Throat Infection Quotes

LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds. Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

He laughed again: the horror of the world lay like infection in his throat.

Is it hard to be with all those men? All day? Every day?” Annwyl drank some of Morfyd’s wine. She knew no threat of infection remained, but the wine still tasted unbelievably delicious. “Not at all.” “Really?” “Absolutely. Just let one of the men touch you inappropriately and you take his arm off right at the shoulder joint. Then, as he’s bleeding to death, you slam his face into a few things, and you’ll find the other men leave you alone.” Morfyd stared at Annwyl with wide eyes. “What?” Morfyd cleared her throat. “Nothing.

Four years into her marriage, Sera had woken up one morning to feel something hot and sticky in the back of her throat. For a minute, she thought it was the start of another sinus infection, but when she swallowed cautiously, her throat did not hurt. It was hate. Hate that was lodged like a bone in her throat. Hate that made her feel sick, that gave her mouth a bitter, dry taste. Hate that entered her heart like a fever, that made her lips curve downward like a bent spoon.

Roan looked down at the pathetic little fur ball with a pink ribbon clipped to the top of its head and growled at it. It came from deep in his throat, and while it was unintentional, it wasn’t precisely a human noise. He could feel it in his throat, vibrating his vocal chords, and the dog’s ears rotated briefly in as much alarm as a dog could express, and then it whimpered and cringed, pissing on the sidewalk in submission. The woman took a couple steps backward, eyes wide and horrified, and dragged her dog past them as she hurried off, the Pom more than happy to leave. Paris looked at him, an eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile. “I love it when you get defensive.” “I’m the king of the jungle.I’m not taking any shit from a living dust mop.

She shook her head. The more she thought about it, the more stupid she felt. She was probably infected, but that didn’t mean she should have tempted him into making it a sure thing. And, hungry as he was, crazy as he might be, he could have drained her dead, pinned her against the brick wall, and ripped out her throat. She’d been playing with fire, just as he’d accused Midnight of doing. Clever girl. You play with fire because you want to be burnt.

Magic raced into her mouth and down her throat, infecting her lungs, which immediately froze up. She gasped, making a rasping noise in her throat.

throats in a dreadful silence. The infection will spread outward from that point. Old ladies will crack skulls with their deadly handbags. Cars will plunge down the crowded sidewalks. Drivers will be torn out of their cars and stomped. It will spread to all the huge cities of the world, and by dawn of the next day there will be a horrid silence of sprawled bodies and tumbled vehicles, gutted buildings and a few wisps of smoke. And through that silence will prowl a few, a very few of the most powerful ones, ragged and bloody, slowly tracking each other down.

warms breath to your body temperature while simultaneously filtering out particles and pollutants. All these invaders could cause infection and irritation if they got into the lungs; the mucus is the body’s “first line of defense.” It’s constantly on the move, sweeping along at a rate of about half an inch every minute, more than 60 feet per day. Like a giant conveyor belt, it collects inhaled debris in the nose, then moves all the junk down the throat and into the stomach, where it’s sterilized by stomach acid, delivered to the intestines, and sent out of your body.

Thank you, Sick Husband, because what I mistakenly thought was just your cold with a minor fever is apparently something closer to onset Black Plague with a side of liver disease. According to your indications, you’re presenting pandemic symptoms from Europe, circa 1300 AD. We should alert the CDC! I mean, sure, I pulled off carpool, dinner, homework tutoring, and four kids’ practices last week when I had strep and the flu, but you just stay in bed with your scratchy throat. We don’t want to infect the children.

IN THE PAST, when dying was typically a more precipitous process, we did not have to think about a question like this. Though some diseases and conditions had a drawn-out natural history—tuberculosis is the classic example—without the intervention of modern medicine, with its scans to diagnose problems early and its treatments to extend life, the interval between recognizing that you had a life-threatening ailment and dying was commonly a matter of days or weeks. Consider how our presidents died before the modern era. George Washington developed a throat infection at home on December 13, 1799, that killed him by the next evening. John Quincy Adams, Millard Fillmore, and Andrew Johnson all succumbed to strokes and died within two days. Rutherford Hayes had a heart attack and died three days later. Others did have a longer course: James Monroe and Andrew Jackson died from progressive and far longer-lasting (and highly dreaded) tubercular consumption. Ulysses Grant’s oral cancer took a year to kill him. But, as end-of-life researcher Joanne Lynn has observed, people generally experienced life-threatening illness the way they experienced bad weather—as something that struck with little warning. And you either got through it or you didn’t.

