Iv Drip Quotes

Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

What was she thinking?” muttered Alexander, closing his eyes and imagining his Tania. “She was determined. It was like some kind of a personal crusade with her,” Ina said. “She gave the doctor a liter of blood for you—” “Where did she get it from?” “Herself, of course.” Ina smiled. “Lucky for you, Major, our Nurse Metanova is a universal donor.” Of course she is, thought Alexander, keeping his eyes tightly shut. Ina continued. “The doctor told her she couldn’t give any more, and she said a liter wasn’t enough, and he said, ‘Yes, but you don’t have more to give,’ and she said, ‘I’ll make more,’ and he said, ‘No,’ and she said, ‘Yes,’ and in four hours, she gave him another half-liter of blood.” Alexander lay on his stomach and listened intently while Ina wrapped fresh gauze on his wound. He was barely breathing. “The doctor told her, ‘Tania, you’re wasting your time. Look at his burn. It’s going to get infected.’ There wasn’t enough penicillin to give to you, especially since your blood count was so low.” Alexander heard Ina chuckle in disbelief. “So I’m making my rounds late that night, and who do I find next to your bed? Tatiana. She’s sitting with a syringe in her arm, hooked up to a catheter, and I watch her, and I swear to God, you won’t believe it when I tell you, Major, but I see that the catheter is attached to the entry drip in your IV.” Ina’s eyes bulged. “I watch her draining blood from the radial artery in her arm into your IV. I ran in and said, ‘Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? You’re siphoning blood from yourself into him?’ She said to me in her calm, I-won’t-stand-for-any-argument voice, ‘Ina, if I don’t, he will die.’ I yelled at her. I said, ‘There are thirty soldiers in the critical wing who need sutures and bandages and their wounds cleaned. Why don’t you take care of them and let God take care of the dead?’ And she said, ‘He’s not dead. He is still alive, and while he is alive, he is mine.’ Can you believe it, Major? But that’s what she said. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said to her. ‘Fine, die yourself. I don’t care.’ But the next morning I went to complain to Dr. Sayers that she wasn’t following procedure, told him what she had done, and he ran to yell at her.” Ina lowered her voice to a sibilant, incredulous whisper. “We found her unconscious on the floor by your bed. She was in a dead faint, but you had taken a turn for the better. All your vital signs were up. And Tatiana got up from the floor, white as death itself, and said to the doctor coldly, ‘Maybe now you can give him the penicillin he needs?’ I could see the doctor was stunned. But he did. Gave you penicillin and more plasma and extra morphine. Then he operated on you, to get bits of the shell fragment out of you, and saved your kidney. And stitched you. And all that time she never left his side, or yours. He told her your bandages needed to be changed every three hours to help with drainage, to prevent infection. We had only two nurses in the terminal wing, me and her. I had to take care of all the other patients, while all she did was take care of you. For fifteen days and nights she unwrapped you and cleaned you and changed your dressings. Every three hours. She was a ghost by the end. But you made it. That’s when we moved you to critical care. I said to her, ‘Tania, this man ought to marry you for what you did for him,’ and she said, ‘You think so?’ ” Ina tutted again. Paused. “Are you all right, Major? Why are you crying?

She often pictured her sadness as an IV cart she had to wheel everywhere she went, its bag dripping a heavy fluid that was keeping her sick instead of making her better.

Here is the best true story on giving I know, and it was told by Jack Kornfield of the Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Woodacre. An eight-year-old boy had a younger sister who was dying of leukemia, and he was told that without a blood transfusion she would die. His parents explained to him that his blood was probably compatible with hers, and if so, he could be the blood donor. They asked him if they could test his blood. He said sure. So they did and it was a good match. Then they asked if he would give his sister a pint of blood, that it could be her only chance of living. He said he would have to think about it overnight. The next day he went to his parents and said he was willing to donate the blood. So they took him to the hospital where he was put on a gurney beside his six-year-old sister. Both of them were hooked up to IVs. A nurse withdrew a pint of blood from the boy, which was then put in the girl’s IV. The boy lay on his gurney in silence while the blood dripped into his sister, until the doctor came over to see how he was doing. Then the boy opened his eyes and asked, “How soon until I start to die?

