dave squeezed the ambu bag my chest rising in response. When it did, it rose evenly. Jane let out a long breath. “That’s it Laura. Start compressions Dave.” He complied, beginning to press down on my battered chest once more. After a dozen compressions Jane clamped the chest tube to prevent it from drawing air back into my chest and began to prepare some more syringes of drugs. She scooted around Dave and pushed the drugs into my system.

Jane gently squeezed the ambu bag every few seconds, keeping one eye on my chest to make sure my lung inflated properly. Between each breath she looked at the monitor, whispering something to herself. After 2 rounds of 30 compressions she held up a hand. I leaned forward to get a look at the monitor. The previously flat trace bounced erratically, and an alarm blared in the confines of the ambulance.

“She’s back in Vfib!” She grabbed the paddles and twisted the dial to 360 as Dave replaced the second gel pad, placing it just beside the improvised chest tube. “I’m all charged, stand clear. Shocking!”

The shock hit my body, my chest convulsing. I fell still, and for a moment silence reigned. No monotone scream, no blaring alarm. Then there was a bleep. Followed by another. And another.

 “Sinus! She’s back with us!” Jane exclaimed, her aura washing through with something that must have been happiness. Or relief. Then I felt a hard tugging on my entire ethereal body. I glanced at the lifeline, broad and practically buzzing with strength. Then it tugged on me again much harder, pulling me towards the broken but alive body on the gurney. I got one last look at Jane, a tear rolling off her cheek as she whispered into my ear, before everything went black.

[trashyswitch]

Virgil's Post-Halloween Adventure With Roman

Virgil has been really down since Halloween came and went. So, Roman creates a full Halloween city so Virgil and some of the other sides can bring their Halloween fantasies to life.

This was requested by @puppysparkles03. You wanted drastic measures, so: HAVE AN ENTIRE HALLOWEEN TOWN! XD Hope you like it!

Virgil had been in a sad mood since November started. Virgil got his chance to dress up and be his scary self for halloween but...now that Halloween was over, Virgil had grown sad. He loved halloween. Why couldn’t it be Halloween for longer than an evening? The only things that have made Virgil somewhat satisfied was his Halloween candy. Virgil’s been eating tons of halloween candy as of late. From sweets to mini bags of chips, to juice boxes and candy corns, even a rice crispy square ended up in his halloween bag. That was a nostalgic moment for him. It was nice to eat a rainbow (gay) rice crispy square.

One day, Roman managed to get Virgil out of his room for a little adventure in the mind palace. Despite enjoying being out of the room, Virgil did grow annoyed by all the walking. “Can’t you conjure up a train or a car? Or, maybe even a horse and buggy?” Virgil asked.

Roman giggled. “Come on, Virgil! It’s such a pretty day for a walk. Wouldn’t you agree?” Roman asked. Virgil only let out a grunt as a reply. Roman turned to face him. “Come on, Hallo-whiner. I think you’re gonna like the special place that I conjured up, just for you:” Roman told him, grabbing his hand.

Virgil looked up at Roman with the smallest glimmer of hope in his eyes. Roman summoned some black eyeshadow, and help Virgil touch it up. “There ya go. And some blood…” Roman started drawing liquid red face paint dribbles that ran down the corners of Virgil’s mouth to the sides of his chin. “There! Maybe some red lipstick-”

“No red lipstick.” Virgil told him.

“Oooor no red lipstick.” Roman changed up his wording before putting the lid on his lipstick. “Okay! Looking all halloweeny!” Roman declared.

“I thought Halloween was over?” Virgil told him.

“Not unless you want it to be over. And something tells me you don’t want Halloween to be over just yet.” Roman admitted.

Roman picked up Virgil and walked up a hill. Soon, the luscious green grass disappeared from his vision and dark purples, oranges and blacks filled his vision. Virgil’s eyes widened when he realized what it was: It was an entire halloween city!

“What do you think?” Roman asked.

“Are you kidding?!” Virgil reacted. “I LOVE IT!” Virgil yelled, grabbing his shoulders with a big smile on his face. Roman giggled and looked over at the halloween city. “Now: I have given you the ability to snap into the halloween costume of your dreams!” Roman explained to him. “For example:” Roman snapped and watched as a bunch of material surrounded him before disappearing with his costume on himself.

“Oooooh! A roman emperor?” Virgil specified.

“Indeed! A Roman emperor who must rule with an iron fist!” Roman explained. His clothing consisted of a white robe with a brown rope tied around his middle, and a long red sash that was wrapped around his left arm and flowed down the rest of his lower body. To top it off, Roman had a golden laurel wreath on his head! He looked amazing, to be honest!

“Do you have a costume preference of your own, Virgil?” Roman asked.

Virgil nodded and snapped his fingers. A whole bunch of material surrounded Virgil, and soon flew away and disappeared to reveal Virgil’s brand new costume.

Roman gasped and dropped his jaw. “OH MY GOSH- SWEENEY TODD! YESSS!” Roman reacted, covering his mouth.

Virgil was dressed up as Johnny Depp’s version of Sweeney Todd. He had his brown hair spray dyed black and gelled back, with a white big streak in the middle left of the hairline. He had the slightly tattered vest tuxedo with a belt on a pair of striped pants, male ankle boots and a pair of fingerless gloves on his hands. In his vest pocket were some plastic traditional barber knives, and in his pants pocket was a vintage pocket watch.

“HELL YEAH! I LOVE Sweeney Todd! Classic musical!” Roman declared.

Virgil looked at his own costume and started acting a little like a fanboy. “I’ve always wanted to dress up as this character, but it’s a really hard costume to pull off.” Virgil admitted.

“Oh! You forgot something!” Roman told him. Roman summoned a long black coat and put it on Virgil’s shoulders. Virgil smiled and put it on. “It’s gonna be a little cold in there.” Roman let him know.

Virgil blushed a little. “Thank you.” Virgil replied.

“Now come, my killer barber! We shall visit Halloween City!” Roman declared, pointing to the city. Suddenly, a big horse and buggy came rolling up right beside them. Virgil and Roman hopped into the horse and buggy before the horse was signalled to start clop-clopping to the city.

The city itself was FILLED to the brim with stereotypical halloween stuff. There were stores for buying and trying on halloween costumes of large variety, big towers with witches and cauldrons so you could make your own spells, a big library filled with horror, thriller and grotesque-themed books and movies in them, a cemetery filled with floating ghosts, skeletons and zombies, and there were even caves surrounded by dead forest that housed the cats, snakes, bats and vampires. The more that Virgil saw out the sides of the horse and buggy windows, the more excited Virgil got!

“You made all this?!” Virgil reacted.

“Yes, I did!” Roman replied.

Virgil gasped and looked around more as the horse and buggy dropped them off in the middle of the city. The middle of the city has a simple, run down fountain in the middle with vines circulating the brick water pit. In the middle of the water fountain, was a few skulls lined up like a square with an infinite waterfall running through their eyes, nose holes and mouths, that fell into the water pit below. It was kinda creepy, but...strangely beautiful to look at.

Virgil almost immediately ran up to the big victorian library. “COME ON, ROMAN!” Virgil yelled to him.

“I’M COMING!” Roman yelled, quickly catching up to him.

Virgil walked up the stairs and quickly opened up the library door. The Victorian library was just as vintage-looking as it was on the outside. Only change being the place looked like a clean kind of vintage. The metal looked polished, the huge shelves looked old but not dirty or super run down, the ladder was wooden but stable and well made, and the middle aisles of shelves had movies and VHS tapes that you could borrow! This wasn’t just a victorian era library...this was a super old building that had been well kept and updated throughout the centuries!

Virgil happily looked around. “Logan would be over the moon about this.” Virgil told Roman.

“I know! He already IS!” Roman told him, before pointing to the ancient kids stories sections. There, hidden within the aisles, was Logan reading a Brothers Grimm fairytales from the 1800’s!

Logan looked up and smiled. “Hello, Virgil. I love the costume.” he greeted, giving Virgil an excited smile.

Logan was dressed up as Charlie ‘The Tramp’ Chaplin. He had the large bowl hat, the mustache, the large shoes, the suit and everything in between! He even had a bamboo cane perched up against the library shelf while he read.

“Hi Logan. Charlie Chaplin, huh?” Virgil reacted.

“Indeed. One of the most well known actors of the silent era.” Logan replied.

Virgil smiled and decided to ignore the bad things about Chaplin...for now. “Enjoying the book?” Virgil asked.

“Yes, I am! This is simply a collection of the Brothers Grimm stories compressed into one novel. It’s very interesting understanding just how much grim topics they could handle back in the day.” Logan told him.

Virgil nodded and started to look around himself. He found an aisle filled with classic novels like Little Woman, The Pride and The Prejudice, the Nancy Drew series, the Frankenstein novel and the original Dracula, an aisle filled with Shakespeare books, an aisle filled with outdated nonfiction books on multiple subjects, an entire aisle dedicated to the decades of encyclopedias, and even an entire aisle dedicated to the Marvel comic books throughout the decades! Virgil practically LOST it when he found Edgar Allen Poe novels, and quickly bought them. To make things even cooler, Roman summoned some 1800’s original bills and coins so he could pay for them! Virgil owed him a huge hug for that one.

After visiting the library, Virgil was brought to the cemetery to take a walk with Roman. “You are gonna LOVE this!” Roman told him. They only got a few minutes to walk around the cemetery before the huge clock tower struck 12.

Suddenly, a bunch of skeletons came digging out from under the graves and started dancing! The skeletons were very cartoon-like, similarly to Disney’s skeleton animation! And the best part? They were listening to ‘Spooky Scary Skeletons’ on a big radio as they danced around!

Virgil was smiling through the whole thing. “This is awesome!” Virgil reacted.

“I’ll say!” someone said, walking up to him from behind. Virgil turned around and widened his eyes. “Oh my…Are you Ed Gein?” Virgil asked.

Remus chuckled. “You bet I am!” Remus replied.

Virgil rubbed his nose, but chuckled a little. “You couldn’t go for leather face? Or Norman Bates?” Virgil asked.

“Nope! Gotta go all out!” Remus declared. “And what better than a guy who does more grave-digging than murdering?” Remus joked.

Virgil nodded, but awkwardly looked away. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Remus’s costume.

“WHY HELLO THERE!” someone yelled behind him. Virgil yelped and turned around. It was one of the dancing, singing skeletons!

“O-oh...You talk?” Virgil reacted.

“You BET I do! Call me Skelly!” the skeleton introduced, holding out their bone hand.

Virgil raised an eyebrow and chuckled at the name. “Virgil.” He replied, shaking the bone hand.

“What’s so funny? Is my name rib-ticklin’ to ya?” Skelly asked, showing off his ribcage.

Virgil stifled a laugh and pushed their shoulder. “Knock off the puns. You’re not as humerus as you think.” Virgil told him.

Skelly frowned at first, but quickly caught on. Skelly pointed to his own shoulder and smiled widely, before laughing. “Not bad, ol’ chum!” Skelly reacted. “Now tell me: Are you a skeleton too?” Skelly asked.

Virgil thought for a moment. “Well, not exactly. I do have a skeleton in me, but it’s filled and covered with flesh and organs.” Virgil explained.

“Wow! So, you have muscles?” Skelly asked. Virgil nodded. “A heart?” Skelly asked, pointing to the left side of his own chest. VIrgil giggled and nodded. “Oh! What about a skull?” Skelly asked before knocking on the top of Virgil’s head.

Virgil yipped at first and flapped his hands above his head. “Oi! My noggin’s not for knockin’!” Virgil warned.

Skelly chuckled at that. “What about ribs? Do you have a ribcage too?” Skelly asked, poking the left side of his ribcage.

Virgil jumped and stepped back, throwing his hands up in defense. “Okay buddy...No poking.” Virgil warned.

“Why not? Ticklish ribs?” Skelly asked, poking his ribcage again. Virgil wheezed somewhat and flapped his hands at him. “Dohon’t you dare…” Virgil warned.

Roman walked up to Virgil and picked the man up before throwing him at Skelly. “Have fun!” Roman told him.

Virgil squeaked and reached his arm out. “NO!” before landing into Skelly’s arms.

Skelly caught him perfectly and held him like a baby. “What a cute little fleshy skeleton I have! I could tickle you here,” Skelly started poking and prodding his ribs. “Here, here,” Skelly poked his front ribs. “Here, Aaaand HERE!” Skelly placed its claw tips onto Virgil’s belly and started skittering his fingers on his belly.

“What thehehehe- HAHAhahahaha! Whyhyhyhy thihihihis?!” Virgil asked, falling into a fit of giggles.

“Oh! It’s quite simple, really. I remember hearing from a certain someone, that your black makeup turns a dark purple when you’re all flustered! Isn’t that right, Emperor Romulus?” Skelly explained.

