Cpr Quotes

Will you get off me!" "But I'm giving you CPR-" "I will die before kissing you, Hollywood." Z tried to sit up, his breathing heavy. "Don't even think about it.

CPR dummy looked like him and had clearly been stabbed. Repeatedly. In the groin. He thought she might have used the dummy for target practice, and tried not to be offended. Key word: tried.

In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it.

For even if the whole world believed in resurrection, little would change until we began to practice it. We can believe in CPR, but people will remain dead until someone breathes new life into them. And we can tell the world that there is life after death, but the world really seems to be wondering if there is life before death.

If what's always distinguished bad writing--flat characters, a narrative world that's clichéd and not recognizably human, etc.--is also a description of today's world, then bad writing becomes an ingenious mimesis of a bad world. If readers simply believe the world is stupid and shallow and mean, then [Bret] Ellis can write a mean shallow stupid novel that becomes a mordant deadpan commentary on the badness of everything. Look man, we'd probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is? In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it. Postmodern irony and cynicism's become an end in itself, a measure of hip sophistication and literary savvy. Few artists dare to try to talk about ways of working toward redeeming what's wrong, because they'll look sentimental and naive to all the weary ironists. Irony's gone from liberating to enslaving. There's some great essay somewhere that has a line about irony being the song of the prisoner who's come to love his cage… The postmodern founders' patricidal work was great, but patricide produces orphans, and no amount of revelry can make up for the fact that writers my age have been literary orphans throughout our formative years. We enter a spiritual puberty where we snap to the fact that the great transcendent horror is loneliness, excluded encagement in the self. Once we’ve hit this age, we will now give or take anything, wear any mask, to fit, be part-of, not be Alone, we young. The U.S. arts are our guide to inclusion. A how-to. We are shown how to fashion masks of ennui and jaded irony at a young age where the face is fictile enough to assume the shape of whatever it wears. And then it’s stuck there, the weary cynicism that saves us from gooey sentiment and unsophisticated naïveté. Sentiment equals naïveté on this continent. You burn with hunger for food that does not exist. A U. S. of modern A. where the State is not a team or a code, but a sort of sloppy intersection of desires and fears, where the only public consensus a boy must surrender to is the acknowledged primacy of straight-line pursuing this flat and short-sighted idea of personal happiness.

And what? Accidentally cuts off three fingers postmortem? 'Oops, oh, no, my girlfriend just died! Clumsy me, in trying to perform CPR, I chopped off some fingers! Guess I'll just take them with me.... Oh, darn, where did that middle finger go?

I hope you know CPR because you are going to take Jessie's breath away.

emotional CPR. we try our hardest to force life into things that must die and that’s what hurts the most

It took several minutes, and when Butters woke up, Andi and Marci, both naked, both rather pleasant that way, were giving him CPR. They'd kept his body alive in the absence of his soul. "Wow," Butters slurred as he opened his eyes. He looked back and forth between the two werewolf girls. "Subtract the horrible pain in my chest, and all the mold and mildew, and I'm living the dream." Then he passed out.

Interviewer ...In the case of "American Psycho" I felt there was something more than just this desire to inflict pain--or that Ellis was being cruel the way you said serious artists need to be willing to be. DFW: You're just displaying the sort of cynicism that lets readers be manipulated by bad writing. I think it's a kind of black cynicism about today's world that Ellis and certain others depend on for their readership. Look, if the contemporary condition is hopelessly shitty, insipid, materialistic, emotionally retarded, sadomasochistic, and stupid, then I (or any writer) can get away with slapping together stories with characters who are stupid, vapid, emotionally retarded, which is easy, because these sorts of characters require no development. With descriptions that are simply lists of brand-name consumer products. Where stupid people say insipid stuff to each other. If what's always distinguished bad writing -- flat characters, a narrative world that's cliched and not recognizably human, etc. -- is also a description of today's world, then bad writing becomes an ingenious mimesis of a bad world. If readers simply believe the world is stupid and shallow and mean, then Ellis can write a mean shallow stupid novel that becomes a mordant deadpan commentary on the badness of everything. Look man, we'd probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is? In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it. You can defend "Psycho" as being a sort of performative digest of late-eighties social problems, but it's no more than that.

I’ll drown him in that damn fountain and then I’ll CPR him back and drown him again.

When we kiss, his lips on mine are like CPR-- breathing the life back into me.

You and your rugged sexuality better scoot over,” I whispered. “Unless you want to be responsible for making me pass out on this plane. I’m not sure that flight attendant knows CPR.” “It’s okay,” he said, lowering his lips all the way to my ear so they touched my skin when he spoke. “I’m really good at mouth-to-mouth.” Holy shit.

Look man, we'd probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid it is? In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this dark world AND to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it. You can defend "[American] Psycho" as being a sort of performative digest of late-eighties social problems, but it's no more than that.

In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what’s human and magical that still live and glow despite the times’ darkness.

I had a pain in my neck from sleeping funny, at least five hours’ worth of homework, and a newfound realization that woman cannot live on cherry-flavored lip gloss alone. I dug in the bottom of my bag and found a very questionable breath mint, and figured that if I was going to die of starvation, I should at least have minty-fresh breath for the benefit of whatever classmate or faculty member would be forced to give me CPR.

People don’t mind doing CPR on a crisis victim, but no person is equipped to be the constant lifeline to another.

I passed out on the fourteenth floor. The CPR was so erotic.

You could say she was having difficulty breathing but I doubt they will believe that is CPR.” Her

Come on,' he repeated, pumping her chest again with his hands. 'I'm waiting for you.' He'd been waiting for her from the moment he'd been born. And as if she'd heard him, Bryce exploded into life.

Who knows CPR?” asks the one who grabbed Hodges. A roadie with a long graying ponytail steps forward. He’s wearing a faded Judas Coyne tee-shirt, and his eyes are bright red. “I do, but man, I’m so stoned.” “Try

And here, all momentum left him. He could go no farther. The theater tickets had been intended as a romantic gesture, a let's-do-something-romantic-because-all-we-do-is-fight, and she'd abandoned him there, she'd left him onstage performing CPR on a dead actor and gone home, and now she wanted him to buy milk. Now that he'd stopped walking, Jeevan was cold. His toes were numb. All the magic of the storm had left him, and the happiness he'd felt a moment earlier was fading.