I am often slow in catching up to the times, but even so, I still cannot even grip this idea: With nothing more than pitocin in your IV drip, you can sooner control the date and time of the birth of a human being-- the gushing entry into the great blue world of a whole new person-- than you can the scheduling of a few line cooks in your operation.

IV cart she had to wheel everywhere she went, its bag dripping a heavy fluid that was keeping her sick instead of making her better.

If Starbucks offered caffeine IV drips, she would be first in line;

Imagine for a moment that your body receives its stress hormones and chemicals through an IV drip that’s turned on high when needed, and when the crisis passes, it’s switched off again. Now think of it this way: kids whose brains have undergone epigenetic changes because of early adversity have an inflammation-promoting drip of fight-or-flight hormones turned on high every day—and there is no off switch.

She walked me through the basics. Her father had made a windfall buying saline IV drips and reselling them at markup when consecutive pandemics hit. Same with grain reserves and famine, with coal and electricity during a winter of freak blizzards.

How many thousands of stories like yours have been told and forgotten how many stories of lovingly durable nurses of hospital sheets of IV tubes dripping saline and morphine How many stories of drugs that would haul you along in their wake for a while but finally let you sink

What if this doesn't work?" I ask. I don't feel any different. Not yet, at least. I watch the IV bag, the steady drip, drip, drip of the medicine working its way into my body. I look back at Julie, the both of us silent for a moment. "But what if it does?" she asks, touching my shoulder.

Very few people know where they will die, But I do; in a brick-faced hospital, Divided, not unlike Caesarean Gaul, Into three parts; the Dean Memorial Wing, in the classic cast of 1910, Green-grated in unglazed, Aeolian Embrasures; the Maud Wiggin Building, which Commemorates a dog-jawed Boston bitch Who fought the brass down to their whipcord knees In World War I, and won enlisted men Some decent hospitals, and, being rich, Donated her own granite monument; The Mandeville Pavilion, pink-brick tent With marble piping, flying snapping flags Above the entry where our bloody rags Are rolled in to be sponged and sewn again. Today is fair; tomorrow, scourging rain (If only my own tears) will see me in Those jaundiced and distempered corridors Off which the five-foot-wide doors slowly close. White as my skimpy chiton, I will cringe Before the pinpoint of the least syringe; Before the buttered catheter goes in; Before the I.V.’s lisp and drip begins Inside my skin; before the rubber hand Upon the lancet takes aim and descends To lay me open, and upon its thumb Retracts the trouble, a malignant plum; And finally, I’ll quail before the hour When the authorities shut off the power In that vast hospital, and in my bed I’ll feel my blood go thin, go white, the red, The rose all leached away, and I’ll go dead. Then will the business of life resume: The muffled trolley wheeled into my room, The off-white blanket blanking off my face, The stealing secret, private, largo race Down halls and elevators to the place I’ll be consigned to for transshipment, cased In artificial air and light: the ward That’s underground; the terminal; the morgue. Then one fine day when all the smart flags flap, A booted man in black with a peaked cap Will call for me and troll me down the hall And slot me into his black car. That’s all.

I’ve had one or two occasions in my life when the proverbial red mist has descended. I’m not proud of them, but they happen occasionally. This was one of those occasions. I have no memory of getting out of bed, or even of the next few minutes at all, but when, finally, I came to rest, I was standing, panting and in pain, by the window, tangled in tubes, with IV drips on the floor, the fruit bowl in tiny fragments, the window broken, the bedclothes on the floor, and one of the pillows ripped to shreds and bits of it floating everywhere.

