Stethoscope Quotes

He was healthier than the rest of us, but when you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart.

This is good.” “Why is it good?” I asked. He pulled out a stethoscope. “It’s a good indication that the mutation is on a perfect, cellular level.” “Or an indication that I’m pretty damn awesome,” Daemon suggested coolly.

Lydia, five years old, standing on tiptoe to watch vinegar and baking soda foam in the sink. Lydia tugging a heavy book from the shelf, saying, "Show me again, show me another." Lydia, touching the stethoscope, ever so gently, to her mother’s heart. Tears blur Marilyn’s sight. It had not been science that Lydia had loved

Is it still there?" I asked, staring at his head, bent over, as he wedged the stethoscope beneath my left breast. And then, before I could stop myself, "Does it sound broken?

You'd think someone who'd been to medical school would be able to hear through a stethoscope that somebody was empty inside.

The Senior Council--" "Couldn't find its heart if it had a copy of Grey's Anatomy, X-ray vision, and a stethoscope.

Helen, in a white coat and stethoscope, effortlessly achieving the sort of discipline for which lesser women would require black leather and a hunting crop, indicated we should form a line. Being St Mary’s, we formed several clumps and a rhomboid.

If you think buying a DSLR has made you a photographer, don't ever buy a Stethoscope.

She fell in love with her doctor's stethoscope, the way it listened to her heart.

You know it gets me hot when you're mad. What are you wearing right now under your stethoscope?' 'You're not funny.' 'Oh, come on. I'm a little funny.

Each heartbeat begins with a single, electrical impulse, or "spark." The distinctive sound we hear through a stethoscope, or when we place our head on a loved one's chest, is the sound of the heart valves opening and closing in perfect synchronicity with each other. It is a two-party rhythm - a delicate dance of systole and diastole, which propels the heart's electrically charged particles through its chambers roughly every second of the day, every day of our lives.

Believe me when I say: 'Out of all those around, she’s the best locksmith in town.' Her stethoscope ears know when the dials of your heart click into place. She’s been cutting keys for years. You don’t stand a chance with that flimsy case. Alas, no matter how you lock your heart— bolt, fixture, and key— she’s got nimble fingers that pick locks for free. Padlocks and deadbolts are all in vain. Why do you even bother with that chain? She’s way too smart. Along with ours, she’ll have your heart. And you will see that the best locksmith in town is she.

I'm telling you this because you didn't ask. I've got it all here, growing like a tumor in my throat. I'm telling you because if I don't, I will choke on it. Everybody knows what happened, but nobody asks. And Elvis the EMT doesn't count because when he asked, he didn't even listen to me answer because he was listening to my sister's heart not beat with his stethoscope. I want to tell. It's mine to tell. Even if you didn't ask, you have to hear it.

Props?”  She was almost afraid to ask. “Just the usual.  Stethoscope, tongue depressor... scalpel, bone saw, rib spreaders… just the normal stuff.” “Maybe in future you should ditch the props, be less Nurse Ratched and more soft porn first day on the job candy striper.” Darcy look genuinely puzzled for a brief moment. “Where would the fun be in that for me?

The doctor listens in with a stethoscope and hears sounds of a warpath Indian drum.

the man i went on a date with did more than try to "cure me" of my asexuality it's funny because i never thought someone's penis would be considered an antidote of any kind and i don't think that's what my doctor meant when he told me i needed more Vitamin D in my diet but apparently my sexuality was enough of a diagnosis for him to decide to play doctor with me maybe he should’ve put his stethoscope up to my mouth instead of between my breasts maybe then he would’ve heard me when i told him to stop it

I was not even aware of getting dressed, which was no simple matter: trousers and shirt, felt boots, over my shirt a leather jerkin, then an overcoat topped by a sheepskin, fur hat, and my bag containing caffeine, camphor, morphine, adrenalin, clamps, sterile dressings, hypodermic, probe, a Browning automatic, cigarettes, matches, watch, stethoscope.

Maybe it's the TV commercials. They make you hate everything they try to sell. God, they must think the public is a halfwit. Every time some jerk in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck holds up some toothpaste or a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of beer or a mouthwash or a jar of shampoo or a little box of something that makes a fat wrestler smell like mountain lilac I always make note never to buy any. Hell, I wouldn't buy the product even if I liked it.

We all know I’m marrying you, as soon as you get over your thing with dog tags and realize a stethoscope is way sexier, anyway.” - Tanner

The wounds were not on the surface, nor detectable by stethoscope.

