Delivery Pain Quotes

If it hurts, do it more frequently, and bring the pain forward.

Cruelty, Wallace thinks, is really just the conduit of pain. It conveys pain from one place to another -- from the place of highest concentration to the place of lowest concentration, in the same way heat flows. It is a delivery system, as in the way that certain viruses convey illness, disease, irreparable harm. They're all infected with pain, hurting each other.

In software, when something is painful, the way to reduce the pain is to do it more frequently, not less.

We found that where code deployments are most painful, you’ll find the poorest software delivery performance, organizational performance, and culture.

Tone policing takes priority over listening to the pain inflicted on people of color. People of color are told they should be nicer, kinder, more gracious, less angry in their delivery, or that white people's needs, feelings, and the thoughts should be given equal weight.

When ACOG (American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists) claims that home birth and midwives are unsafe, they imply that the women who choose it and the midwives that provide it are acting irresponsibly and selfishly. They stigmatize normal birth just as the political right has stigmatized abortion. And they stigmatize women. "Our country has created a mythology of women who are irresponsible and don't care," says Paltrow. "We talk about welfare queens, crack moms, and murderous women who have abortions." A culture that allows such language to permeate our national subconscious inevitably dehumanizes all women, including mothers. Lyon argues that this thinking perpetuates a phrase often invoked in exam rooms and delivery rooms: The goal is to have a healthy baby. "This phrase is used over and over and over to shut down women's requests," she says. "The context needs to be that the goal is a healthy mom. Because mothers never make decisions without thinking about that healthy baby. And to suggest otherwise is insulting and degrading and disrespectful." What's best for women is best for babies. ... The goal is to have a healthy family.

Grief shatters. If you let yourself shatter and then you put yourself back together, piece by piece, you wake up one day and realize that you have been completely reassembled. You are whole again, and strong, but you are suddenly a new shape, a new size. The change that happens to people who really sit in their pain—whether it’s a sliver of envy lasting an hour or a canyon of grief lasting decades—it’s revolutionary. When that kind of transformation happens, it becomes impossible to fit into your old conversations or relationships or patterns or thoughts or life anymore. You are like a snake trying to fit back into old, dead skin or a butterfly trying to crawl back into its cocoon. You look around and see everything freshly, with the new eyes you have earned for yourself. There is no going back. Perhaps the only thing that makes grief any easier is to surrender completely to it. To resist trying to hold on to a single part of ourselves that existed before the doorbell rang. Sometimes to live again, we have to let ourselves die completely. We have to let ourselves become completely, utterly, new. When grief rings: Surrender. There is nothing else to do. The delivery is utter transformation.

Life and love can be so cruel and beautiful and utterly confusing. This isn’t the love I dreamed of as a little girl. This isn’t the whirlwind romance I swooned over in books. There’s no sparkly ring, no wedding bells, no husband holding our baby in the delivery room. But what we have is a real love. It’s dark, and ugly; raw and passionate. It brings pain and it brings happiness and everything in between. This love - our love – is a love that never dies. It withers in the dark and comes back to life again under bright moments even stronger than it was before.

But delivery has to do with the safety of two lives. Jiyoung chose to give birth in a hospital with the help of experts because she had decided it was the safer way, and believed the birthing plan was a decision based on the parents’ values and circumstances, not something to make a value judgment on. However, a significant number of media outlets reported on the possible adverse effects of medical treatment and medication on newborns—their causal relationship speculative—to arouse guilt and fear. People who pop a painkiller at the smallest hint of a migraine, or who need anaesthetic cream to remove a mole, demand that women giving birth should gladly endure the pain, exhaustion, and mortal fear. As if that’s maternal love. This idea of “maternal love” is spreading like religious dogma. Accept Maternal Love as your Lord and Savior, for the Kingdom is near!

I have a delivery for Sisyphus – one painful death, requires a signature. Are you Sisyphus?

Seamus shuddered in horror, before he pulled himself together. Determined, he reached between my thighs and shoved hard. Pain, like the fire of a thousand suns, burned through my belly. I tried to squirm away from his hands, using mine to push him away.

Talkatives complain, cry, shout, brag, and are more hysterical about their lives than something else; don’t be a part of that tragedy! Perhaps it's been a while now that you have been complaining, crying and shouting about your "labour pains". It's time to show us your baby!