If you never knew the worlds in my mind your sense of loss would be small pity and we’ll forget this on the trail. Take what you’re given and turn away the screwed face. I do not deserve it, no matter how narrow the strand of your private shore. If you will do your best I’ll meet your eye. It’s the clutch of arrows in hand that I do not trust bent to the smile hitching my way. We aren’t meeting in sorrow or some other suture bridging scars. We haven’t danced the same thin ice and my sympathy for your troubles I give freely without thought of reciprocity or scales on balance. It’s the decent thing, that’s all. Even if that thing is a stranger to so many. But there will be secrets you never knew and I would not choose any other way. All my arrows are buried and the sandy reach is broad and all that’s private cools pinned on the altar. Even the drips are gone, that child of wants with a mind full of worlds and his reddened tears. The days I feel mortal I so hate. The days in my worlds, are where I live for ever, and should dawn ever arrive I will to its light awaken as one reborn. Poet’s Night iii.iv The Malazan Book of the Fallen Fisher kel Tath

I drive north out of Atlanta on Interstate 75, feeling as if I’ve got an IV drip of adrenaline. I want to stop at every rest area and throw knuckleballs to Jeff. I want to stop at the Tennessee state line and throw more knuckleballs. I feel as if I’ve just been given the last big piece of a complicated puzzle, and now it all fits. Thanks to Charlie, I have the proper grip and the awareness of coming straight through the doorframe. Thanks to Tim Wakefield, I have the right arm path, releasing the ball and bringing my arm through toward my cup. Thanks to Phil, I’m firing my hips and exploding toward the plate, an action that is giving my ball a devastating finish before it gets to the plate.

I threw hollowed self at your robust, went for IV drips, mercury detoxes, cilantro smoothies. I pressed my lips to you, fed you kale, spooned down coconut oil. I fasted for blood sugar, underboomed the carbs, chased ketosis, urine-stripped and slip-checked. Baked raw cocoa & mint & masticated pig thyroids. You were contemporary, toxic, I can’t remember what you were, you’re in my brain, inflaming it, using up the glutathione. I read about you on the Internet & my doctor agreed. Just take more he urged & more. You slipped into each cell. I went after you with a sinking inside and medical mushrooms for maximum oom, I plumbed you without getting to nevermore. O doom. You were a disease without name, I was a body gone flame, together, we twitched, and the acupuncturist said, it looks difficult, stay calmish. What can be said? I came w/o a warranty. Stripped of me—or me-ish-ness— I was a will in a subpar body. I waxed toward all that waned inside.

IV.The wounded surgeon plies the steelThat questions the distempered part;Beneath the bleeding hands we feelThe sharp compassion of the healer's artResolving the enigma of the fever chart.Our only health is the diseaseIf we obey the dying nurseWhose constant care is not to pleaseBut to remind of our, and Adam's curse,And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.The whole earth is our hospitalEndowed by the ruined millionaire,Wherein, if we do well, we shallDie of the absolute paternal careThat will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.The chill ascends from feet to knees,The fever sings in mental wires.If to be warmed, then I must freezeAnd quake in frigid purgatorial firesOf which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.The dripping blood our only drink,The bloody flesh our only food:In spite of which we like to thinkThat we are sound, substantial flesh and bloodAgain, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

What you did to us—and to me specifically—was wrong, and you had no right to do that.’” The priest stared unblinkingly into Blanchette’s eyes, waiting but unprepared for what came next. “‘Having said that, it brings me to the real reason I’ve come here. The real reason I’ve come here is to ask you to forgive me for the hatred and resentment that I have felt toward you for the last twenty-five years.’ When I said that, he stood up, and in what I would describe as a demonic voice, he said, ‘Why are you asking me to forgive you?’ And through tears I said, ‘Because the Bible tells me to love my enemies and to pray for those who persecute me.’” Blanchette said Birmingham collapsed as if he’d been punched in the chest. The priest dissolved into tears, and soon Blanchette too was crying. Blanchette began to take his leave but asked Birmingham if he could visit again. The priest explained that he was under tight restrictions at the rectory. He said he had been to a residential treatment center in Connecticut, and he returned there once a month. He was not allowed to leave the grounds except in the company of an adult. Blanchette would not see the priest again until Tuesday, April 18, 1989, just hours before his death. Blanchette found his molester at Symmes Hospital in Arlington and discovered the priest—once robust and 215 pounds—was now an eighty-pound skeleton with skin. Morphine dripped into an IV in his arm. Oxygen was fed by a tube into his nostrils. His hair had been claimed by chemotherapy. The priest sat in a padded chair by his bed. His breathing was labored. “I knelt down next to him and held his hand and began to pray. And as I did, he opened his eyes. I said, ‘Father Birmingham, it’s Tommy Blanchette from Sudbury.’” He greeted Blanchette with a raspy and barely audible, “Hi. How are ya?” “I said, ‘Is it all right if I pray for you?’ And he said, ‘Yes.’ And I began to pray, ‘Dear Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, I ask you to heal Father Birmingham’s body, mind, and soul.’ I put my hand over his heart and said, ‘Father, forgive him all his sins.’” Blanchette helped Birmingham into bed. It was about 10 P.M. He died the next morning.