Doctor?” said Jan. “What doctor? I called him this morning and got his secretary on the line. I asked for a flu prescription and was told I could come pick it up tomorrow morning between eight and nine. If you’ve got a particularly bad case of flu, the doctor himself comes to the phone and says, ‘Stick out your tongue and say “Aah.” Oh, I can hear it, your throat’s infected. I’ll write out a prescription and you can bring it to the pharmacy. Good day.’ And that’s that. Easy job he’s got, diagnosis by phone. But I shouldn’t blame the doctors. After all, a person has only two hands, and these days there’re too many patients and too few doctors.

With a twist of her neck, Saphira tossed the snail into the air, opened her mouth as wide as it would go, and swallowed the creature whole, bobbing her head twice as she did, like a robin eating an earthworm. Lowering his gaze, Eragon saw four more giant snails farther down upon the rise. One of the creatures had retreated within its shell; the others were hurrying away upon their undulating, skirtlike bellies. “Over there!” shouted Eragon. Saphira leaped forward. Her entire body left the ground for a moment, and then she landed upon all fours and snapped up first one, then two, then three of the snails. She did not eat the last snail, the one hiding in its shell, but drew back her head and bathed it in a stream of blue and yellow flame that lit up the land for hundreds of feet in every direction. She maintained the flame for no more than a second or two; then she picked up the smoking, steaming snail between her jaws--as gently as a mother cat picking up a kitten--carried it over to Eragon, and dropped it at his feet. He eyed it with distrust, but it appeared well and truly dead. Now you can have a proper breakfeast, said Saphira. He stared at her, then began to laugh--and he kept laughing until he was doubled over, resting his hands on his knees and heaving for breath. What is so amusing? she asked, and sniffed the soot-blackened shell. Yes, why do you laugh, Eragon? asked Glaedr. He shook his head and continued to wheeze. At last he was able to say, “Because--” And then he shifted to speaking with his mind so that Glaedr would hear as well. Because…snail and eggs! And he began to giggle again, feeling very silly. Because, snail steaks!...Hungry? Have a stalk! Feeling tired? Eat an eyeball! Who needs mead when you have slime?! I could put the stalks in a cup, like a bunch of flowers, and they would… He was laughing so hard, he found it impossible to continue, and he dropped to one knee while he gasped for air, tears of mirth streaming from his eyes. Saphira parted her jaws in a toothy approximation of a smile, and she made a soft choking sound in her throat. You are very odd sometimes, Eragon. He could feel his merriment infecting her. She sniffed the shell again. Some mead would be nice. “At least you ate,” he said, both with his mind and his tongue. Not enough, but enough to return to the Varden. As his laughter subsided, Eragon poked at the snail with the tip of his boot. It’s been so long since there were dragons on Vroengard, it must not have realized what you were and thought to make an easy meal of me…That would have been a sorry death indeed, to end up as dinner for a snail. But memorable, said Saphira. But memorable, he agreed, feeling his mirth return. And what did I say is the first law of hunting, younglings? asked Glaedr. Together Eragon and Saphira replied, Do not stalk your prey until you are sure that it is prey. Very good, said Glaedr.