Raised eyebrows , Is she a billet ? The smile, a natural born sniper? The lips, a CPR the mystic needs Aura, like the moon during the day Nous, like an exclamation mark with a purpose Not an ordinary mortal she is but an incantatory healing power

I started to empty the dishwasher and then remembered that there was an alternative to my thoughts and turned on the radio. There had been more bombs in the places where there are bombs. Children had died. No one had started CPR and called an ambulance, no one had rushed to them with adrenaline and oxygen and a defibrillator, no one was piecing together what had happened. There had been bombs and children had died.

She nodded anxiously. Kyle sucked on his Popsicle, assessing her eagerness, wondering if he should tell her she was the best sex he's ever had. She would never believe him anyways, so instead, he told her where to improve as she asked. "You can get ahead if you give better head. Got me?" "Ah, okay. What would you suggest?" He stared at her mouth as it moved up and down the frozen treat. "Want to practice?" She gave him a cynical look. "I'm eating my dessert right now." "Okay, practice on that. See how deep you can go." She looked at the sweet treat in her hand and back at him. "I'll choke." "I know CPR. Don't worry. I won't let you. Pretend it's me. I'll be able to direct you better if I'm not the test subject." She shrugged and inserted the Popsicle in her mouth. "Wait," he said, knocking it out of her hand. "Why did you do that?" He took the discarded Popsicle and ran to the kitchen. He retrieved a new one that wasn't broken in halves. "If you're going to pretend it's me, we should be more realistic," he said, unwrapping it for her. "At least in terms of girth. The length... well, you'll have to use your imagination." "Um...grape," she replied and licked the edge. He sat down and rested his chin on his hands to watch her. She licked it a few times and then shocked him by taking a small bite off the top. She gave him an amused smile. Kyle shook his head. "You are a cruel, cruel woman.

I know, and if you don’t kiss me in the next few seconds, I might have to force myself onto you,” Alexis said breathlessly. His eyes were pulling her under with each new wave of emotion, and if he didn’t relieve her of those oncoming waves with a bit of sensual CPR, she knew she would drown with the need.

THE MINUTE I WALK INTO THE HOSPITAL with Judge at my side, I know I’m in trouble. A security officer—think Hitler in drag with a very bad perm—crosses her arms and blocks my entry at the elevator bank. “No dogs,” she orders. “This is a service dog.” “You’re not blind.” “I have an irregular heartbeat and he’s CPR certified.

She kept her ears permanently tuned to the chicken voices outside, so knew immediately when a coyote had crept into the yard, and barreled screaming for the front door before the rest of us had a clue. (I don't know about the coyote, but I nearly needed CPR.) These hens owed their lives and eggs to Lily, there was no question.

I have an iron lung, and the dog keeps me from getting too close to magnets. [...] I have SARS. He's tallying the people I infect. [...] I'm nearsighted. He helps me read the road signs. [...] I'm a recovering alcoholic. The dog gets between me and a beer. [...] I have an irregular heartbeat and he's CPR certified. [...] Color-blind. He tells me when the traffic lights change. [...] He translates for my Spanish-speaking clients. [...] He's a chick magnet. [...] I'm a lawyer. He chases ambulances for me.

He emerged from the water, still holding my aunt’s drenched body. Although she appeared conscious, she seemed to be in shock. His fin dissolved into legs as the air reached them and he walked onto the sand, lowering my aunt to the ground and deftly administering CPR. I didn’t even know if it was medically necessary, but my aunt didn’t seem to mind.

The kiss led to embarrassing moaning, and they pulled away, laughing at the need between them. “Being with you might just kill me right now.” Blake held her hands and took slow measured breaths. “I’ll wait until you can pant properly.” Livia looked at him from under her lashes. “Oh crap. That’s not helping.” Blake pretended to do CPR on his own chest.

I’ve learned that gasping for air while volunteering to give others CPR is not heroic. It’s suffocation by resentment.

Early methods of CPR included blowing smoke up people's anus.

I had gone through CPR training right before I had Stevie, but like so many other things stored in my mind, motherhood had overwritten that file.

I ran from the barn out through the herd to make certain and saw that the coyote was really dead, as was the sheep, but I ran smack into what makes border collies the incredible beings that they are. Louise grabbed at the coyote’s neck, growling, and having made certain that it was dead, tried to bring the sheep back to life. She pulled at the ewe, trying to lift her to her feet, nudged at her ribs in a kind of crude CPR,

some accuse hospice and palliative care clinicians of promoting a “culture of death” when we allow dying people to leave this life gently, without subjecting them to CPR or mechanical ventilation or dialysis or medical nutrition.

My emotional range is limited. I can’t do grief, but rage is my friend. For instance, I hate death by sickness. It is nothing like Homer, the Old Testament, and Tolkien led me to expect. It is not noble and awe-inspiring. No one delivers a final soliloquy. It is as abrupt and banal as the flicking of a switch. The squiggly line on the monitor straightens out, the defibrillator doesn’t even go whomp, the epinephrine is useless, the nurse doing CPR looks up and even before the doctor pronounces the words, you know. This is not what death should be. Death, the reason for religion, the subject of great literature, the certainty we spend our lives warding off, the giant mystery that looms over everything we do, death should be spectacular, not pity-inducing, a bang and not a whimper. A huge ball of fire, a shower of sparks, a final charge into the ranks of your enemies, a terrific explosion, a backward dive into the fiery pit. Not. . . this.

Howie cleared his throat. “Man, are you sure about this? What if the whole thing was just an accident? Like, what if it was just two people out in the field? Like, having sex and stuff? And she hits her head or has a heart attack or something and the guy is scared, so he runs away.” “And what? Accidentally cuts off three fingers postmortem? ‘Oops, oh, no, my girlfriend just died! Clumsy me, in trying to perform CPR, I chopped off some fingers! Guess I’ll take them with me…. Oh, darn, where did that middle finger go?