I’m all for explaining terminology as we go along, but if you don’t know what a stethoscope is, this is probably a book to regift. 

Okay.' I can feel the letters vomit off my tongue. O. K. A. Y. I watch the vet insert the syringe into the catheter and inject the second drug. And then the adventures come flooding back: The puppy farm. The gentle untying of the shoelace. THIS! IS! MY! HOME! NOW! Our first night together. Running on the beach. Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee. Shared ice-cream cones. Thanksgivings. Tofurky. Car rides. Laughter. Eye rain. Chicken and rice. Paralysis. Surgery. Christmases. Walks. Dog parks. Squirrel chasing. Naps. Snuggling. 'Fishful Thinking.' The adventure at sea. Gentle kisses. Manic kisses. More eye rain. So much eye rain. Red ball. The veterinarian holds a stethoscope up to Lily's chest, listening for her heartbeat. All dogs go to heaven. 'Your mother's name is Witchie-Poo.' I stroke Lily behind her ears the way that used to calm her. 'Look for her.' OH FUCK IT HURTS. I barely whisper. 'She will take care of you.

What should I have brought to entice people into a career in medicine? Toy stethoscopes? Amniotic fluid smoothies? Diaries with all your weekends, evenings and Christmases handily crossed out?

Of the seminal moments in my life, Careers Day in the autumn of Year 5 is my favorite. Everyone had to dress as whatever they wanted to be once they grew up. I had gone in a tweed jacket and a bow tie, and when Miss Weston asked me what I wanted to be, I told her that I wanted to be the Doctor. 'Shouldn't you be wearing a lab coat and stethoscope like Paul?' She pointed to Paul Black, who was trying to strangle everyone with the stethoscope in question. Before I could answer, a boy I didn't know from the other class spoke up. 'Paul's *a* doctor,' he explained, giving me a look of approval. 'He wants to be *the* Doctor.' 'Who?' 'Exactly,' we said at the same time, relieved that she understood. She didn't. We were sent to the quiet table to reflect on why cheeking teachers was wrong.

But a doctor learns, because he has to, not to worry actively about patients until the worrying can do some good; meanwhile, they have to be walled off in a quiet compartment of the mind. They don’t teach that at medical school, but it’s as important as your stethoscope.

Ghosh, in giving me the stethoscope, was saying, Marion, you can be you. It’s okay. He invited me to a world that wasn’t secret, but it was well hidden. You needed a guide. You had to know what to look for, but also how to look. You had to exert yourself to see this world. But if you did, if you had that kind of curiosity, if you had an innate interest in the welfare of your fellow human beings, and if you went through that door, a strange thing happened: you left your petty troubles on the threshold. It could be addictive.

I met a woman and we were lying in her bed, about to kiss for the very first time. Just before our lips touched she jumped up and ran to her closet and grabbed a stethoscope. She came back to the bed, put the earpieces in my ears, slipped the disc down her shirt onto her heart, and whispered, 'I want you to listen to my heart speed up when you kiss me.' And I kissed her, and I listened to her heart beat faster and faster and faster.

The world is full of doctors, but healers are rare. The world is full of pills, but medicine is rare. The world is full of stethoscopes, but listening is rare. And when someone’s in misery, I have no doubt you’ll appear.

When you measure water pressure in trees, you find it is highest shortly before the leaves open up in the spring. At this time of year, water shoots up the trunk with such force that if you place a stethoscope against the tree, you can actually hear it.

Guess your feelings is like charming a cobra with a stethoscope, a boyfriend told me once. Meaning what? Meaning that pain turned me venomous, that diagnosing me required a specialised kind of enchantment, that I flaunted feelings and withheld their origins at once.

Want to hear something cool?' He took the rubber earpieces from his ears and eased them into Jamie's, then replaced the stethoscope over the child's heart. 'Do you hear that? That soft thumping inside there?' Jamie's eyes widened and a sweet smile lit his face. 'You know what that is?' Logan asked. 'Uh-huh.' Jamie beamed with confidence. 'It's Jesus.

We first knew something was up when the construction chief pulled out a stethoscope and started listening to the wall.

. I was wishing I had a story like that one to live inside me with so much loudness you could pick it up on a stethoscope,

Susannah had a toy stethoscope, which she would press to his head, in an attempt to listen in on his thoughts.

When Mr. Kumar visited the zoo, it was to take the pulse of the universe, and his stethoscopic mind always confirmed to him that everything was in order, that everything was order.