The way I see things, Feyre, you have two options. The first, and the smartest, would be to accept my offer.' I spat at his feet, but he kept pacing, only giving me a disapproving look. 'The second option- and the one only a fool would take- would be for you to refuse my offer and place your life, and thus Tamlin's, in the hands of chance.' He stopped pacing and stared hard at me. Though the world spun and danced in my vision, something primal inside me went still and cold beneath that gaze. 'Let's say I walk out of here. Perhaps Lucien will come to your aid within five minutes of my leaving. Perhaps he'll come in five days. Perhaps he won't come at all. Between you and me, he's been keeping a low profile after his rather embarrassing outburst at your trial. Amarantha's not exactly pleased with him. Tamlin even broke his delightful brooding to beg for him to be spared- such a noble warrior, your High Lord. She listened, of course- but only after she made Tamlin bestow Lucien's punishment. Twenty lashes.' I started shaking, sick all over again to think about what it had to have been like for my High Lord to be the one to punish his friend. Rhysand shrugged, a beautiful, easy gesture. 'So, it's really a question of how much you're willing to trust Lucien- and how much you're willing to risk for it. Already you're wondering if that fever of yours is the first sign of infection. Perhaps they're unconnected, perhaps not. Maybe it's fine. Maybe that worm's mud isn't full of festering filth. And maybe Amarantha will send a healer, and by that time, you'll either be dead, or they'll find your arm so infected that you'll be lucky to keep anything above the elbow.' My stomach tightened into a painful ball. 'I don't need to invade your thoughts to know these things. I already know what you've slowly been realising.' He again crouched in front of me. 'You're dying.' My eyes stung and I sucked my lips into my mouth. 'How much are you willing to risk on the hope that another form of help will come?' I stared at him, sending as much hate as I could into my gaze. He'd been the one who'd caused all this. He'd told Amarantha about Clare, he'd made Tamlin beg. 'Well?' I bared my teeth. 'Go. TO. Hell.' Swift as lightning, he lashed out, grabbing the shard of bone in my arm and twisting. A scream shattered out of me, ravaging my aching throat. The world flashed black and white and red. I thrashed and writhed but he kept his grip, twisting the bone a final time before releasing my arm. Panting, half sobbing as the pain reverberated through my body, I found him smirking at me again. I spat in his face. He only laughed as he stood, wiping his cheek with the dark sleeve of his tunic. 'This is the last time I'll extend my assistance,' he said pausing by the cell door. 'Once I leave this cell, my offer is dead.' I spat again, and he shook his head. 'I bet you'll be spitting on Death's face when she comes to claim you, too.

Harvard Business School alum Rick Krieger and some partners decided to start QuickMedx, the forerunner of CVS MinuteClinics, after Krieger spent a frustrating few hours waiting in an emergency room for his son to get a strep-throat test. CVS MinuteClinic can see walk-in patients instantly and nurse practitioners can prescribe medicines for routine ailments, such as conjunctivitis, ear infections, and strep throat. Because most people don’t want to go to the doctor if they don’t have to, there are now more than a thousand MinuteClinic locations inside CVS pharmacy stores in thirty-three states.

In general, fatigue is not as severe in depression as in ME/CFS. Joint and muscle pains, recurrent sore throats, tender lymph nodes, various cardiopulmonary symptoms (55), pressure headaches, prolonged post-exertional fatigue, chronic orthostatic intolerance, tachycardia, irritable bowel syndrome, bladder dysfunction, sinus and upper respiratory infections, new sensitivities to food, medications and chemicals, and atopy, new premenstrual syndrome, and sudden onset are commonly seen in ME/CFS, but not in depression. ME/CFS patients have a different immunological profile (56), and are more likely to have a down- regulation of the pituitary/adrenal axis (57). Anhedonia and self- reproach symptoms are not commonly seen in ME/CFS unless a concomitant depression is also present (58). The poor concentra- tion found in depression is not associated with a cluster of other cognitive impairments, as is common in ME/CFS. EEG brain mapping (59,60) and levels of low molecular weight RNase L (21,26) clearly distinguish ME/CFS from depression.

We couldn’t stop following the news. Every ten seconds we refreshed our browsers and gawked at the headlines. Dully we read blogs of friends of friends of friends who had started an organic farm out on the Wichita River. They were out there pickling and canning and brewing things in the goodness of nature. And soon we’d worry it was time for us to leave the city and go. Go! To Uruguay or Morocco or Connecticut? To the Plains or the Mountains or the Bay? But we’d bide our time and after some months or years, our farmer friends would give up the farm and begin studying for the LSATs. We felt lousy about this, and wonderful. We missed getting mail. We wondered why we even kept those tiny keys on our crowded rings. Sometimes we would send ourselves things from the office. Sometimes we would handwrite long letters to old loved ones and not send them. We never knew their new address. We never knew anyone’s address, just their cross streets and what their doors looked like. Which button to buzz, and if the buzzers even worked. How many flights to climb, and which way to turn off the stairs. Sometimes we missed those who hadn’t come to the city with us— or those who had gone to other, different cities. Sometimes we journeyed to see them, and sometimes they ventured to see us. Those were the best of times, for we were all at home and not at once. Those were the worst of times, for we inevitably longed to all move here or there, yet no one ever came— somehow everyone only left. Soon we were practically all alone. Soon we began to hate the forever cramping of our lives. Sleeping on top of strangers and sipping coffee with people we knew we knew but couldn’t remember where from. Living out of boxes we had no space to unpack. Soon we named the pigeons roosting in our windowsills; we worried they looked mangier than the week before. We heard bellowing in the apartments below us and bedsprings creaking in the ones above. Everywhere we saw people with dogs and wodnered how they managed it. Did they work form home?Did they not work? Had they gone to the right schools? Did they have connections? We had no connections. Our parents were our guarantors in name only; they called us from their jobs in distant, colorless, suburban office parks and told us we could come home anytime, and this terrified us always. But then came those nights, creeping up on us while we worked busily in dark offices, like submariners lost at sea, sailing through the dark stratosphere in our cement towers. We’d call each other to report: a good thing happened, a compliment had been paid, a favor had been appreciated, an inch of ground had been gained. We wouldn’t trade those nights for anything or anywhere. Those nights, we remembered why we came to the city. Because if we were really living, then we wanted to hear the cracking in our throats and feel the trembling in our extremities. And if our apartments were coffins and our desks headstones and our dreams infections— if we were all slowly dying — then at least we were going about that great and terrible business together.

