Correct Medical Scenarios - Tumblr Posts

STOP DOING THIS IN INJURY FICS!!

Bleeding:

Blood is warm. if blood is cold, you're really fucking feverish or the person is dead. it's only sticky after it coagulates.

It smells! like iron, obv, but very metallic. heavy blood loss has a really potent smell, someone will notice.

Unless in a state of shock or fight-flight mode, a character will know they're bleeding. stop with the 'i didn't even feel it' yeah you did. drowsiness, confusion, pale complexion, nausea, clumsiness, and memory loss are symptoms to include.

blood flow ebbs. sometimes it's really gushin', other times it's a trickle. could be the same wound at different points.

it's slow. use this to your advantage! more sad writer times hehehe.

Stab wounds:

I have been mildly impaled with rebar on an occasion, so let me explain from experience. being stabbed is bizarre af. your body is soft. you can squish it, feel it jiggle when you move. whatever just stabbed you? not jiggly. it feels stiff and numb after the pain fades. often, stab wounds lead to nerve damage. hands, arms, feet, neck, all have more motor nerve clusters than the torso. fingers may go numb or useless if a tendon is nicked.

also, bleeding takes FOREVER to stop, as mentioned above.

if the wound has an exit wound, like a bullet clean through or a spear through the whole limb, DONT REMOVE THE OBJECT. character will die. leave it, bandage around it. could be a good opportunity for some touchy touchy :)

whump writers - good opportunity for caretaker angst and fluff w/ trying to manhandle whumpee into a good position to access both sites

Concussion:

despite the amnesia and confusion, people ain't that articulate. even if they're mumbling about how much they love (person) - if that's ur trope - or a secret, it's gonna make no sense. garbled nonsense, no full sentences, just a coupla words here and there.

if the concussion is mild, they're gonna feel fine. until....bam! out like a light. kinda funny to witness, but also a good time for some caretaking fluff.

Fever:

you die at 106F (40.5C). no 'oh no his fever is 107F!! ahhh!" no his fever is 0F because he's fucking dead. you lose consciousness around 103, sometimes less if it's a child. brain damage occurs at over 104.

ACTUAL SYMPTOMS:

sluggishness

inability to speak clearly

feeling chilly/shivering

nausea

pain

delirium

symptoms increase as fever rises. slow build that secret sickness! feverish people can be irritable, maybe a bit of sass followed by some hurt/comfort. never hurt anybody.

fevers are a big deal! bad shit can happen! milk that till its dry (chill out) and get some good hurt/comfort whumpee shit.

keep writing u sadistic nerds xox love you

also - this post was not an invitation to share a bunch of enormously traumatic stories. stop messaging me things like 'related to ur last post' and then it's a really upsetting recount of an assault you experienced. this is a writing blog, not a medical newsletter. I'm muting the notifs because I don't like seeing it pop up in my feed - if you have a genuine writing question, please dm me, i'd love to hear it. thank you.

T Minus 7

part four is here im so sorry

i feel terrible i dipped out for two weeks and all i have to show for it is this piece of garbage

good luck

cw: nothing just tension (are you bored be honest) and mention of vomit.

Masterlist

Ben was in mid sentence when you flung open the door to his office. The window shattered as it bounced violently off the wall. Every med tech in the room froze, glittering dusk spreading over the floor. the shards crunched under your footsteps as you came nose to nose with Ben. Your cheeks were on fire, chest heaving. Breathe. Breathe.

"You drugged my patient," you spat, flinging the clipboard at your boss. A few interns skittered backwards, murmuring concern. Ben dodged the flying paper, swearing.

"What the hell-"

"Miguel O'Hara," you seethed, "Spiderman of Universe 2099-A. Was specifically given to me to care for, and yet I found a drug that I did not administer in his bloodstream." You punctuated this bombshell with a snarl, jabbing roughly at the file summary.

Ben adjusted his glasses. "Now, now calm down a second-"

"He was getting better and now he's a rabid animal!" Your shout echoed across the whole med bay. Logic had gone out the window; you were far too focused on finding answers.

"Do you see what has happened to him?" Miguel was prone on a cot, tubes shoved into his throat. "He's tied up there for no reason other than the side effects of whatever cocktail you gave him without telling me."

Ben shot a look at the hovering interns, who quickly dispersed. Still calm as a breeze, he sat and gestured for you to do the same. Folding your arms, you didn't budge. Anger had blurred the edges of your vision and highlighted his nonchalant expression. You could smell the cold sweat gathering along his hairline.