It had been an hour and a half since he’d checked on her—he’d inserted an IV into her arm. Buprenorphine, a synthetic opiate, filled the drip bag. He had picked it up when he acquired the Xylazine to deal with his illness, but it was too strong for his tastes. Watered down, it could work to keep her docile when she awoke

Salon writer Scot Sea, who said that his experience with his own autistic daughter helped him understand why a California man named Delfin Bartolome had shot his son and then himself. “The odor has finally made its way down the hall. When you see the balled-up pants and diaper on the floor, you know you are too late,” Sea began ominously. “A bright red smear across the door, the molding, the wall. Turn the corner and the bedroom is a crime scene. An ax murder? In fact, it is only your daughter at her worst.” He described a scene worthy of a slasher movie: “Splashes of blood glistening like paint, black clots, yellow-brown feces, and a 3-foot-in-diameter pond of vomit that your daughter stands in the middle of . . . hands dripping, face marked like a cannibal.” Parents in previous eras were spared these horrors, he explained, because “idiot” children were promptly “tossed down the well or thumped against the fence post.” For “educated” families in more recent times, he added, at least there was a way out—institutionalization. But now, desperate parents had to find their own ways out, as Bartolome had been forced to do with a handgun when he ran out of options. This was the harsh reality of raising a child with autism, according to Sea. (He neglected to mention that weeks before the shooting, Bartolome—described by his relatives as a loving and devoted father—had been laid off just before retirement, shunting him into a series of temporary jobs and putting his son’s future care at risk.) Shannon felt herself becoming physically ill while reading Sea’s article. Was this her family’s future? IV

I’m shaking like a Chihuahua on a methamphetamine IV drip.

Dr. Susan Schlesinger had wasted no time patching up his arm, stitching the wound as neatly as a seamstress, and hooking him up to an IV drip for meds, hydration, and nutrition. She had no idea what was really happening on the man-made island, but she was being paid a fortune not to display unnecessary curiosity, or complain about the lack of cell phone coverage or outgoing Internet. She had been told to care for every patient as though he or she were a head of state, and since she had only been there a week, and Rourk was her first patient, she had maintained a bedside vigil while he slept.

and, holy Mary Mother of Christ, he became as gentle as a lamb. The Pope is coming next week to give him first communion and confirmation.’ The guru spoke next. He was in a wheelchair with an IV drip and both legs in casts.

She’d been told she was lucky to go to the place with the cat who bit her so deeply she’d needed eight stitches and an IV drip.

I had a classmate who got hit by a motorbike on the way to school and even when they were bruised and bleeding, they refused to go home and continued to walk to school. Just to get an award for perfect attendance. That obsession to endure everything followed us into working life. You go to work even when you’re sick, and on days when you simply can’t get out of bed, the dread of skipping a day’s work eats at you more than the illness. Honestly, it’s common logic that you should rest when you’re not well. So why are we like this? That’s why I hate how keeping up your fighting spirit even when you’re unwell or on an IV drip has become so much of a thing that there’s even a phrase for it.