At first glance, The Town seemed like every other. Its suburban landscape, however, had become infected. Below sharpened blades of green grass that bent under the weight of heavy raindrops, worms wriggled and dug through damp soil, establishing intricate systems of rot; intertwining the roots of tall-standing trees and invading overgrown weeds, harboring all the people’s secrets, filling with blood and pulsating such as the empty womb of a woman overcome by a withering sickness. And unknown to the stranger who slept under a heavy blanket of ash and liquor, but this sickness had also nestled itself —as real and consuming as her organs—within the girl who wandered the streets of the Town. Flickering yellow lights shining through bounds of thick white locks, she could feel it inside her, sliding into her belly, residing alongside the trauma that coated her tongue like honey; sweet as ripe tangerines but bitter against the back of her throat like coffee grounds.

Infections can be described in two parts ‘heat’ and ‘damp.’ It suggests that antibiotics are brilliant for treating the ‘heat’ part of the infection – fever, sore throat, inflammation – whereas, they often leave the ‘damp’ symptoms – phlegm, nausea, foggy-headedness – alone. This is why many herbalists will often recommend herbal treatments alongside the conventional medicine.

I think it improper to talk about evil all during a meal. It spoils the digestion." "Oh, but come," the Witch said, "is it only in youth that we can have the nerve to as, ourselves such serious questions?' "Well, I stick with my suggestion," said Avaric. "Evil isn't doing bad things, it's feeling bad about them afterward. There's no absolute value to behavior. First of all -" "Institutional inertia," claimed the Witch. "But whatever is the great attraction of absolute power anyway?" "That's why I say it's merely an affliction of the psyche, like vanity or greed," said a copper magnate. "And we all know vanity and greed can produce some pretty astounding results in human affairs, not all of them reprehensible." "It's an absence of good, that's all," said his paramour, an agony aunt for the Shiz informer. "The nature of the world is to be calm, and enhance and support life, and evil is an absence of the inclination of matter to be at peace." "Pigspittle," said Avaric. "Evil is an early or primitive stage of moral development. All children are fiends by nature. The criminals among us are only those who didn't progress..." "I think it's a presence, not an absence," said an artist. "Evil's an incarnated character, an incubus or a succubus. It's an other. It's not us." "Not even me?" said the Witch, playing the part more vigorously than she expected. "A self-confessed murderer?" "Oh go on with you," said the artist, "we all of us show ourselves in our best light. That's just normal vanity." "Evil isn't a thing, it's not a person, it's an attribute like beauty..." "It's a power, like wind..." "It's an infection..." "It's metaphysical, essentially: the corruptibility of creation -" "Blame it on the Unnamed God, then." "But did the Unnamed God create evil intentionally, or was it just a mistake in creation?" "it's not of air and eternity, evil isn't; it's of earth; it's physical, a disjointedness between our bodies and our souls. Evil is inanely corporeal, humans causing on another pain, no more no less -" "I like pain, if I'm wearing calfskin chaps and have my wrists tied behind me -" "No, you're all wrong, our childhood religion had it right: Evil is moral at its heart - the selection of vice over virtue; you can pretend no to know, you can rationalize, but you know it in your conscience -" "Evil is an act, not an appetite. How many haven't wanted to slash the throat of some boor across the dining room table? Present company excepted of course. Everyone has the appetite. If you give in to it, it, that act is evil. The appetite is normal.