I was wishing I had a story like that one to live inside me with so much loudness you could pick it up on a stethoscope.

Intercession is not a job--it's a passion. It's a stethoscope to the heart of God. --Alice Smith

When you’re wearing a white coat and a stethoscope, people will believe just about anything,

Next to him stands Elsa’s granny with a stethoscope around her neck. And between them stands Sam’s best friend. Wolfheart.

Even though they've got a stethoscope round their neck and a decent line in gallows humour, they're still just that teenager who arbitrarily put a tick next to 'medicine' on their UCAS form. Just a human as fragile as anyone.

Why can you hear the ocean inside a seashell? This is just a trick your ears play on you. What you hear is not the sound of the ocean, but rather the sound of your own blood rushing through your ears. All the shell does is amplify the sound so that you can hear it, the way a stethoscope lets you hear the beating of your heart. Some people say you hear the sea inside a shell because the shell remembers its home even when it has been taken away, but this is just a story.

In France in the 1860s, the proximity of the female heart to the female bosom made a physician named René Laennec so uncomfortable that he invented an early prototype for the stethoscope, just so he could avoid putting his ear to his female patients’ chests.

giving me the stethoscope, was saying, Marion, you can be you. It’s okay. He invited me to a world that wasn’t secret, but it was well hidden. You needed a guide. You had to know what to look for, but also how to look. You had to exert yourself to see this world. But if you did, if you had that kind of curiosity, if you had an innate interest in the welfare of your fellow human beings, and if you went through that door, a strange thing happened: you left your petty troubles on the threshold. It could be addictive.

the stethoscope in little David’s ears. “Can you hear that?” I asked. “What do you suppose that is?” He frowned for a moment as if he were lost in the wonder of the strange tapping in his chest. Then he broke out in a grin and startled me by saying, “Is that Jesus knocking?

Mr. Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first, and in a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgate seemed to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not only used his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course in practice at that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him. To Mr. Casaubon’s questions about himself, he replied that the source of the illness was the common error of intellectual men — a too eager and monotonous application: the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderate work, and to seek variety of relaxation.

Jim was the one who told me that my emotional life made him dangle his stethoscope like a snake charmer: my moods weren’t hard to see but they were hard to read, and even harder to diagnose. It was ostensibly a complaint, but I think he liked his metaphor, and liked that our moments of distance were subtle enough to require this kind of formulation. Meaning that I was a complex creature and so was he; that he became even more complex in his attempt to bridge the gap between our complexities; that he could create a complicated image to house this complex of complications. This is how writers fall in love: they feel complicated together and then they talk about it.

I held on to my mama’s Spelman College sweater. Wore it the first day I got there myself and still have it now. Held on to my own daddy’s stethoscope until I pulled it out of its black leather case one winter and saw the rubber had melted into sticky pieces of nothing and the silver disk was flaked with rust. Seems all I had from them was the memories of fire and smoke.

Nothing more than a simple panic attack.” The doctor’s bald pate reflected the overhead panel lighting like a shimmering, sweaty halo above his radiantly clean lab coat. A stethoscope hung uselessly around his neck. He leaned forward over his desk and clasped his hands, bringing them up to support his chin in what I assumed was his thoughtful pose. “Are you still smoking?

I don’t see any placebo there at all,” says Moerman. “What I do see is a clinician wearing a uniform of some sort.” Instead of focusing on fake pills, he argues, we should be looking at those trappings of medicine that make us expect to feel better—whether it’s the white coat, stethoscope, and gleaming hospital equipment of a Western physician, or the incense and incantations of a traditional healer.

In comparison to the church, with its constant clamor, the huts had the hushed, sacred air of deathbed scenes, the light barely illuminating the pallid faces of the soldiers, the village women moving slowly in their dark shawls, their children sitting in transfixed vigil by the beds. For these, Margarete always had a crust of bread, a piece of carrot. Sometimes Lucius entertained them by showing them his father’s hand shadows, other times by letting them listen to their hearts. Their wide eyes grew wider with the cold bell of the stethoscope, not seeming to understand what they were hearing, but astonished nonetheless. Manifestly, he did this out of kindness, or a sort of effort at improving relations, though in truth there was something fortifying in the chance to touch skin without gangrene, without fever, the bodies without a wound.