Depression starts from a deeply rooted idea, that as a human being, you are a sinner. Even if you are agnostic, atheistic, or a mystic, sin is a belief that you have violated some internal law of ethics, which causes an inability to regain your divine state of love. It is Fault. Disobedience to a higher power, god, or archetype is another definition from separation of peace of mind. Even if the god or archetype cannot be proven, it still exists in your mind, thus fault is real in your mind. It's the idea that you have broken an internal rule that separates you from delivery of a promise. This creates depression, which is a long standing feeling of pain due to permanent loss. It is not short term loss. It is complete loss that can never be returned. When you birthed yourself into this reality, you were vast, elegant, exquisite, intelligent, infinite, and beautiful beyond understanding. You came into this time and space matrix to gain a soul, and that required a lot of experience. Experience is painful. Experience is expansive. Close the door by accepting the loss.

Gmorning. Grateful for growing pains, Grateful for the lines on my face, Grateful for the crick in my neck, Grateful for hot showers, Grateful for broken coffee machines, Grateful for the thumbs typing this, Grateful for another day alive at the same time as you. Gnight. Grateful for long days, Grateful for aches and pains, Grateful for quick pad thai delivery, Grateful for hot baths, Grateful for early work calls tomorrow, Grateful for the thumbs typing this, Grateful for another day alive at the same time as you.

Gather close, and let us speak of nasty little shits. Oh, come now, we are no strangers to the vicious demons in placid disguises, innocent eyes so wide, hidden minds so dark. Does evil exist? Is it a force, some deadly possession that slips into the unwary? Is it a thing separate and thus subject to accusation and blame, distinct from the one it has used? Does it flit from soul to soul, weaving its diabolical scheme in all the unseen places, snarling into knots tremulous fears and appalling opportunity, stark terrors and brutal self-interest? Or is the dread word nothing more than a quaint and oh so convenient encapsulation of all those traits distinctly lacking moral context, a sweeping generalization embracing all things depraved and breath takingly cruel, a word to define that peculiar glint in the eye—the voyeur to one’s own delivery of horror, of pain and anguish and impossible grief? Give the demon crimson scales, slashing talons. Tentacles and dripping poison. Three eyes and six slithering tongues. As it crouches there in the soul, its latest abode in an eternal succession of abodes, may every god kneel in prayer. But really. Evil is nothing but a word, an objectification where no objectification is necessary. Cast aside this notion of some external agency as the source of inconceivable inhumanity—the sad truth is our possession of an innate proclivity towards indifference, towards deliberate denial of mercy, towards disengaging all that is moral within us. But if that is too dire, let’s call it evil. And paint it with fire and venom. There are extremities of behaviour that seem, at the time, perfectly natural, indeed reasonable. They are arrived at suddenly, or so it might seem, but if one looks the progression reveals itself, step by step, and that is a most sad truth.

Grief shatters. If you let yourself shatter and then you put yourself back together, piece by piece, you wake up one day and realize that you have been completely reassembled. You are whole again, and strong, but you are suddenly a new shape, a new size. The change that happens to people who really sit in their pain -- whether it's a sliver of envy lasting an hour or a canyon of grief lasting decades -- it's revolutionary. when that kind of transformation happens, it becomes impossible to fit into your old conversations or relationships or patterns or thoughts or life anymore. You are like a snake trying to fit back into old, dead skin or a butterfly trying to crawl back into its cocoon. You look around and see everything freshly, with the new eyes you have earned for yourself. There is no going back. Perhaps the only thing that makes grief any easier is to surrender completely to it. To resist trying to hold on to a single part of ourselves that existed before the doorbell rang. Sometimes to live again, we have to let ourselves die completely. We have to let ourselves become completely, utterly new. When grief rings: Surrender. There is nothing else to do. The delivery is utter transformation.

Having a dream is like a pregnant woman waiting to have her baby delivered; everyone can see clearly that's got a baby inside of her womb;sometimes her close relations might wish to help out in carrying the pregnancy but no avail;even her husband feels to help her deliver the baby when he see's her honnie in pain the day of delivery. But after delivery everyone carries the baby for her Yeah;that's what it is peeps; someone out there is wailing to help carry out that your precious dream;but you need to deliver to them so they can see and help support. And I tell you;the world will carry what you deliver to them; cuz its called talent and its a gift from God.

nutrients have been considered especially helpful and beneficial.  For women fish oil has the extra bonus of helping with issues like period pains, miscarriages, early delivery and pre-eclampsya. The reason this brand of oils has good benefits on the human body is that it contains highly unsaturated natural fats. When you take these oils, you replace the oils within your arteries with healthier oils and this has an effect on every part of the body from the skin to weight loss. These supplements also have an effect on nails in terms of growth and shine. It is common that you will be advised to take a combination of different extracts within one capsule so that you can maximize on the benefits.