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Rebels, gathering from three houses that had been removed from power,” Nura was saying, as we strode through the halls. Her voice was strained. “Bold of them. But for the first time, they have real backing. Three powerful families. A few thousand soldiers. Nothing compared to the Guard, but…” We rounded a corner, reaching the outer halls of the Tower and a sheet of glass windows. My breath died in my throat. “Gods,” I breathed. “Fuck,” Max whispered. “Exactly,” Nura murmured. The outskirts of the Capital, far in the distance, were bright with fire. As if the city was a living being, and a burning infection spread along its edges through flaming veins.

Emory told me about you last night,” he said. “He said there was a woman in the castle with black eyes and dark magic.” His smile did not touch his eyes. “The poor boy was too excited. He’s never met anyone else infected before. Anyone besides his brother, that is.” It felt as if a hundred bees had flooded my lungs, their wings fluttering in a torrid panic. I struggled to breathe, heat climbing out of my chest and wrapping around my throat. Ravyn Yew. Infected.

No matter that both colds and flu are the work of viruses, not bacteria, and antibiotics can’t touch them. Or that the majority of colds will burn themselves out in days or weeks, without risk to life or limb. As antibiotic resistance becomes an ever more serious problem, the pressure is on doctors to be judicious in their prescribing habits. There’s plenty of room for improvement. In the US in 1998, three-quarters of all the antibiotics doled out by primary care doctors were for five respiratory infections: ear infections, sinusitis, pharyngitis (sore throat), bronchitis and upper respiratory tract infections (URI). Of the 25 million people who went to their doctor about a URI, 30 per cent were prescribed antibiotics. Not so bad, you might think, until you realise that only 5 per cent of URIs are caused by bacteria. The same goes for sore throats; 14 million people were diagnosed with pharyngitis that year, and 62 per cent of them were given antibiotics. Only 10 per cent of them would have had bacterial infections. Overall, around 55 per cent of antibiotic prescriptions given out that year were unnecessary.

Latin name: Syzygium aromaticum Use clove to help get rid of nasty intestinal bacteria. Make some clove tea, or add to home cooked dishes if you need to get rid of that nasty bacteria. You can also use clove as a topical analgesic (Pain killer), but if you do, please make sure you dilute it in some carrier oil first, before you place it on your skin. Uses: Painkiller, antibacterial

Mahler was superstitious about composers dying after their ninth symphony, as Beethoven did. To avoid the curse, he composed The Song of the Earth, a song cycle for tenor, soprano, and orchestra, immediately after his eighth symphony, and a year later he wrote his actual ninth symphony. It didn't work. Mahler died ofa throat infection shortly thereafter.

While the WMS views the invasion and establishment of a pathogen as the beginning of the disease, Unani attributes the success of the pathogen to the individual’s susceptibility to infection (host factors) due to dystemperament or humoral imbalance. Supporters of the Unani view observe that in an epidemic (even of catastrophic proportions) not everyone gets infected despite the ubiquity of the infectious agent, just as most people with streptococcus in their respiratory tract do not develop strep throat infection.

Herpesvirus. Herpes is actually a very large family of viruses, several of which are strongly linked to autoimmune disease. For example, Guillain-Barré syndrome and systemic lupus erythematosus are associated with infections from viruses in the Cytomegalovirus genus. Although most people infected are completely asymptomatic, some experience symptoms similar to mononucleosis (sore throat, swollen glands, prolonged fever, and mild hepatitis). However, cytomegaloviral infections remain latent in the body and may cause serious disease should you become immunocompromised later in life. An estimated 40 percent of adults worldwide have had cytomegaloviral infections. Epstein-Barr virus is a member of the Herpesvirus family. It is responsible for infectious mononucleosis (mono or glandular fever). Infection with Epstein-Barr is associated with a higher risk of dermatomyositis, systemic lupus erythematosus, rheumatoid arthritis, Sjögren’s syndrome, and multiple sclerosis. Human herpesvirus 6 is another type of Herpesvirus, with infections typically presenting as a combination of rash and fever. (The childhood disease roseola is an example.) A strong link between Human herpesvirus 6 and multiple sclerosis has been observed, and there is an increased risk of chronic fatigue syndrome associated with Human herpesvirus 6 infection.

The captains were undoubtedly right about the bad effects of the water, but an equal culprit in bringing on the boils and other skin problems was their diet. Only on the rarest of occasions did the party get fresh vegetables, such as watercress, and there was no ripe fruit as yet. Roman legions put vinegar in their drinking water, but Lewis and Clark had taken no such precaution. They and their men were living on meat and cornmeal. The meat was contaminated with bacteria (of whose existence they were unaware). Infected mosquito bites also contributed to their ailments. In camp, ticks and gnats were bad, mosquitoes a plague. They came up in droves, so thick that the men could not keep them out of their eyes, noses, ears, and throats. To escape, men stood in the smoke of the fire and coated their exposed limbs, neck, and face with voyager’s grease.