Look man, we'd probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is? In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it.

It was getting late, but sleep was the furthest thing from my racing mind. Apparently that was not the case for Mr. Sugar Buns. He lay back, closed his eyes, and threw an arm over his forehead, his favorite sleeping position. I could hardly have that. So, I crawled on top of him and started chest compressions. It seemed like the right thing to do. "What are you doing?" he asked without removing his arm. "Giving you CPR." I pressed into his chest, trying not to lose count. Wearing a red-and-black football jersey and boxers that read, DRIVERS WANTED. SEE INSIDE FOR DETAILS, I'd straddled him and now worked furiously to save his life, my focus like that of a seasoned trauma nurse. Or a seasoned pot roast. It was hard to say. "I'm not sure I'm in the market," he said, his voice smooth and filled with a humor I found appalling. He clearly didn't appreciate my dedication. "Damn it, man! I'm trying to save your life! Don't interrupt." A sensuous grin slid across his face. He tucked his arms behind his head while I worked. I finished my count, leaned down, put my lips on his, and blew. He laughed softly, the sound rumbling from his chest, deep and sexy, as he took my breath into his lungs. That part down, I went back to counting chest compressions. "Don't you die on me!" And praying. After another round, he asked, "Am I going to make it?" "It's touch-and-go. I'm going to have to bring out the defibrillator." "We have a defibrillator?" he asked, quirking a brow, clearly impressed. I reached for my phone. "I have an app. Hold on." As I punched buttons, I realized a major flaw in my plan. I needed a second phone. I could hardly shock him with only one paddle. I reached over and grabbed his phone as well. Started punching buttons. Rolled my eyes. "You don't have the app," I said from between clenched teeth. "I had no idea smartphones were so versatile." "I'll just have to download it. It'll just take a sec." "Do I have that long?" Humor sparkled in his eyes as he waited for me to find the app. I'd forgotten the name of it, so I had to go back to my phone, then back to his, then do a search, then download, then install it, all while my patient lay dying. Did no one understand that seconds counted? "Got it!" I said at last. I pressed one phone to his chest and one to the side of his rib cage like they did in the movies, and yelled, "Clear!" Granted, I didn't get off him or anything as the electrical charge riddled his body, slammed his heart into action, and probably scorched his skin. Or that was my hope, anyway. He handled it well. One corner of his mouth twitched, but that was about it. He was such a trouper. After two more jolts of electricity--it had to be done--I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips to his throat. "Well?" he asked after a tense moment. I released a ragged sigh of relief,and my shoulders fell forward in exhaustion. "You're going to be okay, Mr. Farrow." Without warning, my patient pulled me into his arms and rolled me over, pinning me to the bed with his considerable weight and burying his face in my hair. It was a miracle!

Howie: "What if the whole thing was just an accident?" Jazz: "And what? Accidentally cut off three fingers postmortem? 'Oops, oh no, my girlfriend just died! Clumsy me, in trying to perform CPR, I chopped off some fingers! Guess I'll take them with me…Oh, darn, where did that middle finger go?

cadavers, was CPR training, my second time doing it. The first time, back in college, had been farcical, unserious, everyone laughing: the terribly acted videos and limbless plastic mannequins couldn’t have been more artificial. But now the lurking possibility that we would have to employ these skills someday animated everything.

You’d think that they’d at least teach you the basics,” Sherry said, feeling aggrieved with the Catholic Church all over again. As if there weren’t enough wrong with them, they had to bogart all the anti-demon trainings. At the moment she’d give almost anything for a nice, modern, Unitarian Universalist exorcist. The Unitarian exorcist would probably be a Montessori school administrator with a master’s degree in social work with a focus in cross-cultural sensitivity in evil-spirit extraction. “You don’t have to be a doctor of demonology, but they could at least have given you the hour-long CPR certification course version, just in case there’s an emergency.

That week—the week of the rain—was one of my dad’s bad times. So I went out to the site a lot. One day, I was just picking around one of the foundations. It was all cinder block and pits; hardly any of the building had actually gotten done. And then I saw this little box. A shoe box.” She sucks in a breath, and even in the dark I see her tense. The rest of her story comes out in a rush: “Someone must have left it there, wedged in the space underneath a part of the foundation. Except the rain was so bad it had caused a miniature mudslide. The box had rolled out into the open. I don’t know why I decided to look inside. It was filthy. I thought I might find a pair of shoes, maybe some jewelry.” I know, now, where the story is going. I am walking toward the muddy box alongside her; I am lifting the water-warped cover. The horror and disgust is a mud too: It is rising, black and choking, inside of me. Raven’s voice drops to a whisper. “She was wrapped in a blanket. A blue blanket with yellow lambs on it. She wasn’t breathing. I—I thought she was dead. She was … she was blue. Her skin, her nails, her lips, her fingers. Her fingers were so small.” The mud is in my throat. I can’t breathe. “I don’t know what made me try to revive her. I think I must have gone a little crazy. I was working as a junior lifeguard that summer, so I’d been certified in CPR. I’d never had to do it, though. And she was so tiny—probably a week, maybe two weeks old. But it worked. I’ll never forget how I felt when she took a breath, and all that color came rushing into her skin. It was like the whole world had split open. And everything I’d felt was missing—all that feeling and color—all of it came to me with her first breath. I called her Blue so I would always remember that moment, and so I would never regret.

We'd probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is? In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Real good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it.

