#injured worker

[gh0sthands]

whumpee accidentally seriously injuries themself in public but despite their screaming no one comes to help

[ramfuwa]

I love him your honour

[lemonbrows]

/pulls out the six year old au material for a rainy day

[askthedarksidersfam]

The work benefits for the Horsemen probably suuuuuuuck

[hillbilly---man]

if you're going through a really bad time and an album from one of your favorite bands comes out, PLEASE resist the urge to listen to it on repeat to try to get yourself through the bad time. Mix it in with lots of other stuff, sure. But don't get yourself into the situation where you associate that music so strongly with a horrible part of your life that you can't enjoy it later without thinking about the bad stuff

TRUST ME

[meme-loving-stuck]

you, with an injury or condition that causes chronic pain localized to one joint/limb/side: why is THIS side hurting now, i have the [condition/injury] on THAT side?! why is the other side hurti-

me reaching down from the heavens and gently scooping you up: you are over-exerting the Other Side to avoid the pain in the Bad Side. take the pain medication. manage the burden effectively, don't ignore it

[girderednerve]

During the 2007 hearings on Capitol Hill, workers testified about being left to die by the tracks while railroad managers ignored pleas for care. The 2008 update to the Federal Railroad Safety Act required the companies to provide “prompt medical attention” and mandated that railroads bring injured workers to the hospital as soon as they ask.

About five years after the harrowing congressional testimony, outside Chicago, a supervisor was driving a Union Pacific machine operator, Jared Whitt, to the hospital. Whitt’s lips felt as if they were about to burst and his arms and legs tingled, he testified as part of a lawsuit he later filed. He closed his eyes and thought about his five kids. Was he dying? “Please,” he recalled telling his manager: “Get me there. Please hurry.”

Whitt had suffered a heat stroke as June temperatures climbed to about 100 degrees, and his manager, work equipment supervisor Dave Birt, believed Whitt was going into cardiac arrest, Birt said in his deposition. They had just started toward the hospital when Birt’s cellphone rang. “Well,” Whitt heard Birt say, “what do you want me to do?” A pause. “I’m no doctor, but when a man’s arms are numb and tingling, I’d say he needs to go see one.” Pause. “I’m pulling over.”

Birt held the phone to Whitt’s ear. Whitt couldn’t hold it himself because his numb arms had retracted, his fists clenched at the top of his chest, Whitt said in his pretrial deposition. The man on the other end was Birt’s boss, manager of track programs Talmage Dalebout. “Why don’t we just bring you back here to the job site and get you cooled down,” Whitt recalled Dalebout saying. “If you get cooled down, you’ll probably be OK.” Birt declined to comment when reached by ProPublica. Dalebout didn’t respond to calls, texts and social media messages.

Union Pacific claims in the lawsuit that Whitt never requested to be taken to the hospital and, when Birt says he asked, Whitt chose the job site. But experts say workers suffering from heat stroke —a potentially life-threatening condition marked by confusion in which body temperatures can rise to 106 degrees — lack the faculties to make any decision for themselves; someone should always take them to the hospital regardless of what a worker requests. In hindsight, Birt said later in deposition, he wished they had continued to the hospital.

[r0semultiverse]

Listen, all I’m saying is that if RWBY gets cancelled because of Warner Bros (anti-striking) & CrunchyRoll’s (anti-union) greedy executives, I’m down to finish the rest of the show myself with the help of a few friends! ❤️

Also, don’t blame CRWBY or any of the writers and creators currently striking if the show gets shelved. Blame the greedy CEOs & executives of both companies for being pieces of shit.

It would be in written format only unless someone wanted to provide fanart stills to include with it or even animations (less likely)!

Passion project only. I’m not going to monetize this thing if it comes to it. I will make donation links for the people involved though if you wanna help any of us out in regards to life finances. I’m very invested in the story & characters and would like to see the world & story wrapped up properly! 🌹 Feel free to bookmark this post for updates if it ever comes down to it! 🥀

[lavarend]

Typing the word “attack” shows you some of the most bizarre tags ive ever seen. It also showed me some that didnt even have the word attack in them at all.

[depressedraisin]

watching this miniseries abt the bhopal gas tragedy rn. and wow. usamerican capitalism is the one indisputable villain in all of this who could've guessed right

[dallonwrites]

dreamt that i wrote and edited and submitted a micro that i was so excited about then woke up and was like wait this idea kinda sucks

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"THREE MEN BURIED UNDER TONS OF BRICK," Toronto Star. June 30, 1913. Page 1. --- Caught Without Warning. When Wooden Platform Bearing Brick Collapsed. ---- ARE SERIOUSLY HURT --- Injured.