Roman giggled and shook his head. “It’s Roman, Skelly.” Roman corrected.

“Oh yeah…” Skelly muttered as he moved his fingers to Virgil’s sides.

“WAIT! NAHAhahahat myhyhyhy sihihihides! Lahahay ohohoff, mahahahan!” Virgil ordered.

“Lay? Okay.” Skelly laid Virgil down onto the dirt ground and resumed squeezing his sides.

“ThAHAHAt’s nahahahat whahat Ihihi meheheant, ya doohohohofus!” Virgil reacted.

“Really? When you said ‘lay off’, you didn’t mean ‘put me onto the ground and continue tickling me’? I could’ve sworn that was what you meant.” Skelly teased.

“Thahahat’s NAHAHAT whahahat I meheheant, ahahand YOHOHOHOU knohohow ihihihihit!” Virgil shot back.

“I don’t understand why you’re being so harsh on me. Looking at my point of view, you’d be confused too.” Skelly lightly argued.

Then, Skelly decided to pull a move that would drive anyone mad: Skelly started quickly spidering his fingers up and down Virgil’s ribs and sides. “NOOO! NO, NONONO- SKEHEHELLYHYHYHY! STAHAHAHAHAP!” Virgil laughed. Virgil’s eyeshadow color started to change the longer that he was tickled. And the higher up that Skelly’s fingers went, the more hysterical that Virgil’s laughter became. “WAHAHAITWAIT! DON’TGOAHAHANY- AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! CUHUHUHUT IHIHIHIT OHOHOUHUHUT!” Virgil pleaded through his laughter.

“But why? You seem to be having so much fun! I can see it in your eyes!” Skelly proclaimed. “Well...below them, anyway.” Skelly followed up. Virgil’s eyeshadow had turned a pretty hue of purple rather quickly. Roman’s mouth widened excitedly as he gazed upon Virgil’s flustered face. “Roman was right! His eyeshadow CAN turn purple when flustered and happy!” Skelly reacted.

Roman smiled. “So Virgil Sanders enjoys being tickled?” He asked.

“IHIHIHI DOHOHOHO NOHOHOHOT!” Virgil tried to protest.

Roman just giggled at this. “Your eyes and eyeshadow marks give you away. Not only are you flustered by tickling, you seem to love the affection!” Roman explained out loud.

“Well! Rattle my bones and call me Skelly!” Skelly declared in surprise. “This Sweeney Todd is kinda cute!” Skelly declared.

“AHAHAHAM NOHOHOHOHOT!” Virgil protested.

“You really are, Virgil.” Roman replied. “Right, Skelly?” Roman asked.

“You are indeed, right!” Skelly replied.

As much as Skelly wanted to keep tickling him, Roman soon gave him the signal to stop. Skelly followed what he said and retreated his bony fingers. Stepping aside, Skelly let Roman walk up to him and help Virgil up.

“You okay?” Roman asked. Virgil nodded and took Roman’s hand, allowing him to help him up. Virgil’s eyeshadow was still quite purpley after all that. Roman giggled at this and rubbed his cheek. “Still flustery purple.” Roman told him happily.

Virgil giggled and shook his head as he pushed Roman’s hands away. “Stahap that.” Virgil told him, still quite flustered. Roman, Remus and Skelly all laughed at this.

Soon enough, Virgil and Roman moved on, to explore the rest of the city. As they left, Virgil and Roman gave Skelly a goodbye wave. “Bye Skelly! Have fun singing!” Roman yelled to him.

“Will do!” Skelly replied.

“Thank you for the fun time, Skelly!” Virgil said to him.

“Not a problem at all!” Skelly yelled back.

Virgil, Roman and Remus went to a special costume shop next, where he happily got himself a pair of bat wings and a vampire cloak!

By the time the clan got back, Virgil and the sides were feeling as happy as could be. They quickly started showing off their stuff to each other.

Remus got a fake skeleton from the prop shop, a witch potion bottle filled with thick blood, and a big black victorian portrait from the vintage market! He was non stop talking about having his room all halloween-y, till Remembrance day comes around.

Logan got himself a dozen books, a vintage writing book, a fountain pen and multiple ink reloading viles! He was all set for some journaling.

Roman got himself a classic king crown, an empty treasure chest to fill with items, and some vintage, expensive-looking jewellery for himself! He looked super excited to look like he was covered in riches.

Besides the bat wings and the cloak, Virgil also got himself some ruby red lipstick, a pretty black vampire choker, and a pair of black formal shoes.

With how the day went, Roman could proudly proclaim that Halloween City was a big success! Roman placed the entire imagined place into a pretty notebook and carved the words ‘Halloween City’ and ‘open on November 1, 2021’ into the front before placing it onto his book shelf...

[kk095]

The VIP

*I'm sorry I haven't posted in awhile. This story may have some typos, but I hope everyone enjoys!*

Tara Thompson was a pop/country singer who recently achieved stardom. Her debut album sold millions of copies, had ample amounts of radio/streaming airplay, and even won her a Grammy award. She recently purchased a beautiful and expensive house in Los Angeles, and was getting acclimated to the celebrity lifestyle. Tara seemed to have it all: talent, money, newfound fame, and of course, looks.

She was a 27 year old blonde, standing at 5'5 with beautiful blue eyes, a nice California tan, and a toned but petite body. She carried herself confidently (some would say borderline cocky) and had a good sense of humor, which made her a favorite amongst talk show hosts and fans alike.

Yesterday, fate had other plans for Tara. She was a trauma patient at our emergency department after being involved in a high speed MVC. At first, we didn’t realize it was her. When the call from dispatch came in, all we heard was “27 year old female, high speed MVC. Blunt chest trauma from steering wheel injury, tachy and hypotensive, ETA 6 minutes.”

I ordered the nurses to prep trauma room 1. “Let’s make sure we have the room set up. Get an intubation tray, a chest tube tray, and a thoracotomy tray just in case. Let’s make sure we have some meds around, go to the blood bank and 4 units o-neg, 2 of platelets, and 2 of FFP. Page cardio and trauma surgery, and let’s keep radiology on standby in case she’s stable enough for a scan.” I tell my subordinates as I pop on a yellow trauma gown and a fresh pair of gloves.

Before we knew it, the ambulance's sirens could be heard as it arrived at our emergency department. Moments later, the medics wheeled the patient into our trauma room. “oh my… that’s Tara Thompson…” I realized immediately. She didn’t look like her typical self. She was on a backboard and c-collar, stripped down to just her black bra and matching underwear. She had cuts, bruises, and abrasions scattered across her body, and she was in and out of consciousness.

The medics told us that the set up 2 large bore IVs and started her on ringer’s lactate for fluid resuscitation, and pushed a round of codeine for pain management.

Upon arrival at our emergency department, Tara’s vital signs were: BP 79/42, pulse 129bpm, and her oxygen saturation was down to 94%. We immediately started her on blood transfusions and drew trauma labs (CBC, BMP, toxicology screen). Since a chest injury was suspected, I ordered a chest x ray. The chest x-ray showed a sternal fracture with 2 broken ribs on the left side, a left sided hemothorax, and herniation of the heart into the right chest. I decided to follow that up with a FAST scan, which is just an ultrasound of the chest, belly, and pelvis. The chest portion of this test further confirmed the herniation of her heart, but to my surprise, there was no evidence of pericardial effusion or tamponade. The abdominal portion of the test showed some minor bleeding in the ULQ, which is typically indicative of a spleen injury. Since the bleeding didn’t appear to be major, that injury was to be monitored conservatively. Finally, the pelvic portion of the exam came back clean.

With all that information in mind, it appeared Tara had a chest injury that was explaining her hemodynamic instability. Even though she didn’t have tamponade, cardiac herniations are associated with great vessel injuries, particularly the pulmonary arteries or veins (the princess Diana case is a prime example of this injury process).

Since she had a hemothorax on the left side, we decided to place a chest tube. Tara’s left ribcage was sterilized and I made a 1 inch incision in between her ribs. Tara moaned loudly, feeling the scalpel’s every move since she wasn’t stable enough for me to anesthetize. She yelped loudly with tears running down her face while the tube was placed into her pleural space. Blood shot from the tube and onto my yellow trauma gown.

Outside of the trauma room, you could hear media personnel and paparazzi start to swarm the hospital’s entrance, waiting room, and ER nurses station. “How’s Tara?!” “Any updates?!” “can we get a word with Tara?!” were some of the things being asked. Hospital security was completely overwhelmed by the sudden mob of people, but were able to move everyone out to the hospital’s main entrance. “you can’t just stand around in the waiting room, that’s for patients only.” One of the security guards told the nosey crowd. Hospital administration decided to make a statement to the media and paparazzi to at least appease them for a little while. “Tara Thompson was brought to our emergency department after being involved in a high speed motor vehicle accident. Her exact condition is unknown to hospital administration, but our emergency department and other coordinating departments are working diligently to stabilize her injuries. We will present another update when more information is available, thank you.” Was the statement given to news media outlets.

Back in the trauma room, Tara’s condition began to decline. Her blood pressure was plummeting and she was groaning while drifting in and out of consciousness. With her deteriorating condition in mind, we decided to intubate her. “Push succs and etomidate and get me a 7.0 ET.” I called out as I placed the laryngoscope into Tara’s open mouth. “meds in" a nurse said as another nurse handed me the ET tube. I then began the intubation process. I navigated the tube through the right side of the mouth so my view wouldn’t be obstructed. I identified the epiglottis and then placed the tube into the upper portion of the trachea. I continued lowering the tube until it was about 2cm past the vocal cords. While I held the tube in place at that level, 1 nurse removed the stylet and the other inflated the cuff with an empty syringe. While still holding the tube in place, a nurse began to place a blue tube holder. After that, we confirmed tube placement and attached an ambu bag.

After intubation, we decided that Tara needed to be taken up to the OR for emergency surgery to treat her herniated heart and associated vessel injuries. We covered up her torso with a blanket and wheeled her out of the trauma room. We headed down the hall towards the elevator which led directly to the OR floor. “BP's still dropping, doctor" a nurse called out. “let’s push vasopressors and hang another unit of blood products from the rapid infuser. Let’s try to buy her a few minutes.” I replied.

During the elevator ride up, Tara became pulseless. “no pulse, but we have activity on the monitor.” A nurse called out, shaking her head. “she’s in PEA. Someone start compressions!” I replied urgently. A nurse pulled down the blanket and began deep, harsh chest compressions on the young celebrity. There was a popping sound during CPR from the sternum and rub fractures. “let’s get epi and atropine in. I wanna do a pulse check in 1 minute.” I barked to the trauma team.

Once the meds were in, resuscitation efforts went on. Tara’s chest caved in, causing her perky B cup breasts to jiggle in sync with the chest compressions. Her belly bounced outwards and her head bobbed from the residual force of the life saving efforts. When the 1 minute mark of the code was reached, we did a pulse check in the elevator. “still no pulse. PEA still on the monitors.” A nurse said anxiously. “resume CPR. Push meds at 4 minute mark.” I replied.

We reached the surgical floor a second or two after we resumed CPR. The elevator doors opened up and we were greeted by a few surgical nurses and a surgical resident. “she coded on the way up here. Down for a little over a minute. Pushed 1 of epi and atropine, no shocks. Still in PEA.” I told the surgical resident. “ok doc. Follow us, OR 3 is prepped and ready for her.” The resident replied to me. Deep, harsh chest compressions continued on the singer while she was wheeled through the corridors of the OR floor. “wait a minute. Is that…?” The resident asked before I cut her off. “yep, it’s our VIP patient.”

Tara’s complexion was fading just as fast as she was. Her fresh, tan complexion was now a ghastly, pale that had a grayish tinge. Her lips could be seen through the blue tube holder, and they were now a reddish purple color. Her eyes were half open, staring blankly off into space, devoid of any life or emotion.

Just a minute or so later, we were in OR 3. We were greeted by the surgical attending and the OR staff who were waiting by the OR table. “oh boy, what happened to her?” the surgical attending asked me, surprised to see is bring in an active code. “she coded on the way up. Pushed 1 of epi and atropine, 0 shocks, down for 1:45 and counting. PEA present on last pulse check.” I replied to the surgical attending. The surgeon continued “ok. Let’s get her on the table on my count. One… two… THREE!”

The monitors chirped loudly during the transfer. Tara’s body moved limply while she was moved over to the OR table, still showing no signs of life. “resume compressions! Let’s get a repeat echo and an abdominal ultrasound.” With CPR ongoing, the nurses and surgical techs got the ultrasound machine set up and squirted the cold, gooey gel onto her chest and belly. The surgeon took the wand and moved it onto the gel spot on the belly. “splenic lac, but I don’t think it explains this.” The attending thought out loud, referencing the code blue. They then did a repeat echo: “ok, here’s our problem.” The surgeon said within milliseconds of the ultrasound being done. “cardiac herniation. No tamponade, but she’s bleeding into her chest. I think it might be the pulmonary veins. If it were the pulmonary artery, she would’ve died at the scene.” The surgeon continued.