It turns out that since 1825, researchers have known that Graves’ disease is often correlated with stressful life events, which Trinity had in spades. It was clear that her problems with emotional regulation were overlaid on the hyperthyroidism, making her time in the classroom that much more difficult. The crazy thing is that many busy physicians do their entire assessment of ADHD based on behavioral symptoms alone, without a stethoscope

Without direction, the respiratory technician goes to the head of the bed. She takes the tubing, attaches it to the oxygen, and turns it on as high as it will go. She provides a seal with her hand cupped over the plastic mask, over the nose and mouth of the toddler, and methodically provides oxygenated air. Doyle’s tiny chest rises and falls while I listen with my stethoscope. I am reaching for another breathing tube. “Fib!” Dr. Pedras feels for a pulse while another places gelled pads on her chest.

Suppose a small child asks his uncle, “Who is that man with something hanging around his neck?” “He’s a doctor. That’s a stethoscope around his neck.” “Uncle, I want to be a doctor, too. Buy me a stethoscope.” It’s easy to copy. That’s why teachers do things that actually there’s no need for them to do. Their actions aren’t for their own sake, but to set examples for their students. If they stop doing these things, the students will immediately follow their example. That’s what Krishna is saying here.

The scene strongly brings to mind a stack of magazines tied up with string in an attic. It strongly brings to mind that medical superman of yesteryear, the old doc on the cover of The Saturday Evening Post with his stethoscope planted on the chest of a child's doll, the old doc who rode from house to house through deep snows with his black bag beside him and his roan gelding pulling the sleigh, the old doc who did appendectomies on the kitchen table, the old doc who worked nine days a week and rested on the tenth.

You suffered at least two seizures, several weeks apart. At one time I doubted you’d recover.” “Strokes?” She sat on the edge of his bed. In sign language, she asked Nick to get her “heart-ear-listen-to-him thing” and he went to the counter to find her stethoscope. “Are you talking to my grandson in sign language?” Father Storey asked. “Nick is a good teacher.” He smiled at that. Then his brow furrowed in thought. “If I had a stroke, how come my speech isn’t slurred?” “That doesn’t always happen. Likewise, partial paralysis.

What about, you know, sex. How long can we..." He smiled and adjusted his stethoscope. "You can continue sexual intercourse until the seventh or eight month. As long as its comfortable for the mother. Then there are plenty of non-invasive ways to have sex that are fine after that." "Awesome, thanks Doc." I almost high fived the guy, but I refrained. I looked at Belinda who was covering her face in embarrassment. "Did you hear that babe? Other ways." "I heard it. I can't believe you asked him that!" "Just you wait, little mama. We are going to have fun!

When . . . the therapist registers an unexpected shift of mood in herself when she is with a patient, she begins a private inner dialogue with herself as to what it might mean. First she checks herself out, as though she is an object of study. What does the patient evoke in her? Why did she feel uptight just then? Why did she feel sad when the patient was making a light remark? Did the patient hit a particularly personal nerve? Such emotional states, which the therapist notices in herself, are called the counter-transference. As she cordons off the feelings and reflects on them, their dissonance alerts her: something difficult needs understanding. Her body, her emotional state, become a stethoscope-like instrument for hearing what might be askew.

You’re too goddamned fat,” he said. I took a defiant drag on my cigarette and willed myself not to cry. The remark made me dizzy. For the past four years, Ma and Grandma had played by the rule: never to mention my weight. Now my jeans and sweatshirt were folded in a helpless pile beside me and there was only a thin sheet of paper between my rolls of dimply flesh and this detestable old man. My heart raced with fear and nicotine and Pepsi. My whole body shook, dripped sweat. “Any trouble with your period?” he asked. “No.” “What?” “No trouble,” I managed, louder. He nodded in the direction of his stand-up scale. The backs of my legs made little sucking sounds as they unglued themselves from the plastic upholstery. He brought the sliding metal bar down tight against my scalp and fiddled with the cylinder in front of my face. “Five-five and a half,” he said. “Two hundred . . . fifty-seven.” The tears leaking from my eyes made stains on the paper gown. I nodded or shook my head abruptly at each of his questions, coughed on command for his stethoscope, and took his pamphlets on diet, smoking, heart murmur. He signed the form. At the door, his hand on the knob, he turned back and waited until I met his eye. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “My wife died four Tuesdays ago. Cancer of the colon. We were married forty-one years. Now you stop feeling sorry for yourself and lose some of that pork of yours. Pretty girl like you—you don’t want to do this to yourself.” “Eat shit,” I said. He paused for a moment, as if considering my comment. Then he opened the door to the waiting room and announced to my mother and someone else who’d arrived that at the rate I was going, I could expect to die before I was forty years old. “She’s too fat and she smokes,” I heard him say just before the hall rang out with the sound of my slamming his office door. I was wheezing wildly by the time I reached the final landing. On the turnpike on the way home, Ma said, “I could stand to cut down, too, you know. It wouldn’t hurt me one bit. We could go on a diet together? Do they still sell that Metrecal stuff?” “I’ve been humiliated enough for one fucking decade,” I said. “You say one more thing to me and I’ll jump out of this car and smash my head under someone’s wheels.