I still don't know to this day how she managed to climb the 94 stairs; she was dying from an overdose. The gate at the bottom of the stairwell did not make a sound when she entered the building, being so ill and alone. It was odd. Where could she have been? Almost as if she had been dropped off at my doorstep like a package silently by a (Polish) giant. She was pale and could barely open the door with her keys. When she entered, she fell into my arms; she was drunk and high, her legs buckling so that she couldn't stand. I tried to figure out what she had taken and what she had drunk, but she could barely talk; her eyes were rolling back in her skull. She was crying with her head in the toilet bowl, unable to stop the cramps running through her insides and her entire body shaking. - What did you drink? - Two … beers. - I am not your father. What did you take? Where have you been? - Beers and tequila - she mumbled, saliva drooling out of her mouth and her head hanging down like she was dead already. Then I asked her what else she had taken. She still wouldn't answer, so I repeated. - Answer me Martina, who gave it to you?! - I shouted. - Where have you been?! But she didn't answer, and her condition was critical, so I had to rush her to the hospital in my arms as she was about to lose consciousness. I had to grab her and take her to the closest hospital across Parallel, two blocks away. This was the first time I had taken her to the hospital since she'd split her chin by falling off my bicycle allegedly before, although it wasn't the last. Interestingly, whenever she got involved with a new group of criminals, she wound up in the hospital both times, and both times I took her there. She had no energy to lift her head out of the toilet bowl. As soon as I entered the hospital with her, the staff and I had to put her in a wheelchair. They took her inside and 20 minutes later when I was sitting by her bed, she already felt better with an IV dripping slowly into her vein, but she was unable to move; she was lying in her hospital bed, barely able to open her eyes to look at me. She was between life and death, or between real life and just a dream. I remembered less than a year earlier she was so full of life and happy and healthy when I put her up on that set of chairs that night when we took off the 'for sale' sign. The doctors told me after she fell asleep that they wanted to rinse her stomach, but she didn't authorize that. I was not fully aware that she was on drugs time to time or all the time and with what kind of people she was associated with. She almost only showed up at home in September 2014 when she overdosed. I was in love and worried for her so much, so I filled out the forms while they treated her in the hospital. I prayed to God to save her, asking for Him to show her the Truth. All I had was a prayer—50/50 if it worked. And I remembered that two years before, I had prayed for the life of our kitten Sabrina was playing with, making friends. This time, however, I had to rush to the hospital, not the vet, with my 20-year-old girlfriend who would soon be 21 in October 2014. And I felt like Sabrina, trying to make friends again but by the wrong people was the reason why I, an atheist, was praying for a puppy or a kitten or a bunny's life this time again. I didn't know that lies and secrets were eating away at her from deep inside once in a while as well, it wasn't just the drugs that were killing her insides like cancer. Just like her brother's intestines silently began to consume him and her, unbeknownst to them, but I could almost sense it like a dog if I could not see it, smell it inside them like X-ray. They were unaware of what my eyes had seen, as I watched their vibrations and faces silently change.

I am grateful I learned how to give room for grief, and how to listen without trying to control. I learned how to be still with people in pain. It may be the most human thing you can do. There is no less humanity in a person in a hospital gown, an IV dripping into their veins, than there is in an athlete in victory or a model on the runway. No, I am wrong. There is more humanity in the person in pain. We are all that person.

Dave then described what it was like to get the drug, which echoed many of Nash’s warnings. The total process, he said, took seven to eight hours. After the nurses settled him comfortably into a lounge chair and attached an IV, they conducted a battery of blood tests to make sure his numbers were good. Then they ran a liter of saline solution into his body, diluting his blood so that the kidneys would be able to flush the drug through quickly. The saline drip took an hour, followed by a fifteen-minute infusion of Benadryl, to tamp down any allergic reaction he might have to the amphotericin. Meanwhile, the nurses hung an evil-looking opaque brown bag, which contained the liposomal amphotericin. When all is ready, Dave said, they turn a valve that starts the amphotericin. The liquid is expected to spend three or four hours creeping out of the bag and into the patient’s arm. “So what happened when you got the drug?” I asked. “I watched that limoncello-colored solution come down through the tubes and go into me,” Dave said. “And within seconds—seconds!—of it entering my veins, I felt a big pressure on my chest and a pain in my back. I felt this profound tightness in my chest, with really difficult breathing, and my head felt like it was in flames.