Exhibit D: The Cots (or, If You Give a Librarian a Closet) If you give a librarian a closet, she will probably fill it with junk. If she fills it with junk, some of the junk will be books in need of repair. If some of the junk is books, and the closet is off of a back room anyway, she will hide more books there, books that she thinks are crap like the Stormy Sisters series, but which her boss thinks the library should keep. If she hides crappy books there, she will be in no rush to clean the closet, since she would then be out a hiding place. If she goes ten months without cleaning it, she will go to great lengths to hide the mess from her alcoholic and temperamental boss. If she wants to hide the mess from her boss, she will stuff the front of the closet with cots that were once used for nap hour of the short-lived library day care, circa 1996. If she stuffs the closet with cots… the closet will fester unopened for months. If the closet festers unopened for months, the librarian will probably decorate the closet door with cartoons and posters in an effort to distract her fellow librarians from the thought of ever opening the closet. If a librarian decorates a closet door, she will use such items as a Conan the Librarian cartoon, a large stocker that says “the world is quiet here,” a poster of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, a CPR chart, and a bookstore café napkin signed by Michael Chabon. If she uses these items, her boss will ask, “What the hell does this mean, ‘The world is quiet here’? Is it political?” And her boss will also ask, “you’re not filing Michael Chabon in the children’s section, are you?” but her boss, distracted by these items, will never think to open the door. If her boss never opens the door, she will forget she has given the librarian a closet and will, by the end of the year, offer the librarian a second closet. If she gives the librarian a second closet, the librarian will probably fill it with junk.

no matter what the Grim Reaper says about not meaning to collect my soul, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m looking down at my lifeless body while my friends stare at each other. Hello? Call 911. Or maybe someone could start doing CPR. Idiots. “Come with me,” the Reaper insists, tugging on my arm. “There isn’t much time.” I shake him off and shoot my best withering glare in his direction. “I don’t think so. You saw what she did. You were coming for her, not me. She’s the one you should be hauling out of here.” And then he shrugs his shoulders. Is he kidding? He rips my soul from my body and the next minute acts like I’m asking to change the station on the car radio.

Dr. Mark Crisplin, a Portland, Oregon, ER doctor, reviewed the original EEG readings of a number of patients claimed by the scientists as being flatlined or “dead” and discovered that this was not at all the case. “What they showed was slowing, attenuation, and other changes, but only a minority of patients had a flat line, and it [dying] took longer than 10 seconds. The curious thing was that even a little blood flow in some patients was enough to keep EEGs normal.” In fact, most cardiac patients were given CPR, which by definition delivers some oxygen to the brain (that’s the whole point of doing it). Crisplin concluded: “By the definitions presented in the Lancet paper, nobody experienced clinical death. No doctor would ever declare a patient in the middle of a code 99 dead, much less brain dead. Having your heart stop for 2 to 10 minutes and being promptly resuscitated doesn’t make you ‘clinically dead.’ It only means your heart isn’t beating and you may not be conscious.”31 Again, since our normal experience is of stimuli coming into the brain from the outside, when one part of the brain abnormally generates these illusions, another part of the brain—quite possibly the left-hemisphere interpreter described by neuroscientist Michael Gazzaniga—interprets them as external events. Hence, the abnormal is interpreted as supernormal or paranormal.

Data show that the more patients actually know, the less they want of our treatments at the end of life. A study of 230 surrogate decision makers for patients on breathing machines demonstrated that the better the quality of clinician–family communication, the less life support was elected. Another study showed that people were less likely to want CPR after they learned what it actually entailed. Most people dramatically overestimate the likelihood of survival after CPR. When they learn the real numbers, they are less likely to want it by about 50 percent. In short, when people have a more robust understanding of the benefits and burdens of the treatment they are actually getting, they want less of it.

Every now and again I go into a school to teach self-defence classes to young women. I ask: How many of you know which way to look before crossing a busy street? And every single hand will go up. So then I ask: Who knows the fire drill? And most of the hands stay up. Even if I ask who knows CPR, or what to do if you smell gas, there are a lot of hands. But if I ask how many know how to walk around a corner properly—or escape a stranglehold, or find out if the man behind you really is following you—they lower their hands in confusion. Yet these are all sensible precautions. It’s just that women are taught to not think about the danger they are often in, or how to prevent it. We’re taught to feel fear, but not what to do about it.

Hunt hissed to Bryce through his gritted teeth, thunder cracking above him, 'I heard what you said.' Pump, pump, pump went his powerful arms. 'What you waited to admit until I was almost dead, you fucking coward.' His lightning surged into her, sending her body arcing off the ground as he tried to jump-start her heard. He snarled in her ear. 'Now come say it to my face.

Despite the gloom she could make out enough of his finely chiseled features to fleetingly rethink the CPR issue. The man was a knock out, with cheek bones sharp enough to cut cheese on, an arrow straight nose, a strong jaw, and a well cut mouth that subjected both cruelty and sensuality. He stirred groaning softly, hands flailing as if he was searching for something. Mary moved out the way as he rolled towards her coming to rest on his back. As she lent over him to get another look dark eyelashes flickered, opened. His eyes were pale and striking, something flashing in them like lightning cutting through turbulent storm clouds. A pair of fey owlish brows slanted down in to a perplexed frown as he stared up at her. Mary let out a startled yelp when she was grabbed, and then rolled beneath a larger body, his heavy weight, her arms pinioned above her in just one of his large hands. Her hat yanked off and her features quickly scanned. Outrage quickly turned in to fear. The glacial scrutiny made her tremble as if an arctic wind had caressed her body, not that the shear brute strength the stranger wielded alone was not frightening enough. “I’m just trying to help you.” Mary breathed, fighting down the rising panic as his gaze bored in to her. “You must have fallen of your bike.” She had worked Crown defense long enough to have encountered more then a few clients who were nothing more then malicious, ill tempered, brutal thugs. This man Mary knew on an intuitive level was far more dangerous, because he was a killer, because he was devoid of all those things. There was a detachment to his inspection of her, considering if she was pray or a pet. Not human. Something deeply buried stirred. An ancestral memory whispered through her mind like the scent of wood smoke on the night air, instinctive as the fear of the falling, and things that lurked in the dark.

Sorry,” I say to my father. “Hope we didn’t wake you. After last night, I wanted to check on Harlin’s arm.” He tilts his head like he is absolutely sure I’m lying. “And how is his arm, Elise?” he asks. “Uh . . . better?” My father stands motionless for a second, and then he shakes his head and walks into the kitchen. I hear the clink of cups, and then the running of water for the coffeepot. “That was a nice save,” Harlin says, sounding amused. “So detailed. Like a nurse.” “Shut up, Harlin,” I say, trying not to smile. “I didn’t hear you offer anything better.” “You sure you didn’t want to tell him we were playing doctor? That might have sounded more believable.” I turn quickly and swat at him. He laughs, dodging my swing, and catches my hand. “I would tackle you right here,” he says, leaning close. “Pin you and kiss you. But with the luck we have in your house, someone will walk in. And then what will you tell them?” he whispers. “That you were giving me CPR?” “Stop!” I slap his shoulder again.