You only needed one yes to be happy—medical school was like love in that regard. Some days her chances seemed promising, and other days she hated herself for clinging to this ridiculous dream. Hadn't she muddled her way through chemistry? Struggled in biology? You needed more than a good GPA to get into medical school. You had to compete against students who'd grown up in rich families, attended private schools, hired personal tutors. People who had been dreaming since kindergarten of becoming doctors. Who had family photos of themselves in tiny white coats, holding plastic stethoscopes to teddy bear bellies. Not people who grew up in nowhere towns, where there was one doctor you only saw when you were puking sick. Not people who'd stumbled into the whole idea of medical school after dissecting a sheep's heart in an anatomy class.

Blood pressure check!” The doorknob rattled, as if the nurse were intending just to walk in, but the lock held, thank God. The nurse knocked again. “Oh, shit,” Gina breathed, laughing as she scrambled off of him. She reached to remove the condom they’d just used, encountered . . . him, and met his eyes. But then she scooped her clothes off the floor and ran into the bathroom. “Mr. Bhagat?” The nurse knocked on the door again. Even louder this time. “Are you all right?” Oh, shit, indeed. “Come in,” Max called as he pulled up the blanket and leaned on the button that put his bed back up into a sitting position. The same control device had a “call nurse” button as well as the clearly marked one that would unlock the door. “It’s locked,” the nurse called back, as well he knew. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, as he wiped off his face with the edge of the sheet. Sweat much in bed, all alone, Mr. Bhagat? “I must’ve . . . Here, let me figure out how to . . .” He took an extra second to smooth his hair, his pajama top, and then, praying that the nurse had a cold and couldn’t smell the scent of sex that lingered in the air, he hit the release. “Please don’t lock your door during the day,” the woman scolded him as she came into the room, around to the side of his bed. It was Debra Forsythe, a woman around his age, whom Max had met briefly at his check-in. She had been on her way home to deal with some crisis with her kids, and hadn’t been happy then, either. “And not at night either,” she added, “until you’ve been here a few days.” “Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic smile, hanging on to it as the woman gazed at him through narrowed eyes. She didn’t say anything, she just wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and pumped it a little too full of air—ow—as Gina opened the bathroom door. “Did I hear someone at the door?” she asked brightly. “Oh, hi. Debbie, right?” “Debra.” She glanced at Gina, and then back, her disgust for Max apparent in the tightness of her lips. But then she focused on the gauge, stethoscope to his arm. Gina came out into the room, crossing around behind the nurse, making a face at him that meant . . .? Max sent her a questioning look, and she flashed him. She just lifted her skirt and gave him a quick but total eyeful. Which meant . . . Ah, Christ. The nurse turned to glare at Gina, who quickly straightened up from searching the floor. What was it with him and missing underwear? Gina smiled sweetly. “His blood pressure should be nice and low. He’s very relaxed—he just had a massage.” “You know, I didn’t peg you for a troublemaker when you checked in yesterday,” Debra said to Max, as she wrote his numbers on the chart. Gina was back to scanning the floor, but again, she straightened up innocently when the nurse turned toward her. “I think you’re probably looking for this.” Debra leaned over and . . . Gina’s panties dangled off the edge of her pen. They’d been on the floor, right at the woman’s sensibly clad feet. “Oops,” Gina said. Max could tell that she was mortified, but only because he knew her so well. She forced an even sunnier smile, and attempted to explain. “It was just . . . he was in the hospital for so long and . . .” “And men have needs,” Debra droned, clearly unmoved. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.” “No, actually,” Gina said, still trying to turn this into something they could all laugh about, “I have needs.” But it was obvious that this nurse hadn’t laughed since 1985. “Then maybe you should find someone your own age to play with. A professional hockey player just arrived. He’s in the east wing. Second floor.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Lots of money. Just your type, I’m sure.” “Excuse me?” Gina wasn’t going to let one go past. She may not have been wearing any panties, but her Long Island attitude now waved around her like a superhero’s cape. She even assumed the battle position, hands on her hips.