Grief is a cocoon from which we emerge new. Last year Liz’s beloved partner became very sick and started dying. I was far away, so each day I would send her messages that said, “I am sitting outside your door.” One day, my mom called and asked, “How is Liz?” I thought for a moment about how to answer. I realized I couldn’t because she’d asked me the wrong question. I said, “Mama, I think the question is not ‘How is Liz?’ The question is ‘Who is Liz? Who will she be when she emerges from this grief?’ ” Grief shatters. If you let yourself shatter and then you put yourself back together, piece by piece, you wake up one day and realize that you have been completely reassembled. You are whole again, and strong, but you are suddenly a new shape, a new size. The change that happens to people who really sit in their pain—whether it’s a sliver of envy lasting an hour or a canyon of grief lasting decades—it’s revolutionary. When that kind of transformation happens, it becomes impossible to fit into your old conversations or relationships or patterns or thoughts or life anymore. You are like a snake trying to fit back into old, dead skin or a butterfly trying to crawl back into its cocoon. You look around and see everything freshly, with the new eyes you have earned for yourself. There is no going back. Perhaps the only thing that makes grief any easier is to surrender completely to it. To resist trying to hold on to a single part of ourselves that existed before the doorbell rang. Sometimes to live again, we have to let ourselves die completely. We have to let ourselves become completely, utterly, new. When grief rings: Surrender. There is nothing else to do. The delivery is utter transformation.

From heat and protons, to hearts, central nervous systems, minds and cluster bombs, this is Creation’s single compulsion, its one and only passion; a relentless, arguably reckless passage from a state of ancestral simplicity to contemporary complexity, where complexity—and the specialisation it affords—parents a wretched and forever diversifying family of more devoted fears and faithful anxieties, more pervasive ailments and skilful parasites, more virulent toxins, more capable diseases, and more affectionate expressions of pain, ruin, psychosis and loss. In the simplest possible statement: Creation is a vast entanglement apparatus—a complexity machine —whose single-minded mindless state of employment is geared entirely towards a greater potency and efficiency in the delivery and experience of misery and confusion, not harmony and peaceful accord.

It feels so strange, being here, at this place and in this circumstance. Years ago, we removed one child from Tatooine, thinking him to be the galaxy’s greatest hope. Now I have returned one – with the same goal in mind. I hope it goes better this time. Because the path to this moment has been filled with pain. For the whole galaxy, for my friends – and for me. I still can’t believe the Jedi Order is gone – and the Republic, corrupted and in the hands of Palpatine. And Anakin, corrupted as well. The holovids I saw of him slaughtering the Jedi younglings in the Temple still haunt my dreams... and shatter my heart into pieces, over and over again. But after the horror of children’s deaths, a child may bring hope, as well. It's as I said: the delivery is made. I’m standing on a ridge with my riding beast – a Tatooine eopie – looking back at the Lars homestead. Owen and Beru Lars are outside, holding the child. The last chapter is finished: a new one has begun.

We had planned to spend Christmas morning with my family, and then head over to Phil and Kay’s for Christmas night. The whole family was there, including all the grandkids. Bella, Willie and Korie’s daughter, was the youngest and still an infant. We opened presents, ate dinner, and the whole evening felt surreal. Tomorrow morning I’ll have a baby in this world, I thought. When Jep and I left that night, I said, “I’m gonna go have a baby. See you all later!” For all the worry and concern and tears and prayers we’d spent on our unborn baby, when it came to her birth, she was no trouble at all. I went to the hospital, got prepped for the C-section, and within thirty minutes she was out. Lily was beautiful and healthy. I was overwhelmed with happiness and joy. I felt God had blessed me. He’d created life inside of me--a real, beautiful, breathing little human being--and brought her into this world through me. It was an unbelievable miracle. And the best part? Jep was in the delivery room. Unlike his dad, he wanted to be there, and he shared it all with me. I’ll never forget the sight of Jep decked out in blue scrubs, with the blue head cover, holding his baby girl for the first time. I’ll never forget how she nestled down in the crook of his arm, his hand wrapped up and around, gently holding her. He stared down at her, and I could see a smile behind his white surgical mask. He was already in love--I knew that look. After we admired the baby together, I fell asleep, and Jep took his newborn daughter out to meet the family. He told me later he bawled like a baby. Later, when she went to the hospital nursery, Jep kept going over there to stare at her. I think he was in shock and overwhelmed and excited. Lily had a light creamy complexion and little pink rosebud lips, and she was born December 26, 2002. Despite the rough pregnancy, she was perfect. God answered our prayers, and now we were a family of three. We’d been married just a little over a year.