We did a pulse check at the 4 minute mark, and she was still in PEA. The surgical team pushed the next round of epi and atropine, and they started the first dose of bicarb. Since Tara was in rough shape, the surgeon decided the next course of action is to open her chest via a clamshell thoracotomy in order to make structures in both halves of the thorax visible, especially because of the cardiac herniation into the right chest.

Betadine was splashed across the singer’s bare chest. The surgeon made an incision in the 5th intercostal space, which extended across the entire anterior chest. With the first cut out of the way, a 2nd cut had to be made to incise the subcutaneous tissue in order to expose the sternum, intercostal muscles, and costal cartilage. Now that the intercostal muscles were exposed, heavy scissors were used to snip through the muscle on both sides of the chest in order to create space for the rib spreader, which goes in a few steps later. The next aspect of the clamshell thoracotomy is to divide the sternum in half horizontally. This is somewhat of a challenge since it’s the 2nd hardest bone in the body (the orbital bones, a.k.a. eye sockets are #1), and because Tara sustained a sternal fracture. The sternal fracture was stable and a little above the halfway mark of the sternum, so the usual spot could be cut through. An electric sternal saw was then passed over to the surgeon so the sternum could be divided. The saw made a high pitched grinding sound as the drill cut through the dense bone effortlessly. There was some blood leakage after the drilling was done. The cause of the blood was from the inferior mammary artery being cut from the drill. This is a common complication during clamshell thoracotomies, but it’s easily treatable and isn’t an immediate concern since her heart isn’t pumping blood effectively. The next step was to place the rib spreader, which was put in the center of the chest over where the divided sternum is. With external CPR halted, the knobs on the rib spreader were turned so the chest could be opened up. The OR became filled with a popping and cracking sound from Tara’s ribs breaking.

There was an immediate rush of blood upon entry to the chest. Suction was applied to the area and clamps were placed on the inferior mammary artery since it was injured, and the descending aorta down by the diaphragm. With additional blood accumulation in the chest cavity, the OR team decided to place a 2nd chest tube, which would go on the right side. While the 2nd chest tune was being placed, the pericardium was cut and the heart was delivered so effective internal resus could take place. The 2nd chest tube drained a decent amount of blood, which pooled on the OR floor. Once proper chest tube placement was confirmed, internal massage started.

The surgeon wrapped her hands around Tara’s weakly moving heart and placed her thumbs on the left ventricle. She pushed in a hard, upwards motion on the left ventricle to pump blood outwards. The surgeon’s internal compressions made a wet, rhythmic squishing sound while she tried to force Tara’s heart to do its job. After a cycle or two of internal massage, the surgical resident took over internal resus while the surgical attending dug around in the celebrity’s chest cavity trying to control the hemorrhaging.

While the surgeon was probing around in the woman’s chest, her ET tube became clogged up with blood. In order to keep her airway intact, the ambu bag had to be disconnected and the tube had to be suctioned out. The suction made a wet, soggy slurping sound during this quick process. With the airway restored, the ambu bag was attached and oxygenation was able to continue.

Tara reached the 7 minute mark of the code with no improvement. Another bag of blood products were hung, making this her 8th transfusion (her entire blood volume), and the next doses of epinephrine, atropine, and sodium bicarbonate were injected intravenously. One of the pulmonary veins were stretched out while the other was absolutely shredded. The surgeon was having a difficult time with the shredded vessel. They clamped off the severed end and tried to staple it to the left atrium after the heart was repositioned. However, the staples didn’t hold so the vessel and left atrium continued to leak blood into the chest cavity.

The surgeon restarted their efforts to control the hemorrhage, but the medications were able to convert Tara to a shockable rhythm. The attending surgeon then ordered the team to charge the internal paddles to 20 joules. An electrical whirring was heard during the charging process before the large, spoon shaped paddles were handed off to the doctor. The paddles were lowered into the chest and placed around each side of Tara’s fidgeting heart. Once everyone backed away, shock #1 was delivered. A dull thump was heard, and Tara’s torso flopped slightly in response to the quick jolt of electricity. “still in v-fib.” A nurse called out, shaking her head. The surgical resident resumed internal massage for a moment while the paddles were recharged to a slightly stronger setting of 30 joules.

When the paddles were recharged, they were lowered back into Tara’s chest and the next shock was delivered. The singer’s torso jerked again and her toes curled, showing off a few sharp wrinkles in her soft, size 7 soles. Shock #2 failed to ameliorate the situation since v-fib was still present on the monitors. A cycle of internal massage was performed while the internal paddles were readied for the next shock. Her ET tube became clogged with blood once again, so suction was required to restore her airway. Once her airway was cleared, the next shock was delivered. A dull, wet thump was heard in the OR, and Tara’s upper body flopped limply on the OR table. This shock sent her back into PEA, so internal massage had to be restarted.

Tara’s skin was freezing cold and had a pale, grayish tinge that was becoming more and more noticeable by the second. Her heart felt warm and firm, twitching weakly but frantically. Multiple cycles of internal massage failed to convert her or achieve ROSC, so another dose of cardiac stimulating drugs were pushed at the 11 minute mark of the code. At that point, things started to become repetitive in the code. Cycle after cycle of internal massage failed to produce any change, and the room grew increasingly quiet.

Medications were pushed at the 14 and 17 minute mark of the code, respectively, and the 10th round of blood products were hung from the infuser. These 2 doses of meds failed to produce a shockable rhythm. Tara spiraled further downhill, with an agonal rhythm displaying on the heart monitors. Tara was also maxed out on meds at 17 minutes, so if she were to come back, it would either be now or never.

The surgical team performed internal massage for another 3 and a half minutes, but Tara was asystolic, had no respirations, and her pupils were fixed and dilated. Despite everyone’s best efforts, Tara Thompson was pronounced dead at 10:26am.

The flatlined monitors were switched off and the ambu bag was detached from the ET tube. A nurse began pulling off the EKG electrodes from Tara’s lifeless body while another nurse removed the IVs. The chest tubes, clamps, and rib spreaders were all removed. Tara’s eyes remained half open, almost appearing as if she was watching the nurses perform postmortem care. The nurses then shut her eyes and covered up the young woman’s battered body. Lastly, a toe tag was placed on the big toe of her left foot. The tag dangled in front of Tara’s cute, wrinkly soles as she was wheeled off to the hospital morgue.

Now that Tara was dead, the doctors and hospital administration met in order to figure out how to address the media since this was a high profile case, and her death at their facility may be bad for the hospital’s public image.

At 11am, the hospital administrator and board of directors decided to meet with the press and paparazzi, sparing the doctors of the media circus. The statement was the following:

“We thank you all for your patience this morning. As many of you know, singer-songwriter Tara Thompson was brought to our emergency department after being involved in a high speed motor vehicle accident. She arrived in unstable condition and our emergency department and required emergency surgery. During this surgery, her condition deteriorated further. Despite our staff’s best efforts, Ms Thompson passed away at 10:26am. We’re all very saddened by her untimely passing, and we request that you give her family, friends, and our staff time and space to grieve this loss properly. Thank you.”

[pandoraimperatrix]

randumbteahouse replied to your post “I’m in a bad mood and I want to write fluff people Please send me...”

BatCat babysitting little Mar'i and/or Jake Grayson?

 BatCat | DickKory | Plotless unashamed fluff | 1,8k | Read on AO3

“Hi, B!” Greeted Dick opening the door of his condo.

Bruce gave him his small barely there smile in answer to Dick’s huge all white teeth one.

“Hello, chum.”

Dick then turned to Bruce’s companion.

“And how are you, beautiful?”

Selina raised her gloved hands to Dick’s face, pulling him for a loud kiss full on the lips, to which he made crunched his entire face blushing horrendously to her delight.

“I’m wonderful, darling. So glad to see you. He’s so handsome, Bruce, look at him.”

“I’m looking.” Agreed Bruce with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Where’s the little kitten? And that gorgeous wife of yours?”

“They are in the nursery” Selina took her woollen coat off and handed wordlessly to Bruce, walking across Dick following his instruction, Bruce moved inside too, starting to undress from his heavy overcoat as well, but was interrupted, buy Dick’s arms hugging from the middle, he patted the younger man awkwardly on the head. “Thank you for coming.”

Bruce just grunted. Dick, freed his emotionally stunted dad and closed the door.

“Where…?” Asked Bruce holding the clothing.

“Oh, the coat hanger fell under the weight of Kory’s collection of handbags and I haven’t put the new on the wall, just throw your coats… Anywhere.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow to that noticing the apartment around him. Dick had never been an organized child, he had impeccable work ethics but his living grounds had always being a reason for arguments when he was growing up, and adding a baby in it… Well, he knew now why Dick invite Alfred to babysit yet. It was not a complete chaos, but it was far from acceptable by the butler’s standards.

“Come! We wanted you guys to see her while she was awake, but she woke up this morning super early for no reason, she was so full of energy, flying everywhere I think she crashed now.” He laughed.

“Flying?”

“Oh! I didn’t tell you?”

But they had reached the nursery door.

Kory was sitting on a very comfortable velvet chair, Alfred’s present. The baby on her arms had a darker shade of golden skin than her mother’s, and her long black eyelashes making shadows under her closed eyes and she suckled on her mother’s breast. Her little plump hand was holding firmly to Selina’s finger.

“Bruce, look how big she is…” Said Selina whispering.

“Greetings.” Koriand’r smiled to Bruce.

He nodded his head to her, approaching the women.

Bruce leaned in and with the back of two fingers, brushed softly the dark locks of the baby’s hair.

Selina turned her gaze from the baby to her husband, to others maybe he looked stoic as always, but by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed she could see the huge emotional response. She rubbed his bicep with her free hand.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Bruce cleaned his throat.

“Yes.” He answered, his voice croaky and deeper than the usual.

Selina and Kory exchanged an amused look.

“Do you want to hold her?” Asked Kory.

“Aren’t you feeding her now?”

“Oh no, she is done.” Smiled Kory. “She is already asleep.”

“I don’t want to disturb her.”

“She sleeps heavily. No need to worry.” Kory pulled her nipple from the baby’s mouth and covered herself, floated so she was in level with Bruce, and gently put the baby in his arms. Her daughter looking so little next to her massive grandfather.

Mar’i cooed softly getting comfortable but did not wake.

Dick sniffled loudly and the eyes turned to him.

“I’m sorry guys, I just-” he choked; Kory and Selina hugged him by each of his sides. Kory giggled. “Don’t laugh at my expense, Kory, not cool.” She kept giggling but tried to muffle it by kissing his hair. “I still can hear it!”

“I’m going to get ready.” Announced Kory untangling herself from the double hug and turning to her parents-in-law. “Please let yourselves feel at home, and thank you so much for doing this for us.”

“You’re welcome darling.” Said Selina as they watched Kory float out of the room.

“She’s still flying.” Noticed Bruce. When Kory hit the fourth trimester – turns out half-tamaranean pregnancies were a lot longer than human ones – her feet were so swollen that she just flied everywhere. After Dick commented on that Bruce started sending soft tall pillows so, she could put her feet up, compression stockings which somehow were the exactly shade of Kory’s alien skin, and one time Dick arrived home to find a whole spa and masseuse staff that he had not booked.

“Oh, she’s not in pain anymore… She’s just happy. Can’t keep her feet on the ground. My neck is cramping from looking up so much.” But by his thrilled tone he didn’t seen annoyed by his balloon wife at all.

“Where are you taking her, honey?” Asked Selina still hugging Dick and making little circles in his back.

“Nothing very fancy. We mostly just want to have an uninterrupted meal, then walk by Byke Beach a little before coming home to save you guys. And as Kory said, thank you so much, Mar’i a sweet baby and she was all we had to worry about it would be easy peasy, but things pile up and we could use a breather.”

“It’s our pleasure, darling. Bruce and I needed a break too, and you father have missed you so much, you should see him showing the pictures you sent us to everyone, he is so proud.”

“Is that true, B?” Asked Dick beaming.

Bruce cleaned his throat loudly and then looked down to the baby terrified he had disturbed her, but she didn’t even fuss. When he looked up again Selina and Dick were looking at him with glazed eyes.

He cleaned his throat again, this time in a softer tone.

 “I can’t stop looking at her, Bruce, she’s so cute.” Said Selina perched on Mar’i crib. Dick and Kory were gone, and with the baby sleeping, Selina found out that there wasn’t actually a lot to do.

“Let the baby sleep, Selina.” Mumbled Bruce typing something on his phone, he had extracted Selina five times from the nursery in the forty minutes Dick and Kory were gone.