Andre Leschinisky, 25 Turner Ave- nue.

John Orofsky, 127 Niagara street.

Martin Gorgoni, 127 Niagara street.

Scene of Accident. Esplanade, west of Tecumseh street.

Cause. Wooden platform supporting 4 tons of brick collapsed burying unfortunate men beneath. --- Three laborers, John Orofsky, 34 years of age, Andro Leschinisky, 23 years of age, and Martin Gorgoni, were seriously injured this afternoon when four tons of brick were displaced by the collapse of the wooden platform on which it was standing, and, before the unfortunate laborers realized it, buried them beneath the pile. The brick had been unloaded from a freight car preparatory to being used in the erection of the new addition to the Harris Abbatoir company at the foot of Tecumseh street.

The brick had been piled on the platform and the three laborers, Poles, were engaged in wheeling it in barrow-loads to the bank. About one ton had been moved and piled, when the platform holding the remainder collapsed.

Caught Without Warning. The three men had returned for another barrow-load, and where standing on the platform about six feet from each other.

Caught by surprise, they didn't have a chance to get away from the brick before it collapsed, burying them beneath the pile.

Other laborers in the vicinity, alarmed by the cries of their cmpanions, rushed to the scene and frenziedly threw the brick in all directions in a desperate effort to get the men out before they w were suffocated. Fortunately the brick spread as it fell and it was a comparatively easy matter to rescue their companions.

A hurry call was sent in for the civic ambulance, and the three men were rushed to the Western Hospital. Leschinisky was badly bruised about the back and lower limbs, and it is believed may have sustained internal injuries. Orofsky sustained a badly cut and bruised head and injuries to the back, while the third of the trio escaped with slight injuries, sustaining some cuts and bruises about the body.

[alien-girl-21]

k!quackity and his cousins creating forced labor for the construction of the white house #gaslight #gatekeep #girlboss 😍🥰

[naomiknight-17]

Went to my first union demonstration today

Felt good to shout at the Ministry of Labour to respect injured workers' rights!

Wow it was hot out though

[dentixvoxel]

I'm the type of idiot who has to force himself to go home even though I'm in extreme amounts of pain due to hurting my foot

[countyourcasualty]

The last, the very last, So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.

"Charles Xavier, open this g-dforsaken door!" an unfamiliar voice lifted amidst the pounding. First in his head but then flesh-against-wood, a typical cop-knock with dented fist-edges. Bang! Bang! Bang! The hundred-year old white-oak paneling on the mansion's front door would surely splinter under the force of it. Don't be so melodramatic, Charles.

Obscure. At first, but nothing remained obscure to Charles for very long. The accent, the cadence, the swirl of metal and rigid steel and smoke and crying birds-of-prey and desert sands and blinding skies that was… strange, in America. Topsy-turvy. September chill sets him bracing, and the streets are too quiet for spring, sprawling department stores and automated doors… finding himself missing the merchants, shoving new fruits under his nose… Acidic oranges, bright red seeds slipping out of mud-crusted fingers, watching the sky through sticks and leaves. Silence and seas of people adorned in white. Tishrei is your favorite month, New York City is too cold. Too-much metal like how you'd expect him to love. You remember this. The metal, wound down into the spaces between his atoms, his driver. But Lehnsherr - Shomron called him Ariel but everyone else just calls him Erik - just misses the heat. You can almost smell the burning rubber tires as the hollowed-out Jeep under your ass lifts off the ground and careens beyond an aging, rusted wall, medical tents line-by-line and you're really here, ferrying enormous jugs of water to the makeshift hospital. At least Haifa had roads. You could never classify whatever he was doing in this sweltering wasteland - this minuscule fraction of a place called Eilat - as driving in the first place. The Red Cross had convinced Charles to go. It'll be good for you, your people-finding skills are unprecedented! Oxford loves the extracurriculars. OK, except for the fact that no one in this entire country understood how a fucking motor vehicle worked, OH KAY? It's hard to sell it as good for him when he's imagining his skull through the windshield. Ma kara, atah mipachad? What's wrong? You scared? Of course Lehnsherr goaded him. Always had. Flyaway curls are freshly jammed under a black, tye-dye swirl toque (at least some things never change, you couldn't get Erik into a kippah if you paid him, but he'll show up to work in a 420 Blaze It beanie - OK, maybe not quite so theatrically goyische; the same category as Hot Topic and American Idol, but you honestly couldn't predict the man's moods on the best of days and he's absolutely been known to fuck with Charles in spectacular and delightful ways), and two large brown paper bags balanced in one of his arms, freeing up the other to… ya know… knock Charles's door down with.

Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing against a white stone…

This part of Erik, Charles was not familiar with. He didn't rise to the bait, any of it. His mind a glass sieve, fogged with snowflakes over a superheated element. "Ah , so you're incapable of reason, then?" Erik's poor arm crosses over his chest, one eyebrow arched back. "And I doubt you could see two feet in front of you let alone annihilate the opposition , kamerad." The statement is sharp, pointed at the whiskey tumbler in Charles's fingers. "But you are right that I am not here for a social call," Erik's quick retort lacked any indication of offense. Charles had the distinct capacity to wither with a well-placed word, a cutting observation, acerbic sarcasm designed to flay away skin and reveal bone. It wasn't that Erik was immune, no one really could be immune to that level of insight, but he was shored up with foolhardy courage, impulsive and willing to jump feet-first into the fire regardless. The little girl was spared from falling on her rear end by a neat application of Erik's abilities, setting her upright onto her feet before she hit the ground and kneeling to murmur something conspiratorially to her, watching as she ran off into the distance. It was a controlled display of power. No lurching, jerky, messy, noisy scraping and bouncing around. No cars crumpling under their own gravity, wheels dragging against gravel, fighting against him. No metal , either. Now he appeared to have distinct command of his environment, a clocked awareness of every reflective surface in the room a subtle magnetic pull in his neurons. Grounding, soothing. "Still smoke?" Erik with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, now there was a blast from the past. "I have liquor, pie and Newports. Don't say I can't bribe the best of them. Or the worst." Those eyebrows raised very pointedly down at Charles. He patted the top of the paper grocery bags.

That butterfly was the last one. Butterflies don't live in here,

"I will make it and you will eat it," Erik pointed at him expectantly as he got to work. The cigarette by now had migrated its way under Erik's hat and behind his ear, safe and sound while he retrieved varying ingredients from the bag in preparation. "This is untenable," he muttered as he glanced about the kitchen, rummaging this way and that. Too much clutter, too distinctly lacking care, Charles found a shot glass set in front of him because, "don't drink out of the bottle like an animal," but whatever reply Charles gives he knows Erik isn't really listening. He's just making noise, making his presence felt, inundating himself into the cracks and walls. The shot glass settled itself in front of Charles expectantly. At least he wasn't griping about the drink, but apparently he'd gone full circle. Medic, fact-finder, social worker. And now, Charles-wrangler. Erik's career trajectory was shaping up nicely, he thought. Five years; it's long enough for him to have finally gotten a fucking post-secondary degree, a point of contention Charles very vividly remembers being mocked endlessly for in the ambulance as it skittered noisily over rocks. Look who grew up and got his Bachelor's all on his lonesome. (It's uhhh not that impressive comparatively, look who he's fucking talking to, but for Erik who Charles wasn't sure knew how to sit still long enough to learn anything that wasn't casualty evacuation triage, it was meritorious.) A knife snapped into his hand from the block and he sliced open the package, running the meat under the tap before cutting it into thin slices, splashing salt and pepper on it, a little rosemary, and pounding it thin for a stir fry. It's done all one-handed, with help only from the tug of Erik's mutation, fine-tuned. Nothing like the swirling, cacophonic maelstrom of Charles's mind. Splintered into millions of refracted-kaleidoscope prisms, thoughts-not-his-own. Ki'ani lo yetzat, the thoughts were so quiet as to be nearly indistinguishable from the sizzling of oil in the pan. Charles was too drunk to bother pulling out the interpretation. Something about not exiting . Why was he here? A pin-drop echo reverted upside-down right-side-up through the mirror, mud and crunching bones and aching metal. One foot in front of the other, two steps back to counter it. You always did make fun of his Avalanche phase (you never thought you'd meet Matthew Good's biggest fan in fucking Eilat , but life uh… finds a way) until one buried you. It's a memory from the ether, a forgotten spiel in the long litanies, the metronomes of Charles's current existential crisis. Once, Erik Lehnsherr had carried him across miles of desert in a very literal sense of the word. Now, it seemed, he had come back to do the same. Whether or not Charles approved.