An infection or inflammation of the larynx is known as laryngitis (lar-in-JI .-tis). It commonly affects the vibrational qualities of the vocal folds. Hoarseness is the most familiar result. Mild cases are temporary and seldom serious. However, bacterial or viral infections of the epiglottis can be very dangerous. The resulting swelling may close the glottis and cause suffocation. This condition, acute epiglottitis (ep-ih-glot-TI .-tis), can develop rapidly after a bacterial infection of the throat. Young children are most likely to be affected. The Trachea The trachea (TRA .-ke.-uh), or windpipe, is a tough, flexible tube with a diameter of about 2.5 cm (1 in.) and a length of about 11 cm (4.33 in.) (Figure 23–6). The trachea begins anterior to vertebra C6 in a ligamentous attachment to the cricoid cartilage. It ends in the mediastinum, at the level of vertebra T5, where it branches to form the right and left main bronchi. The epithelium of the trachea is continuous with that of the larynx. The mucosa of the trachea resembles that of the nasal cavity and nasopharynx (look back at Figure 23–2a). The submucosa (sub-mu.-KO .-suh), a thick layer of connective tissue, surrounds the mucosa. The submucosa contains tracheal glands whose mucous secretions reach the tracheal lumen through a number of short ducts. The trachea contains 15–20 tracheal cartilages that stiffen the tracheal walls and protect the airway (see Figure 23–6a). They also prevent it from collapsing or overexpanding as pressure changes in the respiratory system. Each tracheal cartilage is C-shaped. The closed portion of the C protects the anterior and lateral surfaces of the trachea. The open portion of the C faces posteriorly, toward the esophagus (see Figure 23–6b). Because these cartilages are not continuous, the posterior tracheal wall can easily distort when you swallow, allowing large masses of food to pass through the esophagus. An elastic anular ligament and the trachealis, a band of smooth muscle, connect the ends of each tracheal cartilage (see Figure 23–6b). Contraction of the trachealis reduces the diameter of the trachea. This narrowing increases the tube’s resistance to airflow. The normal diameter of the trachea changes from moment to moment, primarily under the control of the sympathetic division of the ANS. Sympathetic stimulation increases the diameter of the trachea and makes it easier to move large volumes of air along the respiratory passageways.

Researchers believe poppers to be the direct cause of Kaposi’s sarcoma, a rare form of skin cancer that afflicts the nose, throat, lungs, and skin.77 Kaposi’s sarcoma was the initial indicator disease of AIDS, but it was also common in gay men who were not infected with HIV. Poppers can severely damage the immune system, genes, lungs, liver, heart, or the brain; they can produce neural damage similar to that of multiple sclerosis, can have carcinogenic effects, and can lead to “sudden sniffing death.

Celaena panted through her bared teeth as she yanked the pickax out of the overseer’s stomach. The man gurgled blood, clutching at his gut as he looked to the slaves in supplication. But one glance from Celaena, one flash of eyes that showed she had gone beyond the edge, kept the slaves at bay. She merely smiled down at the overseer as she swung the ax into his face. His blood sprayed her legs. The slaves still stayed far away when she brought down the ax upon the shackles that bound her ankles to the rest of them. She didn’t offer to free them, and they didn’t ask; they knew how useless it would be. The woman at the end of the chain gang was unconscious. Her back poured blood, split open by the iron-tipped whip of the dead overseer. She would die by tomorrow if her wounds were not treated. Even if they were, she’d probably die from infection. Endovier amused itself like that. Celaena turned from the woman. She had work to do, and four overseers had to pay a debt before she was done. She stalked from the mine shaft, pickax dangling from her hand. The two guards at the end of the tunnel were dead before they realized what was happening. Blood soaked her clothes and her bare arms, and Celaena wiped it from her face as she stormed down to the chamber where she knew the four overseers worked. She had marked their faces the day they’d dragged that young Eyllwe woman behind the building, marked every detail about them as they used her, then slit her throat from ear to ear. Celaena could have taken the swords from the fallen guards, but for these four men, it had to be the ax. She wanted them to know what Endovier felt like. She reached the entrance to their section of the mines. The first two overseers died when she heaved the ax into their necks, slashing back and forth between them. Their slaves screamed, backing against the walls as she raged past them. When she reached the other two overseers, she let them see her, let them try to draw their blades. She knew it wasn’t the weapon in her hands that made them stupid with panic, but rather her eyes—eyes that told them they had been tricked these past few months, that cutting her hair and whipping her hadn’t been enough, that she had been baiting them into forgetting that Adarlan’s Assassin was in their midst.