I lost my first patient on a Tuesday. She was an eighty-two-year-old woman, small and trim, the healthiest person on the general surgery service, where I spent a month as an intern. (At her autopsy, the pathologist would be shocked to learn her age: “She has the organs of a fifty-year-old!”) She had been admitted for constipation from a mild bowel obstruction. After six days of hoping her bowels would untangle themselves, we did a minor operation to help sort things out. Around eight P.M. Monday night, I stopped by to check on her, and she was alert, doing fine. As we talked, I pulled from my pocket my list of the day’s work and crossed off the last item (post-op check, Mrs. Harvey). It was time to go home and get some rest. Sometime after midnight, the phone rang. The patient was crashing. With the complacency of bureaucratic work suddenly torn away, I sat up in bed and spat out orders: “One liter bolus of LR, EKG, chest X-ray, stat—I’m on my way in.” I called my chief, and she told me to add labs and to call her back when I had a better sense of things. I sped to the hospital and found Mrs. Harvey struggling for air, her heart racing, her blood pressure collapsing. She wasn’t getting better no matter what I did; and as I was the only general surgery intern on call, my pager was buzzing relentlessly, with calls I could dispense with (patients needing sleep medication) and ones I couldn’t (a rupturing aortic aneurysm in the ER). I was drowning, out of my depth, pulled in a thousand directions, and Mrs. Harvey was still not improving. I arranged a transfer to the ICU, where we blasted her with drugs and fluids to keep her from dying, and I spent the next few hours running between my patient threatening to die in the ER and my patient actively dying in the ICU. By 5:45 A.M., the patient in the ER was on his way to the OR, and Mrs. Harvey was relatively stable. She’d needed twelve liters of fluid, two units of blood, a ventilator, and three different pressors to stay alive. When I finally left the hospital, at five P.M. on Tuesday evening, Mrs. Harvey wasn’t getting better—or worse. At seven P.M., the phone rang: Mrs. Harvey had coded, and the ICU team was attempting CPR. I raced back to the hospital, and once again, she pulled through. Barely. This time, instead of going home, I grabbed dinner near the hospital, just in case. At eight P.M., my phone rang: Mrs. Harvey had died. I went home to sleep.

Twas the night before Christmas and in SICU All the patients were stirring, the nurses were, too. Some Levophed hung from an IMED with care In hopes that a blood pressure soon would be there. One patient was resting all snug in his bed While visions—from Versed—danced in his head. I, in my scrubs, with flowsheet in hand, Had just settled down to chart the care plan. Then from room 17 there arose such a clatter We sprang from the station to see what was the matter. Away to the bedside we flew like a flash, Saved the man from falling, with restraints from the stash. “Do you know where you are?” one nurse asked while tying; “Of course! I’m in France in a jail, and I’m dying!” Then what to my wondering eyes should appear? But a heart rate of 50, the alarm in my ear. The patient’s face paled, his skin became slick And he said in a moment, “I’m going to be sick!” Someone found the Inapsine and injected a port, Then ran for a basin, as if it were sport. His heart rhythm quieted back to a sinus, We soothed him and calmed him with old-fashioned kindness. And then in a twinkling we hear from room 11 First a plea for assistance, then a swearing to heaven. As I drew in my breath and was turning around, Through the unit I hurried to respond to the sound. “This one’s having chest pain,” the nurse said and then She gave her some nitro, then morphine and when She showed not relief from IV analgesia Her breathing was failing: time to call anesthesia. “Page Dr. Wilson, or May, or Banoub! Get Dr. Epperson! She ought to be tubed!” While the unit clerk paged them, the monitor showed V-tach and low pressure with no pulse: “Call a code!” More rapid than eagles, the code team they came. The leader took charge and he called drugs by name: “Now epi! Now lido! Some bicarb and mag! You shock and you chart it! You push med! You bag!” And so to the crash cart, the nurses we flew With a handful of meds, and some dopamine, too! From the head of the bed, the doc gave his call: “Resume CPR!” So we worked one and all. Then Doc said no more, but went straight to his work, Intubated the patient, then turned with a jerk. While placing his fingers aside of her nose, And giving a nod, hooked the vent to the hose. The team placed an art-line and a right triple-lumen. And when they were through, she scarcely looked human: When the patient was stable, the doc gave a whistle. A progress note added as he wrote his epistle. But I heard him exclaim ere he strode out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all! But no more codes for tonight!” Jamie L. Beeley Submitted by Nell Britton

And the wraith on the heart monitor looks pensively down at Gately from upside-down and asks does Gately remember the myriad thespian extras on for example his beloved ‘Cheers!,’ not the center-stage Sam and Carla and Nom, but the nameless patrons always at tables, filling out the bar’s crowd, concessions to realism, always relegated to back- and foreground; and always having utterly silent conversations: their faces would animate and mouths would move realistically, but without sound; only the name-stars at the bar itself could audibilize. The wraith says these fractional actors, human scenery, could be seen (but not heard) in most pieces of filmed entertainment. And Gately remembers them, the extras in all public scenes, especially like bar and restaurant scenes, or rather remembers how he doesn’t quite remember them, how it never struck his addled mind as in fact surreal that their mouths moved but nothing emerged, and what a miserable fucking bottom-rung job that must be for an actor, to be sort of human furniture, figurants the wraith says they’re called, these surreally mute background presences whose presence really revealed that the camera, like any eye, has a perceptual corner, a triage of who’s important enough to be seen and heard v. just seen. A term from ballet, originally, figurant, the wraith explains. The wraith pushes his glasses up in the vaguely sniveling way of a kid that’s just got slapped around on the playground and says he personally spent the vast bulk of his own former animate life as pretty much a figurant, furniture at the periphery of the very eyes closest to him, it turned out, and that it’s one heck of a crummy way to try to live. Gately, whose increasing self-pity leaves little room or patience for anybody else’s self-pity, tries to lift his left hand and wiggle his pinkie to indicate the world’s smallest viola playing the theme from The Sorrow and the Pity, but even moving his left arm makes him almost faint. And either the wraith is saying or Gately is realizing that you can’t appreciate the dramatic pathos of a figurant until you realize how completely trapped and encaged he is in his mute peripheral status, because like say for example if one of ‘Cheers!’’s bar’s figurants suddenly decided he couldn’t take it any more and stood up and started shouting and gesturing around wildly in a bid for attention and nonperipheral status on the show, Gately realizes, all that would happen is that one of the audibilizing ‘name’ stars of the show would bolt over from stage-center and apply restraints or the Heineken Maneuver or CPR, figuring the silent gesturing figurant was choking on a beer-nut or something, and that then the whole rest of that episode of ‘Cheers!’ would be about jokes about the name star’s life-saving heroics, or else his fuck-up in applying the Heineken Maneuver to somebody who wasn’t choking on a nut. No way for a figurant to win. No possible voice or focus for the encaged figurant.