I used to babysit Brooke Callahan, Claire thought with some dismay. Could the girl really be old enough to legally operate that stethoscope?

All it takes is one knife in the back from someone you trust.” The softly spoken words had her pausing before placing the stethoscope on his skin. “Fear should not remove your ability to trust.” “Death doesn’t give second chances.” “Aren’t

Though a share of all remembering, a measure of all memory, is breath and breathe you have to create a truce - a truce with the patience of a stethoscope.

Easy, son. You took quite a whack on the noggin," a voice said. At the foot of the bed was an insectile-looking doctor with a pervert's grin on his face and a stethoscope around his neck. The doctor was a praying mantis for a moment, until Daniel blinked himself back to reality.

I place my stethoscope onto their chest to listen for the lub-dub sound of the heart valves. Then I wait. I wait a long, silent, slow five minutes. I listen for silence and feel for the presence of absence. No sound is heard and no pulse is felt.

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.

Society prospers on the shoulders of those who feel one with the society - who feel responsible for society. No responsibility, no society. No oneness, no society. Some people may label this simple sense of social responsibility, as socialism, some may label it as humanism, and some others may label it as humanitarianism. But you know what I call it - I call it plain, ordinary humanity - a common realization that relies on the definition of no pompous ism whatsoever. Some say the socialist way is better, others say the capitalist way is better, I say, learn to be a human first, then whatever way you choose, will produce prosperity. Let us embrace the benefits of capitalism, let us embrace the morality of socialism, let us embrace the good from each and every ideology without being a mindless slave to any of them. Stethoscopes don’t treat patients, doctors do. Likewise, ideologies don't bring prosperity on their own, humans do - we do, you and I, hand in hand - shoulder to shoulder - living, breathing, acting together - beyond differences, beyond argumentation, beyond our petty squabbles of labels and language.

Moral panics over drugs in America had tended to focus on street drugs and to play on fears about minority groups, immigrants, and illicit influences; the idea that you could get hooked on a pill that was prescribed to you by a physician in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck and a diploma on the wall was somewhat new.

Not giving the baby enough time to latch on can also prevent self-attachment. It often takes an hour or more of being skin to skin for the baby to crawl to the breast and latch on. Often he just lies on the mother for 20 minutes or more. But hospitals have other priorities: weighing the baby, putting drops or ointment in his eyes, etc. Would it really matter if the baby was weighed an hour or two later? Ointments and drops in the baby’s eyes may also affect his vision, making it harder for him to find the nipple (does he find it more easily because the areola is a different colour?). And what about the pediatrician’s examination to determine the Apgar? Well, if a baby is alert and pink and breathing, and crawling to the breast, I give him a minimum of 9 out of 10. If necessary, one can put a stethoscope on the baby’s chest while he’s on the mother, skin to skin.

in

white coats, ties, and stethoscopes, symbols of Western male medical professionalism,

Imaging via a pocket ultrasound device decidedly transcends the antique stethoscope from 1816, regarded as the icon of medicine.

Whenever I take care of a healthcare provider, I always worry they’ll figure out I don’t know what I’m doing. They’ll realize that when I’m putting my stethoscope on their chest every single morning, I’m not really listening half the time.

The hand that holds the pen (or chalk, or the stethoscope, or the gun, or lover's skin) is so different from the hand that lit the match, and so incapable of such an act that it is not even a matter of forgiveness, or healing.

All involve risk, uncertainty, and complexity — and therefore steps that are worth committing to a checklist and testing in routine care. Good checklists could become as important as doctors and nurses as good stethoscopes (which, unlike checklist, have never been proved to make a difference in patient care). The hard question — still unanswered — is whether medical culture can seize the opportunity.

Nic walked to the end of the hallway and opened the door that led to the unfinished attic. She flipped on the light switch and gasped aloud. The attic wasn’t merely finished. It had been transformed. He’d chosen a mountain wildlife theme for the nursery that suited the space to a T, and he’d included two sets of everything—two cribs, two dressers, two changing tables, and even two full-size rocking chairs. Both rockers sported cushions that had been embroidered with two words: Mama Bear on one, Papa Bear on the other. “Oh, Gabe,” she said with a sigh. She sat in the Mama Bear rocker, rubbed her belly, and that’s when she saw the mural on the wall. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, two Baby Bears, and a crooked-tailed boxer sprawled at their feet. Papa Bear held a T-square. Mama Bear had a stethoscope draped around her neck. In the sky to the right, a happy-faced sun shined down upon them. In the sky to the left, two silhouettes with angel wings sat perched at the apex of a rainbow. Gabe