Be scared, you coward.

He sighed again. "I'm sorry for the confusion. But this situation...is worse than you understand."

"Then make me understand," you bit back.

Ben was clearly disgruntled with your stern attitude. He hesitated, then pulled up a few documents for you to look at.

"Miguel has serious attitude problems," he said, "as I'm sure you've noticed. His extreme anger and violent reactions are a result of hormone imbalances from his unstable splicing with a spider breed."

Sitting back, he looked at you with a raised eyebrow. You mirrored his expression. When it was clear that was the only explanation he'd give you, you snorted.

"Yeah, okay. Why did you give him that drug? What even is that?"

Ben stood, jaw ticking. The smell of his own endorphins was stronger, making your nose twitch. Let him get mad. If he yelled, you could yell right back.

"I've given you all the information you need. I don't think you're the right nurse for this-"

Your palm cracked across his face before you could think about it. He flinched, skin flaring up at the contact. Pride roared in your chest, despite the waver of regret.

Ben leaned forward and snatched the ID from your jacket. "You're done," he said coldly.

A low buzz rang through your head, chilling your blood. The uncertainty and anger mixed in a disgusting whirlpool in your stomach, urging you to hurl in a garbage can. You swallowed it down proudly and stormed out without another word.

"So who's taking care of Miguel?" Your friend chewed her thumb nervously after you told her the story. Yeah, it was classified, but you didn't owe Ben shit anymore.

"I...dunno," you exhaled, scrubbing a palm over your face. You hadn't thought this through at all. Maria's gaze softened when she took in your terrified expression.

You'd been a mess since you arrived home; immediately vomiting in the sink and having a panic attack on the bathroom floor. Maria almost called the med bay before you blubbered about the situation. She was shocked at the state of O'Hara.

The idea of leaving him in the med bay with some random nurse made your chest twist. He'd had such a hard time with the needles...and the thought of Ben running the doses fired up your anger. You'd gotten along with the head doctor, but something about him always rubbed you the wrong way.

"I need to sleep on it," you mumbled. Maria patted your shoulder comfortingly as you trudged into the shared bedroom.

Foolish of you to think you could sleep. You tossed for an hour before giving up frustratedly. The sheets were twisted around your ankles and cold sweat had dried uncomfortably under your sleep shirt. Maria had left around seven, supposedly for a get-together.

The sink dripped quietly in the background. Low light from the oven glowed ominously. You shivered. Padding to the sink, you poured yourself a cup of water and drank, easing your shaky nerves. There was leftover pizza which you devoured in minutes.

I hope he's okay.

You buried your head in your arms, anxiety knotting tight and sharp under your ribs. It felt like all the air had been vacuum sealed out of the room.

Breathe.

Shoving away from the table, you slipped on your shoes and left, trying to clear the brain fog. A walk would be nice. The light had faded outside, and the HQ was asleep. The air conditioning hummed and faint sounds of the machinery was clicking, but everyone had gone to bed.

Out of habit, you felt yourself ducking down the medbay hall. The windows were all shuttered and the lights flicked off, an eerie blue glow under the doors. You'd never noticed how similar to a morgue the bay was. Unmarked doors, solemn workers and hushed voices.

You shivered again. Your footsteps paused, and you found yourself outside of a very familiar door.

Don't. Just go home. He's sleeping.

You can't.

Not having an ID made it impossible to unlock any doors. You pressed a hand to the small window, condensation from your nose fogging the glass. The faint beeps of his monitors could be heard if you pressed close enough. A small piece of your heart broke as you listened to the rhythmic beeps.

Your hand brushed against the doorknob. A small eep when the door pushed open. It hadn't locked.

Whoever had last checked on him hadn't locked his room properly.

Keep walking. Turn around. Don't.

Just a peek. You'd just take a peek. Toeing the door open, you clicked it gently shut and tiptoed closer.

Miguel was still pale and clammy, but the machinery had been reduced. You could smell his bandages from the doorway. Rot. He was neglected. The slow beat of your worry picked up the pace. Why hadn't anybody changed his bedding?

Something was up.

Impulsively, you smoothed the sheets around his arms and pushed sweaty hair off his forehead. His skin was flaming, and you flinched back.

Something hot and thick closed around your wrist. You froze, his hand holding your arm loosely. Miguel's brow furrowed with pain as he tried to keep his eyes open, and you gently prompted him to go back to sleep.

His irises were muddy with pain - sharp scarlet turned a rusty brown.

You patted his hand and peeled off his sweaty fingers, shushing when he groaned.