At some point I tried willing things along, mentally focusing on a rapid delivery. That didn't work. I got up to walk around-walking is supposed to help you progress-then quickly got back in the chair. “Argh!!!!!” I groaned. And other stuff. The way I saw it, my baby should have been out by now, shaking hands with his dad and passing around cigars to the nurses. But he apparently had other plans. Labor continued very slowly. Very slowly. We were in that room for eighteen hours. That was a lot of contractions. And a lot of PG versions of curse words, along with the X-rated kind. I may have invented a whole new language. Somewhere around the twelve-hour mark, Chris asked if I’d mind if he changed the music, since our songs had been playing on repeat for what surely seemed like a millennium. “Sure,” I said. He switched to the radio and found a country station. That lasted a song or two. “I’m so sorry,” I told him. “I need Enya. I’m tuned in to it, and it calms me…ohhhhh!” “Okay. No problem,” he said calmly, though not quite cheerfully. I’m sure it was torture. Chris would take short breaks, walking out into the waiting room where both sides of our family were waiting to welcome their first grandchild and nephew. He’d look at his dad and give a little nod. “She’s okay,” he told everyone. Then he’d wipe a little tear away from his eye and walk back to me. Chris said later that watching me give birth was probably the most powerless feeling he’d ever had. He knew I was in pain and yet couldn’t do a whit about it. “It’s like watching your wife get stabbed and not being able to do anything to help.” But when he came into the room with me, his eyes were clear and he seemed confident and even upbeat. It was the thing he did when talking to me from the combat zone, all over again: he wasn’t about to do anything that would make me worry. I, on the other hand, made no secret of what I was feeling. An alien watermelon was ripping my insides out. And it hurt. Whoooh! Suddenly one of the contractions peaked way beyond where the others had been. Bubba had finally decided it was time to say hello to the world. I grabbed the side rail on the bed and struggled to remain conscious, if not exactly calm. Part of me was thinking, You should remember this, Taya. This is natural childbirth. This is beautiful. This is what God intended. You should enjoy this precious moment and remember it always. Another part of me was telling that part to shut the bleep up. I begged for mercy-for painkillers.

Whoever heard of a midwife as a literary heroine? Yet midwifery is the very stuff of drama. Every child is conceived either in love or lust, is born in pain, followed by joy or sometimes remorse. A midwife is in the thick of it, she sees it all. Why then does she remain a shadowy figure, hidden behind the delivery room door?

There may be something more to our stories than just whether we had a good or bad birth experience, though. We might consider questions beyond whether or not everything went the way we wanted. Instead, we might ask what these birth stories tell us about ourselves. What meaning can we find in the particular way we came face to face with pain, with the unknown, and with the delivery of new life into this world? How might we use this experience in the future? Can it teach us something about how we mother our children or about who we are becoming in this next phase of our lives?

These studies compare women who choose hospital birth with those who try to deliver at home (regardless of whether they have their babies there or end up transferring to hospital for pain relief or medical intervention). It turns out that simply by choosing home birth, women are less likely to require drugs to induce or speed up labor or relieve pain; less likely to be cut open or to tear; and less likely to need a C-section or instrumental delivery. Their babies are born in better shape and are more likely to breastfeed.

By our seventh anniversary, we had five kids and weren’t done yet. Raven was blessed with easy pregnancies and could run around until the moment of delivery. Oh, and did those deliveries become legend. When River was born, the whole crew was laughing their asses off in the waiting room because of Raven’s profanity-laced rants. Our twins came two years later. During their deliveries, a drinking game started with the crew and club guys. Every time Raven screamed a cuss word, Tucker told the guys at the bar and they’d take a shot of whiskey. Half of the guys were wasted by the time Savannah was born. As Avery joined her sister, the other half of the bar was just as drunk off their asses. The obstetrician nearly begged Raven to use pain meds. She refused of course. No one was telling her what to do. For Maverick’s birth, the hospital moved Raven to a room at the end of the hall and kept the other laboring mothers as far away as possible. Another change the third time around was how Raven refused to allow the club guys free fun based on her laboring pains. To play the drinking game, they had to donate a hundred dollars into the kids’ college fund. We figured at least one of our kids would want to do the education thing. The guys donated the money and got ready for Raven to let loose. In her laboring room, she even allowed a mic connected to overhead speakers at the bar. Despite knowing they were all listening, my woman didn’t disappoint. One particular favorite was motherfucking crustacean cunt. When Maverick’s head crowded, she also sounded a little bit like a graboid from Tremors. Hell, I think she did that on purpose because we’d watched the movie the night before. Raven was a born entertainer. That night, we added a few thousand dollars to the kids’ college fund, the guys had a blast getting wasted to Raven’s profanity, and I welcomed my second son. Unlike his angelic brother, Maverick peed on me an hour after birth. I knew that boy was going to be a handful.

integrating infrequently, which only makes it worse. In software, when something is painful, the way to reduce the pain is to do it more frequently, not less.