I asked how you were doing?” he drawled. Ehlena put his chart down on the desk and took her stethoscope out of her pocket. “I’m very well.” “You sure about that.” “Absolutely positive.” Turning to him, she said, “I’m just going to take your blood pressure and your heart rate.” “My temperature, too.” “Yes.” “Do you want me to open my mouth for you now?” Ehlena’s skin flushed, and she told herself it was not because that deep voice of his made the question seem as sexual as a lazy stroke over a naked breast. “Er…no.” “Pity.” “Please take off your jacket.” “What a great idea. I totally take back the ‘pity.’” Good plan, she thought, or she was liable to feed the word back to him with the thermometer. -Rehv & Ehlena

can things have been allowed to deteriorate to the point where a qualified physician with training, skills and experience is tempted to not get involved when help is needed?

When I put my stethoscope to a person’s chest what I’m listening for are signs of the heart’s flaws. In a normal adult heart, all you hear are the sounds of the heart valves snapping shut after the blood flows across them. The blood’s flow, as it moves across normal heart valves and around cardiac structures that are smooth and without abnormal perforations, is smooth and silent. It’s called laminar flow, the same quiet, unbroken stream you get if you turn on a faucet just a little. If the edge of a heart valve is rough with scar or calcium, the aperture is leaky or fused shut, or there is a hole in a septum of the heart, the blood will flow through with a whoosh. This is turbulent flow, and it’s also what happens across a water faucet that is clogged or opened wide. When doctors hear a murmur, they’re hearing turbulent flow across something abnormal in the heart. That

If God had a stethoscope, and if He held it up to this part of the dreary world to check for a heartbeat, I hope these are the sounds He'd hear: the sound of boots stomping rhythms out of the dust. The sounds of happy squeals and laughter when people spin out, nearly dizzy from joy. The sound of a scratchy voice, a thumping guitar, a plucky violin. That's what pure joy sounds like. Sometimes that's when I miss my mama most. Not just when I'm sad, but when I'm happy... and I can't share that happiness with her.

It’s a miracle Archimedes didn’t appear in a puff of smoke and yell “Eureka!

had to do the Snoopy Dance by myself.

It’s hard to face the new day when it feels like your head is screwed on backwards.

anyone can be cynical, but it takes guts to be optimistic.

But psychiatry is different. You can’t see delusional disorder, you can’t feel bipolar. There is no blood test for depression. No X-rays can reveal the jagged cracks of a person’s mental breakdown. You can’t hold a stethoscope to someone’s head and hear the voices.

There is a trinity of strings inside you. Your mind, your heart and your gut strike chords in major, minor, augmented or diminished. Put down the binoculars and pick up the stethoscope. Place its chilly steel disc against your bashful skin and listen. This is the sound of a universe. Be as God to your earful kingdom. You are Lord of your body. Every cell is following your commandments. Your heart is an emperor’s drummer with his eyes watching for your cue. You are the maestro of intuition, morals, and reason. Your pelvis wants you here seated. Your throne aches for the rule of someone just like you with no exceptions.

To one without faith, no explanation is possible.” St. Thomas Aquinas

overcompensated and next thing the buggers aren’t dropping far enough, so they’re hanging there strangling!’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Gave the Yanks their cards, packed them off home, and Albert and me took over their quota.’ ‘What’s the most you ever done in a session at Nuremberg, Harry?’ someone asked. We were all quiet as we watched him and waited for his answer. ‘Mmmm, one afternoon we did twenty-seven in two hours forty minutes.’ ‘Bloody hell! So they weren’t left to hang for very long.’ ‘No, hadn’t the time. As soon as we put four down, the doc would go underneath the scaffold, ’ave a listen with his stethoscope, feel for a pulse. “Right, okay,” he’d say. We had these soldier orderlies. They’d go underneath and lift them up, take the weight, we’d take the ropes and bags off, the soldiers would put them onto trolleys and whisk them away to the temporary morgue. A couple of minutes later the next four were marching in.’ That had been the craic last night. As Ken and I sit having breakfast with the hangmen, I can’t rid myself of the contradictory feeling that, somehow, I’m letting Russell down by breakfasting with the men who are about to hang him. ‘How was he last night?’ Allen looks rather bleary-eyed. He’s on his second mug of hot, sweet tea. And at least his third cigarette. We tell him. He takes a deep draw. ‘I think this lad will go without any bother.’ As he speaks, the blue smoke spills out of his mouth. Just after ten to eight, from the kitchen door at the end of the mess, Ken, the two hangmen, Teddy Bear and I, watch as the Governor, Lord Lieutenant of the County and other official witnesses file quietly into the block. They enter the empty execution chamber. At three