"Hang on," you whispered.

Breath held, you quickly peeked into the hall. Still empty. Holy fuck this is such a bad idea.

Closing the door quietly, you tiptoed over and carefully pulled an empty syringe out of the blood kit on the counter. Snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves, you pulled his wrist into your grasp and felt for a vein. You tried to add pressure to coax the blood flow. In a long, slow exhale, you swiftly drew up a few milliliters of blood. Miguel barely flinched, fingers twitching in sleep.

You pocketed the syringe and slipped out of his room. Ben had taken your badge but he hadn't taken your coat or your lanyard. You could still - as long as a tech didn't look to close - apply for a blood scan.

If Ben wouldn't tell you what he'd dosed Miguel with, you could figure it out yourself.

The bags for lab requests were in an unlocked office. You scribbled out a report, fudged a couple of numbers and slipped it into the stack of waiting transfers. Quick as you came, you disappeared out the door and back into the hall.

A few late-shift nurses waved at you, unknowing of recent transgressions. You kept your face calm, not betraying the stampede underneath. A few minutes later you were back in bed, adrenaline pumping after your escapade.

You woke up with cottonmouth the next morning. After downing a second glass of water and waving off a concerned glance from your roommate, you shook off the despair and tried to piece together what was going on.

Labs were backed up, hopefully you'd have the results by tomorrow. If all went well and the techs were their usual inattentive selves, nobody would notice your unauthorized request.

As the clock ticked, your guts twisted. Your gaze slid to the mess of Miguel's file on your floor. Jumping off of your bunk, you crouched over the sheafs of paper.

Curious, you picked one up off the pile. If Miguel's infection was even close to the severity that Ben had implied, he'd definitely have symptoms outside of a mid-grade fever and weight loss. That was standard. None of the nurse reports you or your coworkers filed had any reports of indigestion, bloody vomit, or something that would explain away his wound.

Huh.

Miguel hadn't hallucinated, fainted, developed lesions or rashes. The testing of the venom proved that red rashes and a pox were a symptom of exposure.

O'Hara's symptoms listed none of the above.

Puzzled, you flipped through his information until the mission report resurfaced.

Impaled on left side of sternum with approx. 8 inches of rebar.

His wound was on the right side.

Either somebody did not know their directions or somebody lied.

Miguel had one of the fastest healing metabolisms of anyone on the team. Probably the fastest. An impalement would have healed in hours. By the time he'd arrived at your office, his left side was fine. His right side had a wound. There was copious scar tissue all over his chest. The original wound would have been disguised easily.

Did he get injured again? It would have been in the mission report.

Unless it happened after the mission.

Dr. Ben had been first on the scene. He'd personally transported Miguel to the medbay. After that was the first contact any other medical personnel had with O'Hara.

Hands shaky, you dialed Maria.

"Hey," you jumped when she answered, "where's Dr. Ben?"

Maria hummed, ducking away from her phone. "I got him," she said, "what's up?"

Holding up Miguel's file, you swallowed thickly. "Wh...how big was the rebar that Miguel was impaled with originally?"

8. 8 inches. Say it.

"Twelve, why?"

"Nothing," you whispered, hanging up.

Bingo.

The two wounds were different. Miguel had not been infected by the original impalement.

It had been done intentionally.

You slid down in your chair. "Oh my god."

There was a notification in your inbox the next morning. Spitting out your morning toast, you opened up the lab report.

Hemoglobin, normal, oxygen, normal....the sedatives you'd been using were listed, an abnormally high sodium level - circle back later - and-

compound r4 status: abnormal.

Compound r4 was a norepinephrine regulator given to anomalies to control rage. NE was lowered to calm them down so that the spiders could transport them easily. However, if overdosed it had an opposite reaction.

Why would Miguel need r4?

"...has attitude problems, as I'm sure you know..."

Your stomach had plummeted through the floor as the fog slowly cleared. His sodium levels were high because the drug you'd been administering was a false. Just a saline solution, no antibiotic. His iron levels were normal, even though he'd been losing blood.

Miguel was fine. There was no infection, the venom had not come in contact with his wound. Somebody had staged the effects.

Ben.

I SWEAR I DIDN'T FORGET ABOUT YOU GUYS I JUST DUG MYSELF DEEPER IN THIS PILE OF GOD KNOWS WHAT AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO GET OUT

i love you xox

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @krakenkitty @ridiculous-hibiscus @seeeuspaceecowboyyy @neeshsoodrippedout @llumetrii