- Welcome to the 21st Century: Where SEX is FREE & LOVE is EXPENSIVE, where LOSING phone is more PAINFUL than LOSING your VIRGINITY, where MODERNIZATION means NUDITY, where if you don't SMOKE or DRINK you are out of FASHION, where if you don't CHEAT so you are not SMART, where the BATHROOMS have become PHOTO STUDIOS, where TEMPLES become DATING POINTS, where doing WORSHIP TO GOD is DIFFICULT, where LIES become REALITIES, where the WOMEN fear PREGNANCY more than STD's , where a PIZZA DELIVERY is FASTER than EMERGENCY RESPONSE. PERSPECTIVES & DRIP DECIDE the value of person, where the BOYS/GIRLS are AFRAID of MARRIAGE but they love HAVING SEX, where KILLING HUMAN is a PLEASURE,where INSULTING THE GOD becomes the TRENDS of the era, where REVILING is a COURAGE where whoever PLAYS the MINDS always get happiness but whoever PLAYS the HEART gets HURT ,.... MODERNITY LOVE and LIQUID EDUCATION !!!

It interests me that there is no end of fictions, and facts made over in the forms of fictions. Because we class them under so many different rubrics, and media, and means of delivery, we don't recognize the sheer proliferation and seamlessness of them. I think at some level of scale or perspective, the police drama in which a criminal is shot, the hospital in which the doctors massage a heart back to life, the news video in which jihadists behead a hostage, and the human-interest story of a child who gets his fondest wish (a tourist trip somewhere) become the same sorts of drama. They are representations of strong experience, which, as they multiply, began to dedifferentiate in our uptake of them, despite our names and categories and distinctions... I say I watch the news to "know". But I don't really know anything. Certainly I can't do anything. I know that there is a war in Iraq, but I knew that already. I know that there are fires and car accidents in my state and in my country, but that, too, I knew already. With each particular piece of footage, I know nothing more than I did before. I feel something, or I don't feel something. One way I am likely to feel is virtuous and "responsible" for knowing more of these things that I can do nothing about. Surely this feeling is wrong, even contemptible. I am not sure anymore what I feel. What is it like to watch a human being's beheading? The first showing of the video is bad. The second, fifth, tenth, hundredth are—like one's own experiences—retained, recountable, real, and yet dreamlike. Some describe the repetition as "numbing". "Numbing" is very imprecise. I think the feeling, finally, is of something like envelopment and even satisfaction at having endured the worst without quite caring or being tormented. It is the paradoxically calm satisfaction of having been enveloped in a weak or placid "real" that another person endured as the worst experience imaginable, in his personal frenzy, fear, and desperation, which we view from the outside as the simple occurrence of a death... I see: Severed heads. The Extra Value Meal. Kohl-gray eyelids. A holiday sale at Kohl's. Red seeping between the fingers of the gloved hand that presses the wound. "Doctor, can you save him?" "We'll do our best." The dining room of the newly renovated house, done in red. Often a bold color is best. The kids are grateful for their playroom. The bad guy falls down, shot. The detectives get shot. The new Lexus is now available for lease. On CNN, with a downed helicopter in the background, a peaceful field of reeds waves in the foreground. One after another the reeds are bent, broken, by boot treads advancing with the camera. The cameraman, as savior, locates the surviving American airman. He shoots him dead. It was a terrorist video. They run it again. Scenes from ads: sales, roads, ordinary calm shopping, daily life. Tarpaulined bodies in the street. The blue of the sky advertises the new car's color. Whatever you could suffer will have been recorded in the suffering of someone else. Red Lobster holds a shrimp festival. Clorox gets out blood. Advil stops pain fast. Some of us are going to need something stronger.

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I suppose she was like most women. Maggie dreamed of the delivery, of the excitement of getting to the hospital on time, of timing the contractions, of her pushing and me cradling her head and helping her count. Of looking down across her swollen tummy at the doctor’s face as he waited for our child’s head to appear through the canal. Despite the pain, the sweat, and the blood, she dreamed of hearing his or her first cry, of being handed our child with the umbilical cord still attached, of watching me cut the cord, and then, finally, of pressing him to her pounding chest and feeling him breathe, suckle, and pull at her with tiny, wrinkled, God-fashioned fingers. She dreamed of watching his eyes open and being the first person he saw. She dreamed of needing, being needed, and giving unselfishly—something she was good at.

Pain has a purpose. Especially in childbirth. It’s the pain that tells you how close you are to pushing, and when it’s time, you’ll know because you can’t stop until the baby is out.