Why don't you do some Bee CPR? BPR!

While she did, they finally spoke about his use of CPR to revive a dwarf after the bugbear attack.

Thomas P. Lyon and colleagues argues that firms must become as transparent about their corporate political responsibility(CPR) as their corporate social responsibility (CSR).

Did Honeyballs give CPR in the lift?’ ‘Honeyman.’ He sounded cold.

Guys who kiss like they’re giving CPR should have to attend kissing classes. If I take out “who kiss like they’re giving CPR,” this is my sentence: Guys should have to attend kissing classes.

Find a book that drowns you and then gives you CPR

Bandages and Supplies 50 assorted-size adhesive bandages 1 large trauma dressing 20 sterile dressings, 4x4 inch 20 sterile dressings, 3x3 inch 20 sterile dressings, 2x2 inch 1 roll of waterproof adhesive tape (10 yards x 1 inch) 2 rolls self-adhesive wrap, 1/2 inch 2 rolls self-adhesive wrap, 1 inch 2 rolls self-adhesive wrap, 2 inch » 1 elastic bandage, 3 inch » 1 elastic bandage, 4 inch » 2 triangular cloth bandages » 10 butterfly bandages » 2 eye pads Medications 2 to 4 blood-clotting agents 10 antibiotic ointment packets (approximately 1 gram) 1 tube of hydrocortisone ointment 1 tube of antibiotic ointment 1 tube of burn cream 1 bottle of eye wash 1 bottle of antacid 1 bottle syrup of ipecac (for poisoning) 1 bottle of activated charcoal (for poisoning) 25 antiseptic wipe packets 2 bottles of aspirin or other pain reliever (100 count) 2 to 4 large instant cold compresses 2 to 4 small instant cold packs 1 tube of instant glucose (for diabetics) Equipment 10 pairs of large latex or nonlatex gloves 1 space blanket or rescue blanket 1 pair of chemical goggles 10 N95 dust/mist respirators or medical masks 1 oral thermometer (nonmercury/nonglass) 1 pair of splinter forceps 1 pair of medical scissors 1 magnifying glass 2 large SAM Splints (optional) 1 tourniquet Assorted safety pins Optional Items If Trained to Use 1 CPR mask 1 bag valve mask 1 adjustable cervical spine collar 1 blood pressure cuff and stethoscope or blood pressure device 1 set of disposable oral airways 1 oxygen tank with regulator and non-rebreather mask Suturing kit and sutures Surgical or super glue If you have advanced training, such items as a suturing kit, IV setup, and medical instruments may be added.

Another time, Dora Davis from Oklahoma started yelling at Rachel LaThorpe for stealing her parking space outside the Jenny Lake Visitor Center one summer day in 2017. Dora got so worked up, screaming and cursing, that her heart stopped. Suffering an out-of-hospital cardiac arrest was usually the end for most people, but it was Dora’s lucky day because Rachel—the woman she’d just been cursing at—was a nurse and began CPR. Teton rangers responded and continued treating Dora, and days later she walked out of the hospital with full neurological function.

The Emergency First Aid at Work Course is a specialised training programme offered by various first aid training providers. This course is designed to equip individuals with the essential skills and knowledge needed to perform emergency first aid in a workplace setting. The training typically covers a range of critical topics, such as managing an unresponsive casualty, CPR (Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation), dealing with bleeding and shock, and handling specific workplace hazards.

CPR (Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation) training is an essential skill set that can make a significant difference in emergency situations involving cardiac arrest or breathing difficulties. This training is often sought by healthcare professionals, emergency responders, and even laypeople who wish to be prepared to assist in life-threatening scenarios.

He asked if I knew CPR…because I took his breath away.

Again in How We Die, Dr. Nuland described the failing attempts of a CPR team to revive a patient who had suffered cardiac arrest in the hospital:

The combined odors of Cass's subtle aftershave and the disgusting reek of Nic are overpowering. I wonder if Cass will keel over and I'll have to perform CPR. This speculation should not feel so much like a fantasy.

He’s dead. Give him CPR. Jump up and down on his chest,” she instructed the boys. She screamed again when I suddenly came back to life and grabbed her ankle with a growl. That right there. Times like that made me want to do just what Morgan said, take my family somewhere and keep them in a safe bubble. I often wonder if it’s like that for every man. Do other men have this strong of a hold on his family? I would kill anyone that tried to hurt them, without question.

He didn’t want anyone to perform CPR because he knew that even in the unlikely event that it restarted his heart, it would just mean that he would die in an ICU.

she had a life-threatening illness and was too ill to speak for herself, she did not want any invasive measures to prolong her life: no surgery, no CPR, no mechanical ventilation, no artificial nutrition and hydration.

standing position, leapt into action and started to perform CPR

Bend, lift, heave, groan. Hey Dad, remember how you used to say I wasn’t afraid of hard work? Well, guess what I’ve been doing. Building the railway for the CPR, that’s what, with the Chinese coolies. Yes, really. Who me, delirious? Not a chance. Yes, I’d like to take a train trip through the Fraser Canyon when I get back to my time.