In the local parlance, unqualified doctors like these are referred to as “Bengali doctors,” because one of the earliest medical colleges in India was in Bengal and doctors from Bengal fanned across northern India looking for places to practice medicine. That tradition has continued—people continue to show up in a village with little more than a stethoscope and a bag of standard medications and set up as Bengali doctors, irrespective of whether they are from Bengal or not.

Stethoscopes don’t treat patients, doctors do. Likewise, ideologies don't bring prosperity on their own, humans do - we do, you and I, hand in hand - shoulder to shoulder - living, breathing, acting together - beyond differences, beyond argumentation, beyond our petty squabbles of labels and language.

Chim picked up his camera the way a doctor takes his stethoscope out of his bag, applying his diagnosis to the condition of the heart. His own was vulnerable.

I kept on holding the telephone receiver in my hand knowing that it was my call, and she would not put her receiver down first. There was pin-drop silence on both sides but still, I could hear her heartbeats as if it wasn't a telephone receiver but a stethoscope in my hand. After a brief moment spread over centuries,I heard a sound, the sound of something breaking. It was eerily similar to the sound when a star, being pulled by two equally powerful black holes and unable to decide which one to choose, falls apart, breaking into pieces like a glass I put the receiver back; a soft click sound indicated disconnection. The last means of communication between us had been disconnected as if the doctor had just pulled the cable from ventilator which had kept the terminally ill patient alive. I felt a deep lump in my throat, legs failing to carry my weight; I fell down on the nearby sofa like a log of wood

The body is encoded. It is also an instrument inside of which the song of our lives is sung. As he hunched over an elderly patient and placed a stethoscope to the man's chest, Blaine's eyes closed in deep concentration, as if listening to music.

ausculter /ɔskylte/ vtr 1. to sound, to examine [sb] with a stethoscope • se faire ~ | to be examined with a stethoscope 2. (examiner) to examine thoroughly 3. to sound

I looked at Anni, and we both were tearing up. We’d found our man. “What’s the difference between God and a doctor?” an old joke asks. “God knows he’s not a doctor.” Well, Bavaria carries himself with what some might think of as a God complex. But I think of it as swagger, which is exactly what you want from a guy into whose hands you’re placing your life. Brian Dawkins’s alter ego needed its own locker? Damn straight. Because if you want to be that good at something, you don’t just study it. You become it. You want to be Dr. Bavaria? You become the baddest muthafucka with a stethoscope on the planet. You carry yourself with confidence, and others will have confidence in you.

During our early years of medical school, my classmates and I were given a course in physical diagnosis. Usually, we practiced on one another. Each of us would percuss a classmate’s chest or listen to his heart with a stethoscope. But some procedures were considered too personal to practice on a classmate. For some of these, we were assigned a “model patient”—someone from the community who was “compensated” in exchange for undergoing an examination. This was how I performed my first rectal exam. A large group of us were led into a room where our model patient was bent over an examining table with his pants around his ankles. One by one, we approached him nervously from behind, inserted a gloved, lubricated finger into his rectum, and felt around for the prostate. “Thank you,” we all said politely to the model patient as we removed our index fingers from his anus. The model patient stared straight ahead, saying nothing. What made the experience oddly disturbing was not just the forced, pseudo normality of the instruction or the fact that the exam could have been done more privately, but the instrumentality of the encounter: a pretend patient bending over naked for anonymous strangers in exchange for money. The fact that the model patient had been paid did not make his work seem any less degrading. (Tipping him would have made it even worse.)

Leaving society to algorithms will be like leaving healthcare to stethoscopes.

ONLY A STETHOSCOPE CAN FEEL YOUR HEART, LUCKILY YOU HAVE ANOTHER OPTION, ELECTROCARDIOGRAM

I don’t feel like a Sebastian, let alone a doctor. A wry smile touches my lips. I wonder how many of my patients will stay loyal when I approach them with my stethoscope on upside down.

If one of the definitions of abundance is the widespread availability of goods and services—such as stethoscopes and water-quality testing—then the now-networked rising billion are rapidly gaining access to many of the fundamental mechanisms of first world prosperity.