James Young Simpson studied medicine in Edinburgh, Scotland, graduating in 1832. By the mid-1840s, Simpson had climbed the ranks to become a professor of midwifery in Edinburgh, relieving the pain of childbirth with ether, like his American colleagues. But Simpson wasn’t satisfied. He wanted a more potent agent, one that was pleasant to inhale, worked quicker, and didn’t cause vomiting upon awakening. He settled on chloroform, a combination of hydrogen, carbon, and chlorine. On November 4, 1847, Simpson invited two of his assistants, James Duncan and George Keith, and some of his friends, including a Ms. Petrie, to a dinner party. When the dinner was over, he asked his guests to sniff a variety of volatile gases, including chloroform. Duncan and Keith immediately lost consciousness, falling under the table. Ms. Petrie also lost consciousness, but not before declaring, “I’m an angel! I’m an angel! Oh, I’m an angel!” The next day, without animal studies, clinical trials, or federal approval, Simpson administered chloroform to a woman during a particularly painful delivery. “I placed her under the influence of chloroform,” recalled Simpson, “by moistening half a teaspoon of the liquid onto a pocket handkerchief [and placing it] over her mouth and nostrils. The child was expelled in about twenty minutes. When she awoke, [the mother] observed to me that she had enjoyed a very comfortable sleep.” The parents were so elated that they named their daughter Anesthesia. On November 10, 1847, Simpson told a group of colleagues what he had done. Ten days later, he described his experience in a medical journal, claiming that chloroform was more potent and easier to administer than nitrous oxide, and quicker to induce unconsciousness and less flammable than ether. Now the entire medical world knew about it.

Deep [Space] Travel is a serious business. Name one risk and how you plan to deal with the emotional repercussions of that." "Well..." Matter tapped a finer against their lip in an exaggerated manner. "We could all be eaten by Space Whales! [...] I've had a run in with the beasts before, they suck all the marrow out of your bones and this is why my medi-file-- which is what you keep glancing at on that datapad-- labels me as having an unspecified chronic condition." Dr Brruuh TeaYaBin's voice came out flat. "You have chronic pain because a galactic whale at your bone marrow?

I saw her body tense with another contraction. “Okay, ready? Here we go. Big breath in and hold it, and we’re pushing for ten seconds. One, two, three—good job—four, five, making good progress…seven, eight, nine. Gooood.” Hannah gasped with the pain. “I know it hurts,” I said. “But just think, now you’ll know what it feels like for a man with a cold.” Jessica’s favorite delivery line.

Driving University: Listen to audio books or financial news radio while stuck in traffic. Traffic nuisances transformed to education. Exercise University: Absorb books, podcasts, and magazines while exercising at the gym. In between sets, on the treadmill, or on the stationary bike, exercise is transformed to education. Waiting University: Bring something to read with you when you anticipate a painful wait: Airports, doctor’s offices, and your state’s brutal motor vehicle department. Don’t sit there and twiddle your thumbs—learn! Toilet University: Never throne without reading something of educational value. Extend your “sit time” (even after you finish) with the intent of learning something new, every single day. Toilet University is the best place to change your oil, since it occurs daily and the time expenditure cannot be avoided. This means the return on your time investment is infinite! Toilet time transformed to education. Jobbing University: If you can, read during work downtimes. During my dead-job employment (driving limos, pizza delivery) I enjoyed significant “wait times” between jobs. While I waited for passengers, pizzas, and flower orders, I read. I didn’t sit around playing pocket-poker; no, I read. If you can exploit dead time during your job, you are getting paid to learn. Dead-end jobs transformed to education. TV-Time University: Can’t wean yourself off the TV? No problem; put a television near your workspace and simultaneously work your Fastlane plan while the TV does its thing. While watching countless reruns of Star Trek, boldly going where no man has gone before, I simultaneously learned how to program websites. In fact, as I write this, I am watching the New Orleans Saints pummel the New England Patriots on Monday Night Football. Gridiron gluttony transformed to work and education.

After a short labor, and without too much pain (I decided that the pain of delivery was overrated), my son was born.

at that point I was missing my mother viscerally, painfully. When I was pregnant, I had enough time to visualize taking care of my daughter without a husband. That was easy. Most of my friends’ husbands don’t even change diapers. But not having a mom around to support me was torture. It felt especially cosmically mean that my mother had been an obstetrician and gynecologist and I’d had a tough delivery.