CPR123 Foundation empowers individuals and organizations with state-of-the-art emergency response training, workplace-consulting services, life-saving equipment and affordable educational resources.

When I came to, I felt someone's arms around me and heard whispers. "Kate? Kate? Are you okay? Answer me! Kate!" It was Liam's voice. He'd come to my rescue as usual I wanted to open my eyes, to tell him I was fine. But I was too scared of what I'd see. "Is she okay?" A girl's voice I didn't recognize asked softly. "Everyone give me some space. I know CPR. I think she needs the breath of life." I recognized that squeaky voice right away. My eyes flew open. "I'm fine! I'm fine!" I managed to croak. "Works every time," Seth snorted.

As you know, we’ve been working on Kylie for some time.  She ingested quite a bit of water but the good thing is,” he turned to Celine, “you got her out quickly and started CPR right away.  If it hadn’t been for that we wouldn’t have been able to save her.  The paramedics would have come too late.  Your quick action saved her life.

Education and Training For Life

Because CPR resuscitates thousands today, it is now a commonly known “NDE” or near—death experience, that at the moment of death your whole life passes before you in an instant, with perfect clarity; and in this “life review” everything is seen truly, nothing is covered up. God is apparently sharing a foretaste of His own vision of our life with us, as He will do completely in Purgatory and / or Heaven; and repented and forgiven sins are part of this bitter yet sweet vision. St. Thomas had no CPR, and therefore few NDEs as his data, as we do, but he knew this anyway, if not inductively from data, then deductively from philosophy.

Most people will call Emergency medical helpline/Ambulance service only a few times during their lifetimes. Having the necessary information before calling Emergency Ambulance helpline will help them in sending you the appropriate help say first aid responder, ambulance service, doctor, nurse quickly. It can be a frightening moment, but few prior precautions that might help you to run the process smoothly for both, you and the operator. If you are ever in a life-threatening medical emergency, it is important to have the emergency medical helpline number of your area memorized. Being composed and prepared to assist could save the victim life. Don’t Panic: Obviously, when you are calling the emergency medical helpline, you are in an emergency. But, Panic does not help, it may obstruct your speech (talking too fast, too slow, begin stuttering). Make sure you are far enough away from the emergency to be safe. Call your local ambulance helpline: Call your local ambulance helpline say in Bangalore, Emergency helpline number is 080 67335555 or 108. Be aware that, sometimes, it takes time for the phone to connect to the correct answering point. Do not disconnect the call if you do not connect immediately!! Know what you will be asked from the emergency operator. Make sure you are aware of the following queries: Where is the emergency location? Location is the first question asked by all emergency responders to provide & send the help. Give the dispatcher your name and address. Be aware of emergency location & where you are. Nature/Type of the emergency? Be aware of the type of emergency that you are in & the type of assistance that you want. The assistance includes medical professionals, ambulance service, firefighters or other professionals. A detailed, yet concise, description: Be aware of what happened? What should have the most importance? And why & what type of assistance you need. Have your phone number memorised: The dispatcher may need to call back for further information or to provide some useful instructions or to know where you are. 4. Listen to the dispatcher & be prepared to assist: Listen to the dispatcher & follow their instructions. The faster & better you follow their instructions, the higher the rate of survival will be. The operator/first responder might explain how to do CPR, if the victim is unconscious, while help is on arrival. For example, he can instruct you first aid, or how to help a choking victim guide you on how to stop nose bleeding. 5. Know your local medical emergency number: The emergency number depends on the country that you are living in. So you should know the local emergency number memorised. The Emergency Ambulance number in Bangalore, India is 080 67335555 & 108. 6. Ask for the type of ambulance that you are looking for: The operator wants to know the type of ambulance that you need. The type of ambulance includes Advanced Life support, Air ambulance Service, and Basic life support depending upon the type of emergency. In this case, make it clear about the type of emergency condition or explain the emergency, the victim is suffering from. Call Blood for sure helpline number 080 67335555 immediately for any life-threatening medical Emergency & ambulance services. These include chest pain, choking, car crash or any vehicle accident, difficulty speaking, drowning, numbness, sudden intense pain, severe burns and other serious medical problems.

We see cancer patients battling death as valiant, and we think that if they try hard enough, they’ll beat it. In truth, cancer is an equal-opportunity killer and is impervious to moral virtues and emotional strength. No amount of courage increases a patient’s likelihood of survival. For every courageous patient who survives, there is another courageous patient who does not. Of course you’d never know that from popular media, where patients wage battle against cancer and win, and where almost everyone survives CPR and looks remarkably good hooked up to a breathing machine.

This course is designed for healthcare professionals who respond to emergency in infants and children.

Thomas kept his focus on Sally and continued administering CPR.

I didn’t know his name,” Logan muttered stupidly. “Dom broke the window to get in. He carried you out.” He heard Savannah choke up at the memory – a memory he didn’t share because he couldn’t bring anything from that day forth. “You weren’t breathing so Dom did CPR till the paramedics arrived.” Jesus. Logan

waited a minute and knocked louder. The Bee Gees continued to blare from downstairs. I figured Margaret's dad didn't hear me through the thick door and the music. "Mr. Sanders," I said as I eased open the door. I didn't want to startle him. As I entered, my shoe slipped on something. I lifted my foot and discovered a small capsule crushed under my heel. That's when I noticed pills scattered everywhere, and Harold Sanders lying on the floor. The desk chair and lamp were knocked over. I rushed to his side, rolled him on his back, and checked to see if he was breathing. No luck. I started CPR

According to the American Heart Association, for every minute that goes by without someone attempting CPR or defibrillation, the odds of survival decrease by 7 to 10 percent. 8 If ten minutes go by, survival is a long shot.

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He rubbed my arms vigorously as he did this. He told me he knew CPR and I thanked him for saving my life. This was role play, I think.

She raised her glass of water to him. “To chemistries that lie.” He raised his. "And hearts that die." Oh boy, he had no idea the CPR she had planned for him.

Finn made a gurgling noise from his throat that didn’t sound exactly like choking, but then again, I’d never seen anyone being poisoned before. I was standing over him, ready to do CPR, when I noticed that he wasn’t choking; he was laughing.