“What are you doing?”

Selina clenched her eyes, Bruce looked away, guilty as hell and pocketed the phone.

“You were working on your phone wasn’t you?”

“No.”

“Oh my god, Bruce!”

“I wasn’t. Look.” He showed her his phone. “Tim sent me a photo of a frog in a skateboard.”

Selina’s face was completely voided of emotion for a fraction of a second before she let out a loud laugh… That was followed by baby cries.

“Shit.”

 The baby was not stopping crying. Bruce thought that she would recognise them from all the facetime calls, he was wrong. Mar’i knew that he and Selina were not her parents, and she was not happy about it.

“Is she is pain? Do you think she is in pain?”

“I don’t think so. Dick said she was in perfect health, but it’s hard to know without proper medical equipment.”

“Try feeding her again.”

Bruce took the warmed milk bottle – noticing the colour was darker than regular human milk supposed to be, it looked like light caramel. He made a mental note to take a sample to look to it in his lad later – and offered to the baby girl, but she slapped the bottle away with a strength no human six months old would have. No adult either. The bottle flew across the room and broke into the drywall.

“I’ll pay for that.”

“How don’t you know how to make a baby stop crying? You are a huge nerd, you know everything! Didn’t you raise like fifty-two kids or something?”

“They were never that young.” And to be fair, when they cried, he mostly handed them to Alfred and later Dick.

“We should call Dick.”

“No.”

“What?”

“We are solving this, Selina.”

“How?!”

Bruce took a deep breath and tried to remember everything he knew about pre-language children. He read some articles to try to communicate with Cassandra years ago, mostly applied to babies and was not useful to him at the time, but maybe it would be useful now. He recalled something about tonic dialogue, that meant the first form of communication was from touch. Basically, holding a baby while having a tense body was not good, because the baby could feel the discomfort and respond to this with distress. So, he tried to relax. Lower his heartrate. Mar’i didn’t stop crying, but her loud screaming and the fussing were gone.

“Good! Good! I don’t know what you did but it’s working.”

“Try to distract her.”

“By doing what?”

“I don’t know Selina, why do I have to know everything?”

“You are the Batman!”

“Not now, I’m not.”

“Ba mum” mumbled Mar’i between cried.

Bruce and Selina exchanged a shocked look.

“Yes, kitten. Granddaddy is Batman.”

“Ba mum!” The baby said angrily, her bluish green eyes flooded with tears.

Selina sent Bruce a terrified look. He just shook his head, also having no idea. Mar’i’s lip trembled and the crying returned with revenge.

“Hold her a little.”

“Me?!”

But before she could protest further, the baby was already in her arms, bright orange, sobbing against her shirt spreading snot and tears everywhere.

Bruce was calling someone.

“But you said you were not calling her parents!”

“I’m not. Alfred, finally, I have a predicament.”

He was silent for a while, his face rumpled in concentration, then he turned off with a “thank you”.

“What did he say?”

“Mar’i has a favourite toy. It’s a handmade Batman doll made by Damian. That’s what she mean by ‘Ba mum’.”

“I want to gush about how cute this whose sentence was but she is pulling my hair pretty hard, and I’m grieving my shirt, this was Prada’s limited edition. Let’s find that doll.”

 Half an hour later and no sign of the doll, Bruce was going mad, Selina’s head was aching, and Mar’i proved that her human-tamaranean hybrid lungs were very efficient. They fell heavily on the living room’s sofa.

“Bruce… What do we do?”

He just gave her a defeated look.

“Ba mum! Ba mum! BA MUM!”

“Oh kitten, I don’t know where your ‘Ba mum’ went.” Said Selina drying the baby’s tears then her head shot up. “I have an idea.”

“I’m willing to try anything.”

“You brought a suit, didn’t you?”

Bruce pretended not to know what she was talking about.

“I’ve brought changes of clothing, yes.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Selina…”

“So what we can’t find her doll? You are the real deal!” She said exasperated.

“That’s not what my suit if for, Selina.”

“I couldn’t care less what your suit is for” she covered the baby’s ears “we had sex plenty of times while you were in that suit don’t pretend you never abused its function before.”

He sighed.

 Two hours after Kory and Dick returned home to find Selina sleeping sitting on the sofa, Bruce in his full Batman gear also sleeping, but lying on his back and using Selina’s lap as a pillow, and Mar’i belly down on her grandfather’s chest, drool all over the bat insignia.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tonic dialogue is a real thing I learnt on uni. I have no idea what the frog in a skateboard was about, I just like the idea of Bruce’s kids sending him random memes and funny pictures.

[ohprettyweeper-moved]

Caught on Fire

Part 7

Summary: You run into Chad for the first time since his return, and the night is kind of downhill from there.   Pairing: Josh Dun x Reader Word Count: 1420 Warnings: Trauma & Drama. Patient death. Sadness. A/N: Sorry if you caught the first part of this that wasn’t entirely ready to post. That’s what I get for being distracted when I set up a post! 

Series Masterlist

“Now there’s a face I’ve been waiting to see.”

You cringed before looking up from the charting you had been working on. “Chad. Hi. Heard you were back.”

He nodded. “I’ve missed you, Y/N.”

You locked out the computer and snorted, pushing out of the chair. “Yeah, I’m sure you have — but did you miss me as much as you missed the other girls you were screwing while we were together?”

You stopped at the IV box on the counter in front of you to pick up a few supplies before heading toward a patient’s room to start an IV for pain meds. Chad followed you; hearing his heavy boots against the linoleum floor, you turned on your heel to face him again. You had turned so abruptly, he nearly knocked you over before he stopped walking.

“What are you even doing here? Why are you following me?”

Chad crossed his arms over his broad chest. “We brought in a chest pain. Saw you were working, thought we could catch up for a minute. I really did miss you.”

“Funny how you didn’t even deny or address what I said about you cheating,” you scoffed, “but you know what? It doesn’t matter. You and I are over, and it’s for the best. I have someone new, and he is amazing. Amazing. Whatever it is that brought you back here, Chad, just know that I don’t care. Because I’m happy now. So … yeah. Bye.”

You gave him a sarcastic pat on the shoulder before heading towards you patient’s room again, leaving Chad in the wake of your happy life.

“Wait — do I know this guy?”

Smiling to yourself, you turned back to him before pulling the curtain back to the room. “Yeah, Chad. You do.”

You disappeared behind the curtain then, leaving Chad to sit and wonder, feeling a little better about the fact that you would potentially be seeing him regularly.

By the time your lunch break came around, you were certainly ready for that thirty minutes of freedom. After Chad had come and gone, the ER had filled up quickly, and trauma was not far behind. You had been going non-stop for the last few hours, and all you wanted was a turkey sub and a side of the homestyle potato chips the cafeteria made fresh every morning. A fresh bottle of water wouldn’t hurt, either.

“Can I buy you lunch?”

This time you turned toward the voice that snuck up on you with a smile. “Well, hello. You don’t have to buy me lunch, but you can sit with me, if you have time.”

“I have a few minutes,” Josh smiled, leaning in to kiss you. “Hi.”

“Hey there,” you smiled. “Bring a patient in?”

Josh nodded. “Non-trauma fall.”

You sighed. “Well, at least there’s that. We’ve been swamped. And, actually, you’re the second firefighter to sneak up on me tonight.”

Josh frowned. “I am?”

You handed your debit card over to the cafeteria cashier and rolled your eyes. “Chad brought in a chest pain and saw me. He was a little shocked when I told him I was dating someone new. Didn’t tell him who, though.”

“Sneaky girl,” Josh teased. “So if you didn’t mention my name, you’re not upset I haven’t told him about us yet?”

“Not at all. It’s none of his business. I mentioned the cheating, and he had nothing to say about it, just kept saying that he had missed me. My point is — there’s nothing left for me with Chad, except for drama. And I don’t want that.”

Josh smiled, but before he could say anything, his radio went off with report of an intense house fire. He sighed and kissed you quickly.

“We’ll pick this up later,” he promised.

You nodded, grabbed your food and your water and headed back for the trauma bay; no doubt your services would be needed sooner, rather than later.

Daddy! Daddy!

A child’s screams pulled you from your reverie as you waited for the trauma call to arrive. You knew that Josh’s unit was bringing the patient in, and somehow, you felt a little more stable for it.

Tyler was carrying a little boy, not more than six years old, into a room in the ER when you slid the trauma bay door open. The child was screaming and fighting against Tyler’s hold, reaching out for his father who was being wheeled in on a gurney. The auto pulse was working to circulate blood and awaken the heart of the badly burned man.

“Thirty-three year old male with what appears to be partial-thickness burn injuries to approximately thirty-six percent of his body. Patient went into v-fib en route, we shocked twice, but he isn’t maintaining a stable rhythm,” Josh reported while you worked with the rest of the crew to move the man from the ambulance gurney to the hospital bed. A flurry of action was taking place as the on-call trauma doctor arrived, another nurse helped you hook up monitors, and you tried to find a place for a decent IV.

“I want two IV’s,” the doctor requested, “what kind of injuries are we looking at besides the burns?”

Josh cleared his throat. “Patient went back in for his son, the floor collapsed under them. The boy was saved most major injuries as his father broke his fall, but he wasn’t so lucky.”

“All right, ultrasound, you’re up,” the doctor ordered.

The paramedics and a couple of firefighters stepped in to remove the auto pulse machine, and you were on standby to continue manual compressions while the radiology team set up. They would only have ten seconds before you needed to start compressions again; in the meantime, the respiratory team kept him bagged to at least get oxygen into his body.

The trauma doctor surveyed the image on the screen carefully. He shook his head. “There. The fall must have caused the tear in his aorta — it’s just shredded. A vessel like that — there should be far more blood flow. There’s nothing we can do here.” He checked the clock on the wall. “Time of death, two-twenty-seven.”

You stopped your compressions, stepped back off the footstool you used to give effective compressions, and snapped your gloves into the trash can. Your gown and mask were the next to go.

Maybe because you had seen the little boy before you had seen his father. Maybe because you knew what this man had done to save his son. Maybe he was just one of those patients that would stick with you for a while — forever.

Whatever the reason, you fought tears while you cleaned up the trauma bay. Two techs came to wheel the man to a private room where he could be cleaned up a little and the family could see him before he was taken down to the morgue. You bit your lip, took in a deep breath, and knew that the tears could come later.

Josh must have somehow known how hard of a hit you took; not speaking to him before his unit left had probably tipped him off. When you pulled into your driveway, Josh was waiting outside the locked door.

“What are you doing here?” you asked quietly.

Josh drew in a shaky breath. “It’s just … I watched that guy fall through the floor, you know? I was trying to get to him to get his son and get him, and get them out safely. It was almost like Zack all over again, but worse. I do this for the rush, yeah, but I do it to help people, too. To save people who should still have years ahead of them. But now, that little boy is without a dad, and the boy’s mom doesn’t have her husband. They’re on their own. And I know it isn’t my fault. I know that. But it still feels like my fault.”

Though your mouth opened a few times to say something comforting, you just couldn’t force out the words. You decided that silence was best, and threw your arms around Josh’s neck. His arms circled your waist, and the two of you stood there for some time, holding each other right there on the front porch. You waited for Josh to pull away, then asked if he wanted to come in with you.

“We can eat something, then get some rest. Together.”

“Yeah,” Josh nodded, “that sounds good. Together would be good.”

Tags: @takenvysleep​ @faceofcontvsions​ @svintsandghosts​ @adversaryproject​

[jenguerrero]

Shin splints! I was running 9 1/2 miles a day and loving it! Then shin splints. Shin splints are the worst. I needed to deal with them so they didn’t become a stress reaction or stress fracture. I’m on a lady fitness site, and asked what people did to heal them. Foam rolling, deep squats to deal with a muscle imbalance, stretching, and compression socks. To my surprise, icing was really controversial and people felt passionate about their positions.

Okay, I ordered compression socks, foam rollers, and started going after deep squats and stretches like nobody’s business. I’d worked for a few years on that running endurance, and didn’t want to give that up. I decided to give CrossFit a try. Holy workout, Batman! You’re a sweaty mess and done in less than an hour. It’s totally scalable to every fitness level, so it’s custom order-type challenging, and a novice and a gymrat can work out side-by-side. Perfect. To my shock, my husband quit with his nautilus-type gym and started joining me. And then the kids showed up. Too neat.

And it works! The scale hasn’t moved. Probably because it weighs muscle, fat, bones, water, and all. But I bought these jeans last Thanksgiving and they fit. I think I might need new jeans. Working on my 6-pack! I think I’m going to toss my 6-pack on my scale in case I feel compelled to step on that thing again.

We put together a CrossFit gym in the garage. People have been asking about it, so I thought I’d post it all in one spot.