Rhinoviruses infect relatively few cells, causing little real harm. So why can they cause such miserable experiences? We have only ourselves to blame. Infected cells release signaling molecules, called cytokines, which attract nearby immune cells. Those immune cells then make us feel awful. They create inflammation that triggers a scratchy feeling in the throat and leads to the production of a lot of mucus around the site of the infection. In order to recover from a cold, we have to wait not only for the immune system to wipe out the virus, but also for the immune system itself to calm down.

Those immune cells then make us feel awful. They create inflammation that triggers a scratchy feeling in the throat and leads to the production of a lot of mucus around the site of the infection. In order to recover from a cold, we have to wait not only for the immune system to wipe out the virus but also to calm itself down.

On December 12, 1799, Washington sent Hamilton a letter applauding his outline for an American military academy: “The establishment of an institution of this kind . . . has ever been considered by me as an object of primary importance to this country.”44 It was the last letter George Washington ever wrote. After riding in a snowstorm, he developed a throat infection and died two days later. Washington did not live to see the government transferred to the new capital that was to bear his name.

She could feel the wild man’s mixed emotions. He was frustrated with his inability to help her, was determined to reach her should she not respond. She was amazed that he needed to help her. It was an all-consuming emotion that vibrated in the air. Shea wanted to do as he commanded but was terrified of infecting him. The way her body was convulsing and pulsing with pain, she was certain it would kill him. Yet she wanted the comfort of another being. I cannot come to you. You must come to me. His voice was pitched low, black velvet enticement, impossible to ignore. Shea pushed herself off the wall and stumbled back to the bedroom, her face starkly white, shadows under her eyes. The bruises and wounds on her throat stood out plainly. She looked so fragile, he was afraid she would break if she fell again. He held out a hand to her, the expression in his dark eyes a mixture of demand and gentleness. “You probably gave me rabies,” she muttered rebelliously.

When a silverback gorilla dies of Ebola, he does it beyond the eyes of science and medicine. No one is there in the forest to observe the course of his agony, with the possible exception of other gorillas. No one takes his temperature or peers down his throat. When a female gorilla succumbs to Ebola, no one measures the rate of her breathing or checks for a telltale rash. Thousands of gorillas may have been killed by the virus but no human has ever attended one of those deaths - not even Billy Karesh, not even Alain Ondzie. A small number of carcasses have been found, some of which have tested positive for Ebola antibodies. A large number of carcasses have been seen and reported by casual witnesses, in Ebola territory at Ebola times, but because the forest is a hungry place, most of those carcasses could never be inspected and sampled by scientific researchers.

Segment of Throat Center. Includes jaws, lower face and mouth. Positive aspects: All forms of energetic expression originate from the lower segments and are allowed to pass freely and fully. Lots of creative ideas and good communication skills, with their expressions unblocked. Can express how you feel, what you want and how you want things to be.  Flexibility of voice, singing, shouting, laughing, moaning, facing, giggling. Negative: It can be restricted, even pushed back as much as water in a hose. We can swallow our power and pride, we can stifle our expression, we can "choke" our own words. By muffling self-expression in accordance with the wishes of our parents we may have learnt this. Physical Negative Aspects. Problems regarding exhaustion, digestion and weight. Tension of neck and head in the shoulders and the back. Very common colds, sore throats and infections. Center segment of visualization. 3rd Eye, 6th Chakra. Concentration, the mind and will's strong powers.  Imagination, intuition, and perceptions that determine how you and the world around you see yourself. Your eyes are deep self-reflection. The subconscious mind gets imprinted with visions and symbols.  Positive aspects: Clarity, vitality, sparkle, insight and the intimacy opportunity.  Strong connection with one's self and inner guide. Spiritual open-mindedness.  You are approaching a sacred sense.  Negotiating. Achievement compulsive.  Controlling behavior, denying reality, repetitive thinking and internal dialogues.  Forgetting. One hides the partially closed eyes behind them. A tired, lifeless low-energy quality or partial commitment to a passionless cause; lack of direction. A distracted focus that represents a failed purpose. Physical negative aspects: problems with eyes and vision, headaches. Crown Center or (brow segment). Once you unlock, you feel the soul's seat and the world door; cosmic harmony. A vision, or purpose, and inner knowledge, shine forth.  To fully realize its potential, this center needs energy from the breath and other centers. A continuous passage from the head to the toe. Aspects which are positive.  Beyond this corporeal world into unbridled states of ecstasy.  Link of something that is visible and invisible. Extremely clear. A deep sense of wholeness. Negative scores. Undeveloped sense of wholeness and a fundamental confidence. So much logic and analysis. Constantly active and distrustful of one's intuitive powers. Physical negative aspects: Unbalanced hemispheres in the brain. Thyroid, parathyroid, genital, and muscle ailments.