2. If no pulse is noted a. Call for help (Code Button, yell, call light) b. Send someone for AED or whatever equipment is available c. Begin chest compressions i. At a rate of 100-120 beats/min ii. At at a depth of 2 inches iii. Do NOT delay chest compressions d. During chest compressions, do not stop unless instructed i. Minimizing chest compression interruptions is ESSENTIAL ii. Push hard and fast iii. Allow full recoil e. Continue CPR in 2-minute cycle finishes i. Check carotid pulse ii. Analyze rhythm (AED mode if no ACLS providers present) iii. Use bag/valve mask (or other devices) to administer breaths after 30 compressions 1. 30 (compressions): 2 (breaths) ratio until the airway is secured

Now drink up. Fatigue makes you grouchy." "Not grouchy. Thirsty," she said, uncapping the bottle and drinking deeply, drawing his attention to the elegant length of her neck and the pounding of her carotid pulse. Before he could second-guess the urge, he leaned across and placed his lips over the pulse, giving a little nip that had her half gasping, half choking as she doused him with water. "Are you trying to kill me? I almost choked," she said, elbowing him away, but there was no malice in her tone, and she pressed her fingertip to the pulse, a coy smile playing about her mouth. "It's okay, I'd revive you with CPR." He puckered up and made smooching sounds. "A little mouth-to-mouth, combined with my hands all over your chest, you'd be just fine.

a call went out over the radio that a fellow officer had collapsed. That officer was Brian Sicknick. EMTs administered CPR on the floor of the Capitol building, but the hospital listed him in critical condition upon his arrival. He suffered two strokes in succession in the aftermath of fighting to save the Capitol. Officer Sicknick died the following day, January 7, 2021. He was 42 years old.

from my Linkedin post: The sudden cardiac arrest of a Buffalo Bills football player, Damar Hamlin reminds me as a cardiologist that widely available, basic life support classes teach the two primary determinants of victim survival: -time to initiation of effective cardiopulmonary resuscitation, -time to electrical defibrillation. As described in my memoir, Different Drummer; "Cardiac resuscitation has evolved from physicians cutting open a patient's chest and rhythmically squeezing the victim's heart...to closed-chest compressions at a rate equal to the song Stayin' Alive'... Defibrillation can now be administered by trained laypeople using an automated external defibrillator, a device that is often available in public facilities...

Welcome to Learning Tree Academy. We provide full-service child care for preschool kindergarten as well as a before/after school care provider in Albuquerque. We cater our services to children as young as 6 weeks old to children up to 12 years of age. Operated by experts in childcare with decades of experience, we make sure to employ only the best people that can provide the best for your children. Our employees are all knowledgeable of performing basic first-aid and CPR and are all certified.

itself. Up next, Mr. Yang’s wife, June, testified in a halting voice about hearing an argument on her front porch that day. As far as she could tell, she said, Alex had been aggressive from the moment he’d arrived, and then rude and dismissive when she’d come outside to find her husband unconscious on the sidewalk. Alex’s heart clenched as she spoke. He’d been giving CPR to Mr. Yang when his wife came out, and yes, it was entirely possible that he’d come off as rude in the moment. Still, it was hard to watch this woman in so much pain, even as she testified against him. If nothing else, the fact that she hadn’t actually

C.P.R. Culture first, People oriented then comes after are Rules and regulations. You cannot create team members who follow S.O.P. if you don't create culture for them nor lead them.

Beauregard thought the night sky looked like a painting. Laughter filled the air only to be drowned out by a cacophony of revving engines as the moon slid from behind the clouds. The bass from the sound system in a nearby Chevelle was hitting him in his chest so hard, it felt like someone was performing CPR on him. There were about a dozen other late-model cars parked haphazardly in front of the old convenience store. In addition to the Chevelle, there was a Maverick, two Impalas, a few Camaros and five or six more examples of the heyday of American muscle. The air was cool and filled with the scent of gas and oil. The rich, acrid smell of exhaust fumes and burnt rubber. A choir of crickets and whippoorwills tried in vain to be heard. Beauregard closed his eyes and strained his ears. He could hear them but just barely. They were screaming for love. He thought a lot of people spent a large part of their life doing the same thing. The wind caught the sign hanging above his head from the arm of a pole that extended twenty feet into the air. It creaked as the breeze moved it back and forth. CARTER SPEEDE MART the sign proclaimed in big black letters set against a white background. The sign was beginning to yellow with age. The letters were worn and chipped. The cheap paint flaking away like dried skin. The second “E” had disappeared from the word “SPEEDEE.” Beauregard wondered what had happened to Carter. He wondered if he had disappeared too.

Suicide’s Note: An Annual I hope you’ve been taken up by Jesus though so many decades have passed, so far apart we’d grown between love transmogrifying into hate and those sad letters and phone calls and your face vanishing into a noose that I couldn’t today name the gods you at the end worshipped, if any, praise being impossible for the devoutly miserable. And screw my church who’d roast in Hell poor suffering bastards like you, unable to bear the masks of their own faces. With words you sought to shape a world alternate to the one that dared inscribe itself so ruthlessly across your eyes, for you could not, could never fully refute the actual or justify the sad heft of your body, earn your rightful space or pay for the parcels of oxygen you inherited. More than once you asked that I breathe into your lungs like the soprano in the opera I loved so my ghost might inhabit you and you ingest my belief in your otherwise-only-probable soul. I wonder does your death feel like failure to everybody who ever loved you as if our collective cpr stopped too soon, the defib paddles lost charge, the corpse punished us by never sitting up. And forgive my conviction that every suicide’s an asshole. There is a good reason I am not God, for I would cruelly smite the self-smitten. I just wanted to say ha-ha, despite your best efforts you are every second alive in a hard-gnawing way for all who breathed you deeply in, each set of lungs, those rosy implanted wings, pink balloons. We sigh you out into air and watch you rise like rain. Source: Poetry (September 2012)

They’re trained in CPR, you know.” “And a variety of other special skills,” I said dryly, trying not to be annoyed. “Is he single? Cute? Any red flags?