There is no more underrated and research-backed therapeutic tool than walking. It reduces back pain, and body pain in general, through dozens of mechanisms. Studies show that walking does the following: Increases circulation of natural opioids in the body175 Reduces pain sensitivity176 Stimulates production and circulation of synovial fluid within joints177 Improves lumbar (low back) function178 Strengthens foot muscles, creating a more stable and pliable base for the hips, back, and neck (especially in minimalist shoes)179 Reduces perceived pain levels, improves blood pressure, and strengthens feelings of personal power180 (if you walk with upright posture instead of slumped) Reduces bone density loss with age, helping to prevent osteoporosis and reduce osteoarthritis pain181 Is a surprisingly effective weight loss and weight management technique, which in turn keeps overall compression forces on joints down182 Increases blood flow to spinal muscles, improving oxygen and nutrient delivery required for cellular healing183 Speeds up elimination of cellular waste products through the repeated contractions of various muscle groups throughout the body183 Reduces the levels of the stress hormone, cortisol, which has a correlative relationship with subjective pain levels184 (Barefoot walking) Improves body awareness and wound healing, reduces inflammation, and helps prevent chronic inflammatory diseases185 Walking doesn’t just help relieve back pain—it targets the central causes of pain. And as you can see from the many studies on walking and pain relief, the benefits are not limited to the locomotion of walking. It’s movement in general that increases circulation of natural opioids, reduces pain sensitivity, stimulates synovial fluid production, and supports cellular health.

It is worth emphasizing that branching by feature is really the antithesis of continuous integration, and all of our advice on how to make it work is only about ensuring that the pain isn’t too horrible come merge time.

There was no greater indictment of working-class patriarchy and violence than Martin Scorcese’s feminist outing, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974). Alice’s husband is little more than another mean-spirited, violent, seventies redneck son of a bitch who cannot be pleased. Their bed is cold, and even when he comforts her from the pain she feels, he merely grabs her breast. Alice discusses with her friend whether she could live without a man—establishing the theme of the film—just before she learns that he has had an accident in his delivery truck and died. With Alice suddenly liberated from the terror of her life, viewers get to see not just Alice but other working-class women she meets struggle to get out from under blue-collar patriarchy. But every male relationship she stumbles across is tainted with violence. “Don’t ever tell me what to do—I’ll bust your jaw!” one potential (adulterous) mate tells her when she tries to escape him. When she finally finds a job at Mel’s café after striking out on the road to start a singing career, she finds working-class pain everywhere.

If It Hurts, Do It More Frequently, and Bring the Pain Forward

Suffering, therefore, is not merely the abrupt delivery of violence and death. Its greatest and most valuable expression is in dashed hopes, ruined dreams, perennial pain, torment, confusion, misunderstanding, prolonged anxiety, recovery, repair, exhaustion, and, eventually, full bodily capitulation in a drama where warm survivors, not cold victims, are more valuable to the Omnimalevolent Creator.

what are you going to do?” “Do you know anything about twilight sleep?” Nurse Steiner asked. “Not really.” “I started my career working for an ob-gyn doing baby deliveries. In the old days, we’d use morphine and scopolamine as anesthesia. It would produce a semi-narcotic state—the expectant mother would stay awake, but she wouldn’t really remember anything. Some say it dulled the pain. Perhaps it did, but I don’t think so. I think what happened was, the expectant mother forgot the agony she was forced to endure.” She tilted her head, like a dog hearing a strange sound. “Does pain happen if you don’t remember it?” Kat

These measures are strongly correlated to culture: ​–​Organizational investment in DevOps ​–​The experience and effectiveness of team leaders ​–​Continuous delivery capabilities ​–​The ability of development, operations, and infosec teams to achieve win-win outcomes ​–​Organizational performance ​–​Deployment pain ​–​Lean management practices Westrum organizational culture predicts software delivery performance, organizational performance, and job satisfaction. Westrum organizational culture is negatively correlated with deployment pain. The more painful code deployments are, the poorer the culture.

Life is an uncertain, messy thing. Especially when emotions get involved and everything seems so immediate. But, even in our pain, that's what gives our lives such vibrancy. We have so little time in this world, shouldn't we spend it being genuinely happy?

The five most highly correlated factors are: Organizational culture. Strong feelings of burnout are found in organizations with a pathological, power-oriented culture. Managers are ultimately responsible for fostering a supportive and respectful work environment, and they can do so by creating a blame-free environment, striving to learn from failures, and communicating a shared sense of purpose. Managers should also watch for other contributing factors and remember that human error is never the root cause of failure in systems. Deployment pain. Complex, painful deployments that must be performed outside of business hours contribute to high stress and feelings of lack of control.4 With the right practices in place, deployments don’t have to be painful events. Managers and leaders should ask their teams how painful their deployments are and fix the things that hurt the most. Effectiveness of leaders. Responsibilities of a team leader include limiting work in process and eliminating roadblocks for the team so they can get their work done. It’s not surprising that respondents with effective team leaders reported lower levels of burnout. Organizational investments in DevOps. Organizations that invest in developing the skills and capabilities of their teams get better outcomes. Investing in training and providing people with the necessary support and resources (including time) to acquire new skills are critical to the successful adoption of DevOps. Organizational performance. Our data shows that Lean management and continuous delivery practices help improve software delivery performance, which in turn improves organizational performance. At the heart of Lean management is giving employees the necessary time and resources to improve their own work. This means creating a work environment that supports experimentation, failure, and learning, and allows employees to make decisions that affect their jobs. This also means creating space for employees to do new, creative, value-add work during the work week—and not just expecting them to devote extra time after hours. A good example of this is Google’s 20% time policy, where the company allows employees 20% of their week to work on new projects, or IBM’s “THINK Friday” program, where Friday afternoons are designated for time without meetings and employees are encouraged to work on new and exciting projects they normally don’t have time for.