It encouraged the public’s expectation that news be relayed in real time, upending the traditional newspaper schedule that for over a century had served as the de facto circadian rhythm of the profession. As important, it meant journalists would be armed with the power tools of the newsroom—word processors, internet hookups, cameras and video equipment—no matter where they were when news broke. The old, diurnal news cycle gave way to the 24/7 news cycle in a world in which people got updates constantly (and, to a degree, passively) from their smartphones, as if staying informed via an IV drip.

Valerie checked Brandon’s temperature. “You know, I told that girl myself she’s nuts. You know what she said to me?” I arched an eyebrow. “What?” “She said, ‘Just because a man gives you the best sex of your life doesn’t mean you need to date his ass.’ Lawd, I just about died,” she snickered. I snorted. Yup, that sounded like Kristen. Well, at least I’d done something right. Valerie chuckled to herself while she checked Brandon’s pulse. “He’s coming out tomorrow. I bet you’re all getting pretty excited.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “This has been a really tough few weeks.” “He’s gonna do great.” She changed out the bag on his IV drip. Then she pulled out a small light from her breast pocket, clicked it on, and opened his right eye. “You know, a lot of the nurses are gonna miss the steady stream of cute firemen coming through he—” She paused. She opened his other eye and shone the light into his pupil. She cleared her throat as she clicked the light off and slipped it back in her pocket. “We sure are going to miss you guys.” She picked up his chart. She didn’t look at me. Her tone changed. Her body changed. I’d done that change myself on the scene of a call. Something is wrong. “What is it?” She didn’t answer me. I pulled out my cell phone and turned on the flashlight. I leaned over Brandon and opened his eye while Valerie watched me wordlessly. My breath caught in my throat. “No. No!  ” I looked at the other eye, and my hands started to shake. I stumbled back from the bed and knocked into my chair, dropping my cell phone to the floor with a clatter. Valerie looked at me, and we exchanged a moment of understanding. His pupils were blown. They were large black marbles in his eyes.

It Is Well When peace like a river attendeth my way In hospice beds with potent meds And the babbling sound of the IV drip When sorrow like sea billows roll In teeth ground to shards that chink On the shores of words that cannot be said Whatever my lot Even decades of loss as the memories Ride on the tides, gone away Thou hast taught me to say With a fire in the soul that blazed out of control Even when breakers thundered and rolled It is well with my soul.

The Testosterone Replacement Therapy is undoubtedly a life-saver for all men with abnormally low testosterone levels. The word ‘therapy’ may sound like there is a long course of injections or IV drips that you need to get for restoring the testosterone levels in your body; fortunately, this therapy is nothing like that! Testosterone Replacement Therapy is given in various forms as per your preference and indications, that is, how badly you need this therapy to restore your levels to normal, or at least improve them from being critically low.

The Testosterone Replacement Therapy is undoubtedly a life-saver for all men with abnormally low testosterone levels. The word ‘therapy’ may sound like there is a long course of injections or IV drips that you need to get for restoring the testosterone levels in your body; fortunately, this therapy is nothing like that! Testosterone Replacement Therapy is given in various forms as per your preference and indications, that is, how badly you need this therapy to restore your levels to normal, or at least improve them from being critically low. erectile dysfunction orlando

As mezcal is certainly an acquired taste for some, an initial reaction for a new mezcal drinker to a robust joven might not be pleasant. Several years ago as I was getting deeply into mezcal, my wife was no fan. I kept insisting this spirit is amazing while she kept insisting it tasted like a doctor’s office on a good day, or dirty socks on a bad day (nice visual, right?). How she knows what either of these tastes like, I don’t want to know. But in any case there was no convincing her. Then in late 2009, Ilegal came onto the scene with its reposado and anejo which were the first aged mezcals I had seen in the U.S. My wife, having virtually sworn off mezcal for all eternity, instantly took to the anejo and declared it magnificent! After I picked myself up off the floor, I knew there was another path to developing a mezcal palate. Now, of course, she’ll take a daily joven arroqueño IV-drip, but she may have never found mezcal without an anejo introduction.

Hydralohadrip.com offers IV drips in Honolulu, Oahu, to boost wellness, energy, weight loss, and recovery. Their services include hangover relief, athletic recovery, liver detox, and more. Invest in feeling your best from the inside out with their customized IV cocktails.