I’m an Amazon Affiliate. Any time you use one of my links to get to Amazon and make a purchase, Amazon gives me a tiny percentage that I put towards paying my blog fees the next year. Thank you!

Gym Flooring – Foam mats. They’re perfect because you can tailor the outline to your space. It’s comfy enough for floor stretching, too. Since it’s out in the garage, it gets tidied up with the leaf blower frequently. We got the 1/2″ thick 144 sq ft pack, but smaller packs are available if you don’t need that much. ProsourceFit Exercise Puzzle Mat

Barbells and plates – We have my father-in-law, Raul’s, old set. It’s all Weider. $28 of spray paint at Walmart and we made them as bright as we wanted! Here’s a 2″ barbell with good reviews. Barbell And here’s cute, color-coded HulkFit bubber bumper plates. Weight plates

Kettlebells, dumbbells, and medicine balls – These get used all the time. Amazon Basics Double Grip Type Medicine Ball   SPRI Kettlebell Weights Deluxe Cast Iron Vinyl Coated

Squat cage – A squat cage is neat because you can back squat a lot more weight than you can press, so you can start the bar right where it needs to be. The first time I deadlifted the weight and then wondered how in the heck I was going to get it on the back of my shoulders. Pressing’s no joke. The top has a bar for pull-ups and toes to bar, too. This came with dip handles, too, although I didn’t think it was supposed to. Those are still just hopeful for us. We’re calling them drop and hops. One day!!! This thing is impressively sturdy. My 250 pound husband hangs off of it with barely any motion.  HulkFit 1000-Pound Capacity Multi-Function Adjustable Power Cage

Rings – We tried a rope over the squat cage at first, but that killed our hands. These are wonderfully comfortable. NAYOYA Gymnastics Rings

Pull-up assist – You put your foot through it and it gives a pull-up booster if you’re at an almost pull-up. Lifeline Pull Up Revolution Assistance System

Chalk – So you don’t have to worry about slippery, sweaty hands with pull-ups and toes-to-bar. Salty Lance 2 lb Gym Chalk Bucket

Bench press – Lovely for literally bench pressing and barbell rows. We have Raul’s old bench. It’s a Weider.

Rowing machine – We bought a value play. $200. It gets the job done. Weirdly, it doesn’t measure distance. So, we row 5 minutes for 1000m and 2 1/2 minutes for 500 meters. If money’s no object, you want a Concept 2. Sunny Health and Fitness Magnetic Rowing Machine with LCD Monitor

Jump box – I’m working up to it. My hub can do the 20″ jump and the kids can both do the 30″. This is heavy foam, so it can handle my 250 pound husband and no one gets bloody shins if they miss. BalanceFrom 3 in 1 20″ 24″ 30″ Foam Plyometric Jump Box

  Jump rope – we got speed ropes on Amazon. DoubleWonderUnder makes customizable ropes. Yeah, for $20 you can make a Wonder Woman rope. WOD Nation Speed Jump Rope

Exercise bands – These are fun. And hard. You can put them around your thighs to add resistance for squats, jumping jacks, and side steps. That’s not my favorite, though. Pop them around your ankles, put on your favorite song, and penguin dance the heck out of it. It’s a great workout, but it’s completely ridiculous, so it brings sweaty giggles. Sooo good. MOOND Fabric Booty Bands

  Punching bag and gloves – We got 4 pair of the gloves so no one would have to share. My husband needed 16 ounce for his size, and the 12 ounce are perfect for me and the girls. We bought the Bas Rutten videos to work out with it. RDX 8 PC Punching Bag Heavy Unfilled   RDX Boxing Gloves   Bas Rutten MMA System Workout

Self care: Foam rollers and compression socks. 321 Strong Foam Roller SB Sox Compression Socks (20-30mm)

  We were thinking about a name and nothing was hitting us. I said I was going out to Gymmy one night and then it hit me, Gymmy McGill’s! <Better Call Saul> B relocated the tools so that we could have a handstand wall. We just have to cart the trash bin out. Not ideal, but it works!

I finished painting it. I think I’m going to paint a few big hibiscus around the door.

We put up a tv, mostly so we can do exercise videos out there, but one of the kiddos likes to work out with Hunger Games and Sponge Bob in the background.

My hub’s Christmas party was at Main Event last year. We pooled together everyone’s winning tickets and got a blue tooth disco lamp for the game room. The kids brought it down to the gym, and it blasts tunes in the most ridiculous way. I stupid love that disco party lamp.

Now we just need a few heavier kettlebells once stores get them back in stock. The gym’s pretty much done, and gets as much love as the family room.

Need inspiration? There’s a podcast called Thick Thighs Save Lives, and it’s amazing. The girls and I can’t get enough of it. I should mention that there’s a fair amount of swearing in it for those that would screen for that. They have a webpage, Fitness Programming by CVG. It’s women only, 60,000 members, all supportive, without a troll in site, and no Instagram baloney. Yeah, that really exists. We bought their ebook and worked through it, shocked by how quickly they increase your fitness level. I’m an ex-analyst, so I had to do the program twice to prove to myself that it was working. It worked crazy well. I feel so much stronger and feel more alive than ever the rest of the time. We’re going to sign-up for their ongoing programming. It should come with a warning that you’ll end up with a workout legging addiction. Remember that show The Magic School Bus? I have leggings for every occasion, rivaling Ms. Frizzle’s dress collection!

Shin splints suck and I love CrossFit! Shin splints! I was running 9 1/2 miles a day and loving it! Then shin splints. Shin splints are the worst.

[thatonetravelingnurse]

April 29, 2020

What a week. I spent several days at home in bed. I felt the weight of stress on my shoulders and needed some extra sleep. I feel otherwise okay. My CrossFit trainer from CA sent dumbbells and a  kettlebell handle so I can have a little bit of weight in my life, alongside the never ending walking.

One thing I love about this city is the lack of need for a car. I love walking everywhere but anticipate none of the shoes I brought will make it out of this city with me. That is if I ever leave. I love it here so very much.

I mentioned social media in my last note; it has gotten worse.

I’m constantly bombarded with statuses mentioning the laziness of those who must not WANT to go back to work, since they don’t want to reopen states.

Status #2: We’re tired of the ‘entitlement’ of those who can continue to work and make a living, while the rest of us suffer, having to be quarantined.

Status #3: (oh my God, please tell me this isn’t real) A woman identifying herself as an NP, states she is NOT in NYC, but has a friend who is here. States that her friend feared retaliation by speaking out about what she is seeing here, so this woman has decided to publicize her ‘story’ and what she is seeing as a second party to supposedly protect her friend.

A frontline nurse working in New York on coronavirus patients claims the city is killing sufferers by putting them on ventilators.

'It's a horror movie,' she said through a friend. 'Not because of the disease, but the way it is being handled.'

And she said relatives of the sick need to make it clear as soon as a person is taken to the hospital that they do not want them hooked up to the breathing machines.

The nurse, who has relocated to New York temporarily to help with the city's COVID-19 crisis, persuaded a friend — a nurse practitioner who is not working on coronavirus patients — to make the video for her in order to tell the world what she says is happening inside hospitals. 

'I am her voice here. I'm going to tell you what she has told me,' said the nurse practitioner, who was identified only as Sara NP. 'She wants this to get out.'

'She has never seen so much neglect. No one cares. They are cold and they don't care anymore. It's the blind leading the blind.'

'People are sick, but they don't have to stay sick. They are killing them, they are not helping them,' added the friend in the video posted on YouTube. 

'She used the word murder, that coming from a nurse who went to New York City expecting to help.

'Patients are left to rot and die — her words. People are being murdered and no one cares.'

Sara would not reveal which hospital the nurse is working in 'for the safety of those involved.'

More than 12,000 people have died from the virus in New York City, with another 4,300 dying in other parts of the Empire State, which is a far larger number than any other state in the country.

Republican Minnesota state Senator Scott Jensen told Fox News' Laura Ingraham that Medicare pays hospitals three times as much if patients are placed on ventilators.

Sara said COVID-19 patients are placed on ventilators rather than less invasive CPAP or BiPAP machines due to fears about the virus spreading.

She said: 'The patients don't know any better. They don't have family with them. There is no one there with them to advocate for them. So they are scared, and they give consent.

'The ventilators have high pressure, which then causes barotrauma, it causes trauma to the lungs', adding that the best way to survive is to 'buck the system.'

'Your loved one is not going to have you in there advocating for them once they go in, you're not allowed in.

'Do not give consent for intubation if you don't want to be intubated or for your loved one to be intubated… As soon as you give that consent, you might not come out of it.'

And she said if there is a specific medication — such as the hydroxychloroquine that President Donald Trump has touted, the best thing to do is lie.

'A tip from inside the system — if you want a medication to be given, you've got to report that it's an at-home medication, and that you demand that it be continued.'

Sara claimed patients who stop breathing are not resuscitated — again due to fear of the virus spreading.

'Full code, not doing compressions, family is not there. They have no one to answer to. No one is being held accountable.'

She said there are other problems in the 'crappy' hospital where her friend is working, such as lack of personal protective equipment.

'They stay in the same PPE all shift, except for the top pair of gloves… they're only changing the gloves on the outside.' 

They keep the same gowns and masks on because the theory is that all patients on a COVID-19 floor will already have the virus. But she says that is faulty logic as some are there to see if the coronavirus can be ruled out.

'So even if they're rule-out COVID and they're not COVID they're going to get COVID because they're using the same PPE all shift and they're carrying that contamination to all of the patients

The nurse practitioner also criticized some of the nurses who are risking their own health to treat COVID-19 patients.

'We have nurses being celebrated as heroes who are killing people,' she said.

'They're not heroes, and they're being brainwashed to think they're doing something great just by going to work because they're brave enough to go to work.

'But what are you doing at work? You're certainly not saving people if you're not even running codes. You're not even going into patients' rooms. You're a coward. You're hurting people, you're killing them, you're contributing to the problem.

The nurse practitioner said she knows she will receive hate messages for her comments. 'Frankly, I don't care because this could save someone's life.' 

(Oh my God. She really posted this)

I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch the video. The article alone makes me ill. In speaking with the people I know working here, both co-workers and friends who came in a time of need – we are all ill at whomever is spouting this off. It is as much misinformation as any other news outlet.

1: There are times where our PPE is severely limited, this is true. This is however, out of our control. We wear it to protect ourselves – so we can continue to work, and help as many patients as we are handed. Trust me. We do not want to have to reuse PPE. This is our current state, and perhaps instead of confronting it as an attack on us, we should be focusing on how to get better flow to our hospitals for supplies.

2: There are times when we must discuss options in CPR. In patients in the field, there are areas where the Medics have been instructed not to perform CPR on a non-traumatic cardiac arrest patient. This is in fact because they cannot always provide adequate protection to themselves or those in the home or location by performing emergent CPR. There are specific protocols they must follow, but they are following them.

I for one cannot begin to describe the number of CPR codes I have participated in since arriving in NYC. If the patient is a full code, we attempt resuscitation as directed by next of kin, or until medical futility makes itself apparent in the absence of a decision maker. DO NOT TELL ME we just sit and watch them die.

3: Yes. There are times where we MUST ventilate a patient. The oxygen capacity of a severely ill COVID patient is minimal to none. In the early days of this pandemic, we had no idea what we were doing. We still don’t. This is 100% based on trial and error for the individual patient. There’s no sound science, or EBP developed. We are changing things as quickly as possible in response to what seems to work. CPAP and BiPAP can also cause severe barotrauma, it isn’t always the answer. We have to meet and evaluate each patient and weigh all options.

4: Do NOT lie about medications and/or demand continuance simply to try to get on a clinical trial. Some of the medications (specifically hydroxychloroquine) have actually been shown to cause damage, without necessarily being helpful against the virus. We are working as fast as we can to find a way to fight this effectively. You have to let us do this.

5: We are not. I repeat. NOT. One more time for the people in the back – NOT COWARDS. We are also not heroes. There are those that are here for the glory, for the money. Then there are the rest of us, the majority of us. We are here because we care. We are deeply driven to aid those that are the sickest of the sick. We spend more time in rooms with these patients, too often co-workers themselves, cheering them on. Holding their hands. Bathing them. Talking to them. Speaking to families. Fighting for the best possible care we can provide in a war like medical arena. Our supplies are drained and we have to create things out of unused objects to meet needs at times.

We are drained. It is not that we do not care. We are awash in a sea of death. Those my age, younger, older, they are all dying. All of them in a ‘slightly’ different way. There’s some predictability in this virus, but it fades quickly from one patient to another. Choosing to let the 97 year old go home with minor symptoms. Killing the 33 year old with a newborn at home in less than 24 hours.

Plus we have to fear spreading it ourselves. To be the next nurse who goes to work and watches her husband and parents all die within 5 days of her last shift.