My eyes roll in rapture when he slowly slides inside. We both groan out our pleasure as he thrusts, hitting me where I need him the most. “Jesus, baby. You feel so good.” He increases his pace, enticing a small humming noise from my throat. “I want to go slow, to savor you, but I don’t think I can.” He slams into me, expressing his need. “Take what you want. We can go slow next time.

Evil isn’t doing bad things, it’s feeling bad about them afterward. There’s no absolute value to behavior. First of all—” “Institutional inertia,” claimed the Witch. “But whatever is the great attraction of absolute power anyway?” “That’s why I say it’s merely an affliction of the psyche, like vanity or greed,” said a copper magnate. “And we all know vanity and greed can produce some pretty astounding results in human affairs, not all of them reprehensible.” “It’s an absence of good, that’s all,” said his paramour, an agony aunt for the Shiz Informer. “The nature of the world is to be calm, and enhance and support life, and evil is an absence of the inclination of matter to be at peace.” “Pigspittle,” said Avaric. “Evil is an early or primitive stage of moral development. All children are fiends by nature. The criminals among us are only those who didn’t progress . . .” “I think it’s a presence, not an absence,” said an artist. “Evil’s an incarnated character, an incubus or a succubus. It’s an other. It’s not us.” “Not even me?” said the Witch, playing the part more vigorously than she expected. “A self-confessed murderer?” “Oh go on with you,” said the artist, “we all of us show ourselves in our best light. That’s just normal vanity.” “Evil isn’t a thing, it’s not a person, it’s an attribute like beauty . . .” “It’s a power, like wind . . .” “It’s an infection . . .” “It’s metaphysical, essentially: the corruptibility of creation—” “Blame it on the Unnamed God, then.” “But did the Unnamed God create evil intentionally, or was it just a mistake in creation?” “It’s not of air and eternity, evil isn’t; it’s of earth; it’s physical, a disjointedness between our bodies and our souls. Evil is inanely corporeal, humans causing one another pain, no more no less—” “I like pain, if I’m wearing calfskin chaps and have my wrists tied behind me—” “No, you’re all wrong, our childhood religion had it right: Evil is moral at its heart—the selection of vice over virtue; you can pretend not to know, you can rationalize, but you know it in your conscience—” “Evil is an act, not an appetite. How many haven’t wanted to slash the throat of some boor across the dining room table? Present company excepted of course. Everyone has the appetite. If you give in to it, it, that act is evil. The appetite is normal.” “Oh no, evil is repressing that appetite. I never repress any appetite.

Well...I kinda set his whole room on fire.” A laugh ripped from her throat and infected me too. We started giggling like kids, like our whole world hadn't been torn out from under us just hours ago. And I didn't ever want the feeling to stop. “Please

There’s no harm in drinking Pyophage. The cocktail treats streptococcus, which causes strep and several other bugs that can cause a sore throat or infect other soft tissues. Another cocktail named Enko is formulated to extinguish the typical stomach infection culprits: shigella, salmonella, E.coli, and staph. The next one, Intestiphage, adds two more bacteria eaters into the mix that fight enterococcus and proteus. “When people travel someplace, they often bring a couple of boxes with them,

It felt as if a hundred bees had flooded my lungs, their wings fluttering in a torrid panic. I struggled to breathe, heat climbing out of my chest and wrapping around my throat. Ravyn Yew. Infected. Did you know? I gasped at the Nightmare. He purred, gratification dripping like hot wax off his voice. I had my suspicions. And you didn’t think to tell me? You’ve had the man in your gaze all day. Surely you saw more than a handsome face.