When an area of muscle is actively shortening and lengthening, shortening and lengthening, it actually assists its own circulation by pumping fluids through the capillaries and the intercellular spaces. But when it holds a contraction for an extended period of time, the pump becomes a squeeze, and fluid delivery is sharply decreased. This lack of circulation in a local area is called ischemia, a painful and potentially dangerous condition. It is ischemia that makes the feet blue and sensitive when they are cold, and that makes them decay when they are severely frostbitten. It is ischemia that makes the hands cold and painful when their circulation is poor. It is ischemia which creates bedsores when a person has lain so long in one position that the pressure of the bones against the surface of the bed pushes all the blood out of an area. All of these symptoms are the results of blocking the local blood supply, so that the cells do not receive adequate oxygen and nutrients to carry on their work.

BURNOUT AND DEPLOYMENT PAIN Deployment pain is negatively correlated with software delivery performance and Westrum organizational culture. The five factors most highly correlated with burnout are Westrum organizational culture (negative), leaders (negative), organizational investment (negative), organizational performance (negative), and deployment pain (positive).

Change your name to Miles, Dean, Serge, and /or Leonard, baby, she advised her reflection in the hall; light of that afternoon's vanity mirror. Either way, they'll call it paranoia. They. Either you have stumbled indeed, without the aid of LSD or other indole alkaloids, onto a secret richness and concealed density of dream; onto a network by which X number of Americans are truly communicating whilst reserving their lies, recitations of routine, arid betrayals of spiritual poverty, for the official government delivery system; maybe even onto a real alternative to the exitlessness, to the absence of surprise to life, that harrows the head of everybody American you know, and you too, sweetie. Or you are hallucinating it. Or a plot has been mounted against you, so expensive and elaborate, involving items like the forging of stamps and ancient books, constant surveillance of your movements, planting of post horn images all over San Francisco, bribing of librarians, hiring of professional actors and Pierce Inverarity only knows what-all besides, all financed out of the estate in a way either too secret or too involved for your non-legal mind to know about even though you are co-executor, so labyrinthine that it must have meaning beyond just a practical joke. Or you are fantasying some such plot, in which case you are a nut, Oedipa, out of your skull. Those, now that she was looking at them, she saw to be the alternatives. Those symmetrical four. She didn't like any of them, but hoped she was mentally ill; that that's all it was. That night she sat for hours, too numb even to drink, teaching herself to breathe in a vacuum. For this, oh God, was the void. There was nobody who could help her. Nobody in the world. They were all on something, mad, possible enemies, dead. Old fillings in her teeth began to bother her. She would spend nights staring at a ceiling lit by the pink glow of San Narciso's sky. Other nights she could sleep for eighteen drugged hours and wake, enervated, hardly able to stand. In conferences with the keen, fast-talking old man who was new counsel for the estate, her attention span could often be measured in seconds, and she laughed nervously more than she spoke. Waves of nausea, lasting five to ten minutes, would strike her at random, cause her deep misery, then vanish as if they had never been. There were headaches, nightmares, menstrual pains. One day she drove into L.A., picked a doctor at random from the phone book, went to her, told her she thought she was pregnant. They arranged for tests. Oedipa gave her name as Grace Bortz and didn't show up for her next appointment.

the CTO is there to guide the board away from making decisive calls that are logical to people with a limited understanding of technology and the market conditions associated with it, but are clearly dangerous to somebody in the know. For example, buying a new proprietary HR and finance system on a five-year deal from a supplier that the department has already worked with for ten years might seem sensible to a non-technologist. The fact that the system is a complete pain to use (and ruinously expensive) may just about crop up on the leadership radar. What may not is the fact that systems like this are likely to become commoditised–which is to say, cheap and easily swapped with similar alternatives–in less than five years. Through a combination of ignorance and inertia, the department would be locking itself into the wrong deal, and constraining itself strategically as a result. A CTO stops this kind of mistake.

We've failed in our ultimate sacrament. Our shame is for ourselves. Our disgust is for each other. The survivors who still wear church costume do it to brag about their pain. Sackcloth and ashes. They couldn't save themselves. They were weak. The rules are all gone, and it doesn't matter. We're all going overnight express delivery straight to Hell".