To those posting daily photos and videos of escapades in this city in the grips of death, stop. You are the reason people see healthcare workers as the biggest problem. We have a duty to do no more harm. We have to stay focused on this. It’s not our job to be social with the 75 people we know here right now. It’s our job to fight and protect.

 Those of us that are that passionate about what we are doing, we are not cold. We are exhausted. We are exhausted by the constant fight. My main hospital has discharged 500 patients to home. That number, in a sea of 8,000,000 – is nothing. Not even a spit. We fight day and night to save these people. To save patients. Our families. Our co-workers. Those we trust and love the most. We are not getting out of this without emotional damage to pay. We are having nightmares. Unable to sleep. Seeing the ghosts of all we’ve already lost. Seeing the ghosts of what is to come still. We are hurting. We are committing suicide. But we are still fighting. We show up every day, hoping that today we will send someone home in a car instead of a body bag. Rejoicing when co-workers and the patients to whom we have become family recover and return home.

This is all heartbreaking. I pray this NP, this nurse she is supposedly friends with, stops. You aren’t here to have an opinion. You’re here to help fight. To find the correct ways to fight this virus. To find an effective way to help oxygenate the patient, keep them from a cytokine storm, and help get them home. The situation is unlike anything we have ever seen. Unlike anything we even know. Were we prepared? No. Do we want our friends to be able to work if they haven’t been able to? HELL YES. We have to do this in the best way possible for everyone. There is no cost of life that is acceptable due to reckless behavior. This means too that we must have contingency plans in place for future outbreaks, mutations. We need better schooling options for children. Better work from home options for as many areas as possible. Better supply flow. Accurate education to the population at large.

Just please. Stop. As I watched 3 more 26-37 year olds die tonight. Another 66 year old. A 97 year old. Stop pretending this isn’t bad. Stop telling me Manhattan is ‘different’. Just because it hasn’t gotten there yet, stop being so arrogant. It will.

[a-travels]

taken: 27 may, 2018 Eyjafjallajökull, Iceland

I resized this image about 20 times from the original resolution to find the largest size that would still upload. Hopefully, compression hasn’t destroyed this photo. For those just joining us and who don’t follow this dumb little project of mine, I’d probably say this is up there with that Hanuman shot below as one of my all-time favorite shots. This is probably a cheat because this is about four to five shots stitched together to make this actually work. And no, this isn’t my phone pano, which granted, can take some pretty banger shots. I won’t bore any of you with the details of this shot, but this was on my DSLR. 

I have had this picture sitting in my drafts now for over a year+ at this point, not really having any sort of post to go with it. I think with the quarantine and pandemic and such going on, this is the perfect time to highlight an isolated farm in the middle of a field miles away from the closest city.

For all the doom and gloom this period has brought, which it certainly has, I think this period of time has highlighted the value of human connection. Each in our Schrodinger-esque isolation in our homes, apartments, studios, I’m sure we’re all seeing on one hand just how close our various relationships are, while simultaneously realizing how distant we are from people on the other hand. At least, I definitely have found this interesting duality in my interactions and lack thereof with other people. 

Definitely, being apart today never truly means being apart. The presence of social media, video communication, even a phone call, these are all beyond luxuries that society did not have back in our last pandemic, the Spanish flu of 1918. I’ve seen and heard of happy hours, weddings, funerals, movie watch parties, birthday parties, all through the magic of ones and zeros flying through the air. And at the same time, elderly patients in nursing homes can’t see their loved ones anymore. The only human contact for those in the hospital with this virus is through a few millimeters of gloves and PPE. 

And yet you look outside, the sun shining, the birds singing, newly grown leaves rustling, and wonder just how different the world really is in this imperiled time. Despite the pains of shifting to a new normal, After now almost a month, life might finally be settling, or so it seems. Even with the new routines, perhaps a mild onset of vitamin D deficiency and staying longer in your PJs on a Tuesday than you have in a long time, somehow life has found a way to continue, and in some ways thrive like it never has. Somehow the stark confrontation of our own mortality has brought us back to out hobbies, a part of life that seemed to be slowly dying amidst the ever-increasing bustle and rat-race of work and societal progression. Yeast has been out of stock at grocery stores for weeks as people have been baking more. People are sharing drawings, starting new TV shows, playing a crap-ton of Animal Crossing, chewing through that backlog of games in their Steam library, and finishing four-month old movie reviews full of pain and disdain. 

At the start of this whole quarantine period, I was listening to a podcast on a walk (once a rare luxury is now something I get to do almost every night), and heard an excerpt from an essay written by C.S. Lewis in the late 40′s, just at the end of WWII, called “On Living In An Atomic Age”. I won’t recount the whole piece to you, but I’ll link it here for your listening pleasure. I’ll just highlight the part of it I liked the most, and seemed perhaps most prescient, here:

“This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things—praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.“

If anything, this whole situation just seems to put things in to perspective, in terms of what matters and what doesn’t, about who matters and who doesn’t. I guess to the last point, first: everyone matters, even if not everyone thinks so (certainly some orange oaf out there certainly doesn’t). It has shown us just how much of life is a social construct⸺the idea that life has to be centered around a nine-to-five job, leaving such little time for ourselves that we barely seem to actually live for ourselves than live for the system; the idea of a stock market and economy. Life as we knew it has grinded to a halt, and our societally ordained rigamarole has been relegated to the home, whether someone is sick or not, because everyone matters and that is the only way we can keep most of everyone safe.  And for that first point, last: though a bit repetitive and overly sappy, our health and connections to other people are what matter most. In those connections, it’s worth rekindling or talking to those people you didn’t have the time for, the people that seemed to slip away or faded away with time. And if anything, it’s time to ditch those people where that energy isn’t fruitful or helpful. This pandemic is not our death sentences, as C.S. Lewis said, “…you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented…,” but our sentence is not infinite. It’s worth sharing it with the people who cherish and value you and your time and energy as much as you cherish and value them and their time. 

Maybe I say this out of my continued efforts to remain in contact with people, who perhaps aren’t as keen to do so themselves. I’ve already talked about my own self-doubt about what people think of me so I’ll leave that topic be, but I am tired of constantly thinking that I’m bothering someone or a burden on someone just for shooting a message or staying in touch. It’s not fair on that person to assume their thought process, to spam them with messages if they’re not keen to talk, and it’s definitely not fair on myself to weigh myself down worrying about these sorts of things.

It’s at moments like those, riddled with self-doubt and confusion about my interactions with others that I feel perhaps as mentally isolated as a farm in a field in an island in the ocean. Trust me, my mind alone for extended periods is perhaps not the best for whatever you’d call my fledgling self-diagnosed psychosis. But, invariably, it’s the force-fed medicine I need to train myself to think differently about this, to think healthier about life, my relationship with others and my relationship with myself.

Back to talking about not me, this time sucks in many ways, it does. But I think there’s a lot of good that we as people, as a human race, are uncovering about ourselves and each other. And when life gets back to its regularly scheduled programming at the top, we’ll hopefully be refreshed like we would from a bathroom break during the commercials, with this time period hopefully feeling as transitory in hindsight.

So it goes.

tl;dr - “You’re all alone, what are you gonna do about it?”

(Side note, can I just say how genius the Vikings were to name their home Iceland, even though it’s all just volcanic rock and not nearly as much ice as its much larger, and decidedly icier brother island, Greenland. Greenland isn’t green folks, and yet the Vikings bamboozled generations of pillagers and explorers looking to take over the Vikings.)

(Side side note, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give my heartfelt gratitude and respect to the essential and healthcare workers out there risking their lives every day for us to maintain some semblance of normalcy in our homes. As meaningless as any social media callout may seem to be, you all truly do inspire me and I’m sure many others out there with your selflessness.) 

[dinafbrownil]

Compression Garments Can Ease Lymphedema. Covering Costs? Not So Easy.

Every morning, Britta Vander Linden dons compression stockings, a cumbersome process she calls “putting on my legs.”

She relies on the garments to stand and walk without intense leg pain and swelling. That’s because Vander Linden, 44, was born with lymphedema.

The condition affects the lymphatic system, a network of lymph nodes and vessels that move infection-fighting liquid through the body. When that network is damaged, fluid can build up and cause limbs to swell well beyond their normal size and make them susceptible to harmful infections.

Lymphedema is incurable, but specialized compression stockings, sleeves and gloves help prevent complications such as tissue damage, more swelling and infection.

They’re also expensive.

Vander Linden’s insurance coverage, which she gets through her job as a senior director of communications at a Washington, D.C.-based nonprofit organization, covers about half the annual cost of her stockings, she said. For the rest of the year, she added, she pays out of pocket ― between $2,500 and $3,500 annually.

“I guess they’re thinking I don’t have to stand up” for half the year, she said.

Britta Vander Linden uses compression stockings to help prevent complications from her lymphedema. That’s a condition that occurs when fluid builds up in the arms and legs.(Lynne Shallcross/KHN)

Many lymphedema patients struggle to get health insurers to pay for compression garments. Coverage varies among private insurance plans, and for many patients it is limited. Although Medicaid programs cover some of these expenses, Medicare does not.

Advocates have been pushing for legislation to change that. “Right now there is a patch quilt across the country to navigate to get the care that you need,” said William Repicci, CEO of the Lymphatic Education & Research Network, a patient advocacy group.

Lymphedema affects as many as 5 million people in the United States. The majority develop the condition after undergoing cancer treatment, especially if they had surgery that required removing lymph nodes to stop the spread of disease. Breast cancer patients are particularly affected by the condition.

People generally wear the garments daily, said Dr. Stanley Rockson, a professor of lymphatic research and medicine at Stanford University School of Medicine in California. Depending on the severity of the disease, some people also require them at night.

Prices for garments vary considerably. A standard-fit arm sleeve costs $81, but a custom-made equivalent can run $202, according to the Lymphedema Advocacy Group, a patient volunteer organization seeking a federal mandate for insurance coverage. One pair of waist-high stockings costs $159 off the shelf. When made to order, the price can jump to $960.

Some patients need custom garments because the standard size cannot adequately accommodate the affected area.

Garments should be replaced two to four times a year, Rockson said. The 1998 federal Women’s Health and Cancer Rights Act has helped some patients get insurers to cover their compression garments. The law requires insurers that provide coverage for mastectomies to also cover complications related to the procedure, including these socks and sleeves. It applies to employer-based plans, as well as those that people buy on the individual market.

Email Sign-Up

Subscribe to KHN’s free Morning Briefing.

Sign Up

Please confirm your email address below:

Sign Up

A handful of states, including Maryland and Virginia, have laws requiring health plans subject to state regulation to cover lymphedema treatment, including supplies such as compression garments. Virginia’s law, from 2004, was the nation’s first. Maryland’s took effect this year.

At least three other states ― California, Massachusetts and North Carolina ― require health insurers to pay some of the costs, according to an analysis from the Maryland Department of Legislative Services.

But many people aren’t covered by these laws because large-employer health plans are generally regulated by the federal government. In Maryland, approximately 25% of residents have plans that may be affected, state officials estimated.

“I know that it’s not a panacea. It’s not going to address every problem that patients are running into when it comes to lymphedema treatment,” said Al Carr Jr., the Maryland General Assembly member who sponsored the law after a constituent brought the issue to his attention. “But hopefully it makes things easier and better.”

Even if compression garments are covered, plan restrictions ― such as limits on how many stockings or sleeves are allowed ― can leave enrollees’ needs unmet.

That happened to Cindy Cronick.

In 2007, the Wisconsin pharmacist found a lump under her arm, and doctors diagnosed her with breast cancer. She underwent chemotherapy, radiation and a mastectomy and remains cancer-free.

But in 2012, she said, lymphedema dramatically caused her left arm and hand to swell. (The condition can crop up years after an operation.)

Her employer-provided health plan, according to Cronick, 53, covered only four compression garments a year. This became a problem when she needed another compression glove because the old one was causing an abrasion, which can increase the risk of developing an infection.

Cronick, who is a board member of the Lymphedema Advocacy Group, ultimately appealed to the insurer, and then an outside reviewer in New York, for more coverage. The case ended in 2013 with the insurer doubling the number of garments it covered. The insurer changed its policy the following year to allow patients with post-mastectomy garments to go beyond their limit.

After Cronick switched to her husband’s health plan, she received other denials that she was forced to appeal, she said. She filed a complaint against the insurer with the Department of Labor, according to documents Cronick provided. As of Sept. 5, the investigation was still pending.

“It shouldn’t be a certain number,” Cronick said, referring to the number of garments covered under health plans. “It should be what that patient and their doctor determine is required.”

That option is not available to Medicare beneficiaries. Compression garments do not meet the definition for any category of covered services. Legislation to provide Medicare coverage for lymphedema diagnosis and treatment has been repeatedly introduced in Congress since 2002. But it has gone nowhere.

Advocates said they think adding the government benefit would prompt more private insurers to pay for the stockings as well. The federal program’s reputation for being a benchmark of insurance coverage “makes this super valuable to get Medicare” to cover the garments, said Jeffrey Clemens, an associate professor of economics at the University of California-San Diego who focuses on health issues.

But other health care experts say it may not be the cure-all advocates hope for.

“It’s probably not a simple matter of if you succeed in getting Medicare coverage, then all the private insurers are going to fall in line really rapidly,” said Jack Hoadley, a former member of the Medicare Payment Advisory Commission. “I would say that’s probably not realistic.”

from Updates By Dina https://khn.org/news/compression-garments-lymphedema-insurance-coverage-costs/

[itsworn]

Multiple-Award-Winning 1965 K-Code Ford Mustang 2+2 Is Owner Restored

The advent of extremely competent restoration shops, the availability of high-quality aftermarket parts, and the flood of online automotive knowledge have brought about an evolution in the muscle car hobby. Wiser, more informed choices can be made when pursuing the right professional restoration shop. The existence of world-class shows like MCACN offer greater exposure and wider networking opportunities for enthusiasts. Overall quality of classic car restoration is higher than ever. Most restored muscle cars and ponycars are far better than they ever came from the original manufacturer.

But better results cost money. A state-of-the-art restoration is more expensive than ever. Some owners consider taking a do-it-yourself approach to restoration to reduce those costs, but soon dismiss the notion. Those aforementioned high-quality restorations are intimidating. Why bother restoring a car that cannot begin to approach the level of detail that comes from professionals?

When that thought process begins to flare up, a simple, “Get over yourself” exhortation might be in order. That unrestored carcass in your garage doesn’t have to be restored to Bill Gates standards to be fun. Do some research, get out to the garage, and dive in. Since I will never commission a $100,000 restoration on one of my cars, my only two options are storage fees till I reach the other side, or DIY.

Be encouraged. The DIY classic car restoration is alive and well. Al DeYoung, from Beecher, Illinois, has restored five first-generation Mustangs and still owns all of them. He performed every aspect of a full restoration on every car: drivetrain, paint, interior, convertible top, and metal work. The secret to his prolific DIY approach to the hobby is simple: He loves first-generation Mustangs.

When Ford introduced the Mustang on April 17, 1964, it became an instant phenomenon. The sporty styling, with the long hood and short rear deck, birthed an entirely new classification of cars, the ponycar segment. Nimble performance and standard features like bucket seats and floor shifter made the car even more attractive. Bargain pricing from Ford resulted in blistering sales.

Not only did Ford invent the ponycar segment; it created an army of Mustang fanatics like Al DeYoung. Growing up, Al built Mustang model car kits and raced Mustang slot cars, longing for the day when he would drive his own. Al would later say that building models taught him some basics about actual car restorations, including patience, planning, and attention to detail.

Al’s first Mustang was a Dark Ivy Green 1970 fastback that his father purchased in 1972. The car was supposed to be for his mom, but Al politely took it over as soon as he began driving. He eventually purchased the car from his parents.

Though the fastback was fun, he was drawn to those first-generation Mustangs that had so captivated his imagination as a child. He purchased two 1965 fastback projects that were determined to be, by mid-1970s standards, too far gone to save. In 1976, Al began working as an automotive technician at the VanDrunen Ford dealership in Lansing, Illinois, and then married his lovely bride, Julie. Both the Ford dealership and Julie would play big roles in his future accomplishments in the Mustang community.

It was 1977, a scant 42 years ago, that Al purchased the featured 1965 Mustang 2+2 K-code Mustang. The car was equipped with its born-with 289ci, 271hp High Performance V-8 engine and Top Loader four-speed manual transmission. The car sported a new exterior paint job and a freshened white interior. The interior included the highly desirable Interior Décor Group, aka the Pony interior, and the slick full-length console.

The 23-year-old automotive technician drove his Vintage Burgundy fastback for a year, and then decided to get it ready to compete in the 1979 Mustang Club of America (MCA) Grand National event to be held in Atlanta. After fixing all mechanical issues and perfecting the exterior, he and Julie drove the Mustang from Illinois to Atlanta. At that first competition, the DeYoungs tied for First in Class.

Over the next few years, Al and Julie would continue to take their Hi-Po fastback to MCA shows, local cruise nights, and various gatherings with fellow Mustang owners. However, Al was noticing that the standards for show cars was rising, while his car was slowly losing its luster. By about 1983, the Vintage Burgundy 2+2 had become more of an occasional cruiser than a show pony.

In the early 1990s, Al purchased a 1967 Shelby G.T. 350. Because the Shelby needed attention, the Vintage Burgundy fastback was reluctantly placed on the back burner. Al proceeded to restore the Brittany Blue Shelby as his first, full-blown, nut-and-bolt restoration attempt. You read that correctly. A genuine, real-deal Shelby G.T. 350 was Al’s first attempt at a complete restoration. That car was later featured in a very prominent muscle car magazine that to this day provides ground-breaking content to Planet Muscle Car.

In 2011, Al turned his attention back to his Hi-Po Vintage Burgundy fastback, with the plan to do a complete restoration that would be his best effort to date. His goal was to repeat the 1979 MCA award for the car. Upon disassembly, Al discovered that the front fenders were not only original to the car but, amazingly, had never been removed. All the original body panels were retained. Only a few minor rust spots at the bottom of the quarter-panels were repaired. Al repainted the car, rebuilt the entire drivetrain, and assembled the finished product in his own garage.

Upon completion of the Hi-Po fastback, Al and Julie attended the MCA National events in 2013, 2014, and 2015. Their 1965 fastback received Gold awards in its class all three years. Not bad for an amateur.

At a Glance 1965 Mustang 2+2 Owned by: Al and Julie DeYoung, Beecher, IL Restored by: Owner Engine: 289ci/271hp K-code Hi-Po V-8 Transmission: Top Loader 4-speed manual Rearend: 9-inch Ford with 3.50 gears Interior: White bucket seat with Interior Décor Group Wheels: 14×5 styled steel Tires: Coker Tire 6.95×14 BFGoodrich dual redline Special parts: Rally-Pac

Of the 1.7-million first-generation Mustangs built between April 17, 1964, and the end of the 1967 model-year run, roughly 13,000 were equipped with the Hi-Po 289 engine. For that reason, the genuine K-code Mustangs are highly coveted by Mustang people. Al DeYoung has owned this Hi-Po fastback since 1977.

In 1978, Al located a beautiful set of original and correct 14×5 styled steel wheels. When he restored the car in 2011, he added the correct Coker Tire dual red stripe 6.95×14 bias-ply tires.

The top performer available in the 1965 Mustang was the High Performance 289ci, 271hp engine. The Hi-Po V-8 came from Ford with a solid-lifter camshaft, screw-in rocker arm studs, and cast-iron header-style exhaust manifolds. The cylinder heads hosted 1.78/1.45-inch intake and exhaust valves, respectively.

The K-code engine was fed by an Autolite 4100 four-barrel carburetor rated at 600 cfm mounted atop a cast iron intake manifold. A dual-point distributor handled improved ignition at higher rpm.

The Hi-Po 289 engine featured a 10.5:1 compression ratio. Connecting rods were equipped with larger 3/8-inch rod bolts. The fuel pump and larger harmonic balancer were unique to the Hi-Po engine.

The Interior Décor Group, aka Pony interior, was officially introduced on April 17, 1965. It dressed up the interior with a five-dial instrument cluster with wood applique, a wood applique glove compartment door, brightly trimmed pedals, a faux-walnut deluxe steering wheel, courtesy lights in the doors, pistol-grip door handles, and kick panels with carpeting and stainless trim. Fastbacks with the Interior Décor Group received the galloping pony embossed on the front seat covers.

Chances are pretty good the car did not have the Rally-Pac from the factory, but Ford encouraged customers to enhance their Mustangs with dealer accessories. The Rally-Pac is mounted on the steering column and includes an 8,000-rpm tach on the left side and a clock on the right.

The bucket seats with full length console and factory four-speed shifter were gorgeous by 1965 standards, creating a strong sense of the driver being seated in the cockpit of a high-dollar sports car. The T-handle shifter allowed the “over and down” engagement of reverse.

The front grille of the 1965 Mustang features the signature bars and corral with the running horse inside. Since Al’s car is not a GT, it does not have foglights at the ends of the bars. Likewise, the rear of the non-GT Mustang 2+2 did not have the rear valence with exhaust cutouts and bright exhaust tips. The simpler look of Al’s Mustang gives it something of a sleeper look.

The post Multiple-Award-Winning 1965 K-Code Ford Mustang 2+2 Is Owner Restored appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network https://www.hotrod.com/articles/award-winning-1965-k-code-ford-mustang-owner-restored/ via IFTTT

[likenessofwolf-blog]

1851

“Rob!”

 Frederick stirred and the hold of his arm, looping about the small of her back to clutch a hand at her hip, tightened. He had not dreamt of them in years. Years. With time and practice they were all easier to bear, but those two – they stung. He buried them deep, and tried to forget. Without the trappings and landmarks of modern day as a connection to remind him, that wasn’t so hard to do.

 It was Cora that brought it all back with a few drowsily mumbled words.

 “Rob! Over here!”

 She saw him first. His eyes had been down and he had been lost in thoughts that largely swirled around her, but he hadn’t expected her at the docks. It was no place for a lady; he’d told her so before. He told her again during the slow, continuous stream of correspondence which they exchanged in the months during which he was half a world away anchored off shore in the Black Sea. He would come to her, he’d said. It did not matter at all how much time had passed since her last letter reached him or where her family had taken her off to on holiday this time. He would track her down and they would spend his leave together.  

 It had turned into eight months rather than six and the exchange had never stopped. He had prepared to send the first letter, thinking reasonably she would not know where to post them to without his instruction. His surprise had played on his face so plainly when her letter was delivered to him before he’d ever managed to pen his to her that Bulk, his mate since they were boys as well as a man who lived up to his name, asked if he’d seen a ghost with a look of real concern.

 Both men were new to their roles and moved into them in part by necessity. Robert had only known he was to be Captain days before meeting her. Both he and Bulk (First Lieutenant Bulkeley from then on) had given a curt ceremony below deck in the prior Captains private cabin and issued new uniforms. He’d been handed a horse shortly thereafter with little regard for how he felt about the creatures and told to get to the business of preparing (now) his ship to set off.

 It was never a question of if he was ready or what would come of him and his men if he was not. He had his orders; his future was set. Robert – Rob only to those closest to him – was comfortable with that. He had been working towards that moment, impromptu as it turned out to be, for the entirety of his adult life. Captaining his own ship directly into the fray was the reward. It was not until the day that Lady Charlotte Spencer trembled with fury at him and stomped her feet in the mud.

 The spent the evening together first on the beach and the on the long walk to Holkam Hall. He stumbled through asking if he could see her again, and her earnest, bright eyed acceptance left him floating the entire way back. The following morning was Sunday. He never attended services, but made an exception to sit in the pews behind her and her family. They stole looks at each other with her blushing and grinning beneath her bonnet and then shared a few furtive moments speaking in close quarters in the grassy courtyard behind the rectory where the skies opened up and all the rain which he’d promised was coming arrived at once to her shrieks and giggling surprise. In another day he was off. They’d made plans to write, but he knew too well how fleeting affection of a woman could be when there was an ocean in the way to expect.

 Her letters came were drenched in poetry written in girlish script. Even the paper smelled of her. Often there would be pressed flowers folded into the pages. Limonium vulgare was a frequent star. She spoke unreservedly of great emotional depths and then turned on a dime to speak excitedly about seeing a hare bounce across her path on her walk instead. He could read every word in her voice, which was the greatest comfort.

 His penmanship was practiced to the point of nearly mechanical and he was quicker to the point, but she said it had a sort of poetry too. In the first few exchanges, he spoke of everything but the imminent conflict which had drawn the Navy into that part of the world to begin with. When the conversation did turn, he was surprised by how easily it came. She took it all in stride and with an open, disarming interest. It was strange, and wonderful. He said more to her than he had to anyone to that point.

 His evenings were spent writing at his desk by candle light after most of the crew was asleep. She preoccupied his mornings too. He had less interest letters coming from distant commanders than he did waiting for another one of hers to arrive in the rowboat of deliveries from shore. The months passed so slowly and mail was intermittent. He kept every one, folded with clinging petals still preserved against the paper, in wooden chest from a long ago Indian voyage which was carved with intricate patterns of paisley swirls and blooming jasmine – and that lived with him in the sleeping quarters of his cabin where the letters would be within reach on those nights where nightmares and dreamscapes left him restless. He passed the time by reading and re-reading what she’d written, pining. For the first time, his future felt less than certain. Sailing no longer felt like the most important thing.

 “Rob!”

 “Rob! Over here!”

 He was in full regalia. Wool uniform, gold epaulets, and tricorn on legs stiff from too much time on open waters. She was in a periwinkle dress that made him think of flowers on a gray morning. He knew the sound anywhere and locked on eyes while still coming down the wood planks to the dock. She was hopping in place to be seen above the crowd and waving an arm over her head, beaming. The young Captain tried, but he broke into a run when she did and swept her into his arms, taking her right off her feet. The pale scarf drawn modestly over her shoulders caught in the seaside wind. She gasped, but snatched it before it could escape in a stream flying over past his shoulder. His head snapped to follow the motion, and when he turned back he was nearly nose to nose with her smiling face.

 “I know told you not to come, but I’m so relieved you are here.”

 Rob felt the looks their public display was drawing, ignored them, and drew whispers to ignore as well. There were more important things. Namely, the compression of their chests breathing together, the blue of her eyes paler and more mercurial than his, and the big, lit up and satisfied spread of a grin his admission received. So much of those first few months was spent at a distance that it was hard to trust the sensation of holding her to him.

 “I’ve been here!” She laughed, shaking her head at how very silly he was. Robert could not be sure if she only meant waiting at the docks for him to disembark. “It’s about time you are too.”

 This is another dream, he thought, until she leaned forward bolding to kiss him and he could taste her breath on his tongue before their lips brushed. His heart seized. This was real.

 “Lady Spencer.” The voice was refined, but under lain with what Robert recognized immediately as false domesticity. A lion posing as a housecat. He stopped short of the lip-lock that the better part of him ached to be part of to look its way, and then so did she.

 The man was not dressed like a coachman and carried himself with a barely conceived air of authority that did not speak of a page. He had dark, sharp features and stood eye level with the Captain still and unflinching irrespective of the silent appraisal he received in return. The white, starch collar shirt he wore made his suit seem truer coal black. Though he was in a crowd full of people and he drew deeply from a thin, hand-rolled cigarillo which smelled of clove and other, fainter floral scents Robert could not identify.

 “Godfrey!” Charlotte was surprised. She had not expected him to be there, prowling out like a stalking predator through the reeds. Reluctantly, Robert Let her to her feet and loosened his hold. She remained at his side. Refusing for the moment to show she was shaken. He could hear the attempt for sunniness in her voice, despite the surprise. “Did you follow me here?”

 “My lady, your father sent me to retrieve you.” Curt. Correcting in its cut without raising his voice. He used the proper language, but the meaning shifted beneath his influence. “You’ll follow me. The coach is waiting.” And he exhaled a plume of pale smoke. It was as if Rob was not there, or it didn’t matter that he was.

 “Now see here…” The Captain put booted foot forward and out ahead of her, inserting himself and suddenly defensive.

 “Rob, dearest.” Charlotte’s hand steadying hand was on his arm and sliding down to take hold of his hand. He stopped. “This is Godfrey, my father’s steward.”

 “Captain Wright.” The man’s eyes had a faint, sickly yellow muddled in with their green. He nodded, bowing head and shoulders as he spoke Robert’s name and confirmed he knew he was there, and knew him, after all. Robert extended his hand instead. Godfrey, to his credit, concealed his surprise. Lord Spencer of Holkam Hall was stratospherically above such gestures with a servant, but he and Rob came from different worlds. A moment after their palms clapped together he was glad for his gloves. He had the odd thought that he was shaking hands with the devil.

 “Godfrey, is it?”

 “Yes, sir.” He sounded annoyed. Good, thought Rob.

 “And Lord Spencer, he is back at Holkam Hall anxiously waiting for Lady Charlotte’s return? Let’s all go then, shall we? I’d like a word with him myself. It’s past time.” He could feel Charlotte’s look, but kept his gaze fixed forward on the steward.

 “Very well. Let’s.” Tension masked as polite agreement or amusement. Another falsehood.

 In the coach, they sat side by side while Godfrey rode up front with the driver. He removed his gloves, pocketing them in his coat before closing his hand over hers. She had not fought him on it while they were in mixed company, but he could feel the nerves radiating from her then. Their sides were molded together in a manner that was not strictly proper and it did not matter at all to him. It had been too many bloody long months. He had to be close to her more than he felt he had to keep in the good graces of his father’s man.

 Charlotte was even talkative in letters. She could prattle on at length about anything and took as much pleasure in sharing it all with him as he had come to with her. That was love, he supposed, smiling a bit her way despite the tension. It’s going to be alright, the look said, reassuringly to the angel in golden ringlets at who held his hand with the same care she did his heart. She could talk about anything and she told him everything. He thought. Robert knew the name of their housekeeper and cook. He’d known about the nanny who had more of a hand in her raising than her mother ever had and how she still missed the woman after she’d moved on to care for the little ones of another household. He even knew about the scullery maid who she caught smuggling stale bread from the kitchen and had since been slipping apples and trinkets alike with conspiratorial grins.

 He’d never heard Godfrey’s name until that day.

 “He means well,” Charlotte explained at a whisper, not wanting to be overheard above the noise of the horses and traffic. “It’ll be fine. They will absolutely love you. Who wouldn’t love you?”

 Did the duties of stewards normally include chasing after wayward children? He supposed they could though he sensed something discomfortingly familiar about the interaction. If he knew her father, he would have felt better about voicing his distaste. As it stood, it did not seem like his place. He nodded, looking to the narrow window up to the driver’s seat. The hairs along the back of his neck stood on end.

 “I don’t think he does much.”

 Frederick Kennelly stirred and made a face of disgust. The part of him still consciously aware of the wrap of his arm and her breath against his neck had faded back. They’d been asleep nearly the entire hour and most of it had been peaceful. When the darkness came to settle in, its cold shadow could be felt by both of them.

 Holkam Hall was beyond grand. It was practically a palace that stretched grand staircases into labyrinth twists lined with more flowers than he’d ever seen and massive chandeliers in nearly every room. Miss Seidel - he had been told during the carriage ride - had succumbed to Cholera and was in her sick bed. The family doctor had seen to her and confirmed the symptoms, He’d said the prognosis was grim. How did a governess in a clean and well-appointed estate manage to contract such a thing? 

A new girl in tight bun and white apron had whisked Charlotte off the moment they were through the doors. Rob was passed off to another servant and lead in the opposite direction. As it turned out, Lord Spencer had his mind set on keeping him waiting. He stood alone in a cavernous study with hands clasped together behind the deep blue jacket of his uniform. He mapped the stars to keep his mind busy. Even with all the advantages of modern naval cartography, he fell back on them during more voyages than not and found the practice soothing when his nerves were frayed.

 Frederick flinched and his breathing fell into shallow draws. He did not cast her off with a toss, but his entire body went taut in anticipation. Some part of him knew what was coming even if the him in his dream did not. It was the first in a long series of hostilities, but one Robert Wright never forgot.

In his own sprawling office with Cora still serenely resting against him, he was reciting the stars out loud a crisp argot that was not his own.

[surviveuk]

New Post has been published on https://www.surviveuk.com/survival-blog/what-should-go-into-a-survival-first-aid-kit/

What Should Go into a Survival First Aid Kit?

Everyone should have at least a basic survival kit at home just in case disaster strikes. A survival first aid kit is one of the most important preparations for any sort of disaster or event.

What Is a Survival First Aid Kit?

Survival First Aid Kit

A survival first aid kit is a bit more equipped than just a regular everyday first aid kit that you might pick up from asda containing some plasters and antiseptic cream. A survival first aid kit is meant to help you survive in the aftermath of a major disaster, where injuries sustained could be life threatening. A survival first aid kit is going to be small enough to pick up and move with, but large enough to contain a lot of potentially lifesaving items.

Why Keep a Survival First Aid Kit?

  The fact is that you never know when a disaster could happen. To keep yourself and your family safe, there are some preparations that are just plain smart. A survival first aid kit is a necessary item for every home, even if you think you may never use it.

Once you have your “base” kit from home use built you can move on as required and make a BOB kit or EDC, The possibilities are endless and you cant put a price on the safety and wellbeing of you and your family.

What Could Happen?

Many people do not keep survival first aid kits because they think that nothing bad could ever happen to them. The fact is, however, that disasters can happen, and it is better to be safe than sorry. Disasters come in many forms, such as sudden inclement weather disasters, major accidents, and even acts of malice or terrorism. The idea is to hope that such an event never occurs, but to be ready just in case.

You never know

I feel its best to carry a kit not need it than to need it and not have one.

Where Do I Get a Survival First Aid Kit?

There are many websites that sell survival first aid kits and other disaster plan items. These packages vary in how much or how little they contain; some contain just the essentials and others are extremely full and equipped for just about anything. These types of kits are often very expensive.

You can also put together your own survival first aid kit. Not only will you be able to cater the necessary items to fit your needs, but you can save a lot of money.

I have brought a lot of different first aid kits over the years ranging from mid range to expensive and I find breaking them down and mixing the kits to requirement to be the best way of putting the best kit together.

Some of the best starter kits I have found are from a company called adventure medical kits and I have linked a few of the best available kits below.

// <![CDATA[ // ]]>

Amazon.co.uk Widgets

  Basic Must-Have Items

The Red Cross website (http://www.redcross.org/prepare/location/home-family/get-kit/anatomy) has a comprehensive list of what items are necessary for a first aid kit. The items listed are for a family of four, so you might need to make adjustments according to your family size and needs.

Red Cross first aid kit list:

 2 absorbent compress dressings (5 x 9 inches)

 25 adhesive bandages (assorted sizes)

1 adhesive cloth tape (10 yards x 1 inch)

5 antibiotic ointment packets (approximately 1 gram)

5 antiseptic wipe packets

2 packets of aspirin (81 mg each)

1 blanket (space blanket)

1 breathing barrier (with one-way valve)

1 instant cold compress

2 pair of nonlatex gloves (size: large)

2 hydrocortisone ointment packets (approximately 1 gram each)

Scissors

1 roller bandage (3 inches wide)

1 roller bandage (4 inches wide)

5 sterile gauze pads (3 x 3 inches)

5 sterile gauze pads (4 x 4 inches)

Oral thermometer (non-mercury/non-glass)

2 triangular bandages

Tweezers

First aid instruction booklet

Other Items to Consider

Depending on your family and specific needs, you may want to consider a few more items to add to your kit. Remember that the idea is emergency preparedness, so try to think of everything. For example, if someone in your family has anaphylactic allergies, you will want to consider adding an EpiPen and/or Benadryl to your survival first aid kit.

Some other items to consider including:

 LED flashlight

Extra batteries

Burn gel

Medical grade super glue (cyanoacrylate base)

Suture kit

Eye wash kit

Necessary medications for family members

You will also want to keep information about each of your family members’ medical history and a list of medications that each of you take. When rescue services do come, it could help them to have a working knowledge of your history in the event of an injury or emergency. Also keep a list of contacts and emergency phone numbers so you can reach family or friends if you need help or to tell them you are okay.

What am I carrying in my basic kit?

My Survival First Aid Kit is fairly similar to the kit recommended by the red cross but scaled down somewhat to reduce weight and has been specifically setup with my needs in mind. I have a few different kits for different scenarios such as my home kit, my BOB kit and my EDC and vehicle EDC. Each kit varies in its size, weight and contents but I will be detailing the contents of my BOB FAK below.

My BOB FAK contents: 

First field dressings x 2

Combat Application Tourniquet (Control a catastrophic bleed)

Pack of 50 assorted plasters

Quikclot clotting sponge

Sterile gauze pad x 2 (5 x 9 inches)

Sterile gauze pad (4 x 4 inches)

Sterile gauze pad (3 x 4 inches)

Sterile gauze pad x 2 (2 x 2 inches)

Non adhering dressing (3 x 3 inches)

Triangular bandage

Dressing large

Dressing medium

Dressing small

Eye pad

Non latex gloves x 3 pairs

Antiseptic wipes x 12

Safety pins x 6

After Bite x 2 (Wasps & Bees love me)

Antibiotic ointment x 2 (Wound care)

Diphenhydramine x 2 (Antihistamine)

Moleskin Roll (For blisters)

Vial of potassium permanganate (Multiple Uses)

Sensi-wrap roll

General medical tape

Tweezer

Steri Strip x 3

Paracetamol/aspirin x 6

Ibuprofen x 6

Codeine x 4

Antibiotics course

The whole kit packs done quite a bit and sofar has only had a few uses from minor mishaps but if the worst did happen when I was out and about I at least know I could control the situation until help arrived.

×

Check the dates !

Be sure to keep track of you dates of any and all perishable items in you first aid kit such as medication.

I will be looking to do a few follow up posts when I get a chance going over my other kits but I figured I would start with what I think to be the most important first. Is there anything you would add/remove ? Post in the comments.