#pneumo

[brinaarcadia]

They've cut the power on ya – you're stuck 'till the back-ups kick in. I'll help you hold 'em back! Check the pneumo!

[ryan-sometimes]

any updates on your health if you feel comfortable talking about it? I hope the blood cancer scare was a false alarm, wishing you a speedy recovery either way

I had to visit the ER at 5am today because I started vomiting blood. Thankfully I wasn’t bleeding internally and it was just an upper GI tear that bled as much as it did because I unknowingly took a blood thinner (I took aspirin for a headache). I was discharged after they ran a bunch of tests to rule out more severe internal bleeding. I was given some medications to take for the next few days.

Other than that, blood cancer is unfortunately still on the table. I didn’t receive any news on that at the ER. I have been getting bounced around different doctors (cardio, pneumo, even dietician for fuck’s sake) for the last few months for symptoms that actually are symptoms of blood cancer. I lost 15lbs in the span of ~5 months that I cannot explain. I have bruises and rashes on my body that I also can’t explain. Every day I look in the mirror and see giant red marks on my skin. My friends and family have been telling me I look pale. I wake up every morning drenched in sweat even if I was cold at night, to the extent my hair is wet. I have these weird pains that come and go throughout my body that feel like they’re coming straight from the bone. Shortness of breath. I’m constantly exhausted. I’m almost never hungry. I got a referral to hematology and oncology but it could take months to get an appointment.

[dionysus-complex]

.

[shogunish]

📣 PSA 📣

I GOT A NEW JOB AND CAN NOW QUIT BEING A NURSE, EVERYBODY SAY YAAAY 🥳✨

[juuheizou]

OHHHH MY GOD. So I’m watching ATLA and suzumutsu r soooo Kataang coded

Not even gonna lie I have a whole Firebender!Mutsu x Airbender!Suzu AU in the back burner of my mind and combing through my lost childhood memories of the show ultimately brought me to the conclusion that Zukaang is where it's at, but I do also see what you're saying.

[ladylazarusphd]

“Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow”

We get it Andrew, you like sweaty men. Please have ONE person proofread your new introduction tape before sending it out

[westrnbound]

are you guys ever like. sooo bad at your job but then it kinda works out anyway

[brittababbles]

Pneumonia (puh-nu-mo-nee-ah) and chihuahua (chee-hu-ah-hu-ah)

girls who learned all their vocab from books and are now constantly embarrassing themselves by pronouncing words slightly wrong in conversation

[abysskeeper]

"You're asking us to improperly aerosolize bacteria but sure, the paper towels stabilizing the culture is wrong"

[cravesunconditionallove]

On your recent post for Vivisections

Do you have any more advice or maybe a quick scene lay out on how you'd accurately describe and show it? I've not seen many people explain this before I'd love to know more!

Permission to infodump?? awesome :D

Because it's on topic here, there are a few blogs I think need a mention because they have AMAZING medical/torture writing advice (@scripttorture and @justkidneying )

You didn't ask whether the character lives or dies, I don't know which you want so here's info on both scenarios:

Dying:

First off, without anesthesia, the pain alone would likely lead to a thing called Neurogenic Shock, which will in turn cause a BP drop and organ failure among other things. Your character will likely be breathing quickly, appear pale, have a rapid pulse, and be confused if they are still conscious. And yelling in pain of course.

For death due to blood loss: it's hard *not* to hit a major blood vessel if you're flaying someone open neck to groin, and that will also lead to quick death without immediate treatment. Cautery (using electricity to burn an area, stopping bleeding) will work on smaller bleeding but major blood vessels not so much. Symptoms are similar to shock: clammy/pale skin, thready/weak/rapid pulse, loss of consciousness.

Other: you can also risk damaging organs (someone being vivisected probably isn't going to be staying very still, even restrained, and one slip of a scalpel and oops, that's the aorta...) A punctured lung could lead to pneumo/hemothorax (air/blood in the chest cavity (pleural space), where it shouldn't be) causing respiratory distress—and then shock, and without treatment—death. If the heart is damaged, death would be near instant. Other organs like the liver, kidneys, bowels, spleen etc are pretty big bleeders, so see my Blood Loss section.

Sepsis: If they don't die immediately, sepsis is a big risk, as even in sterile environments you can't completely prevent it. Sepsis is when an infection reaches the bloodstream and is very serious. I imagine whoever is vivisecting the character probably wouldn't care too much about using sterile technique, so you can bet on an infection happening. This can set in within hours or days. Symptoms include high fever, pain, confusion/delirium, sweaty/clammy skin, low blood pressure.

Now, if you want them to live?

Surviving:

If the vivisectionist wants their patient/victim to survive, they'd need a lot of materials. Like any major surgery you'd need blood products, fluids, antibiotics, ligatures, and a way to keep the pain (somewhat) under control. Alcohol has been used in the past for similar procedures, but you could also just opt for a dose of opioids.

Antibiotics are necessary, opening someone up like that is a MAJOR risk (see "Sepsis").

I imagine they'd also somewhat monitor the character's vitals. They'd also probably have a few assistants to help with similar smaller tasks like that—stopping bleeding or handing tools, etc.

Closing the wound: Stitching someone up from such an event would be a lot of work, as you have to close many skin layers (muscle, fat, and the surface skin) and bandage it.

If you don't want to stitch them up immediately, a wound vac (negative pressure wound therapy) would be a good option. Doctors use these in cases of things like compartment syndrome. It is used when you cannot close someone back up right away.

Bandages and proper wound care are also important, you'd need to change the bandages every few hours for the first few days as deep wounds tend to produce a lot of fluids (called "exudate.") Sometimes doctors place drains to help drain away this fluid faster.

All in all, Healing from this would take months, not to mention the psychological trauma from all of this.

The scene:

Writing these scenes is honestly so variable so here's a few thoughts of mine:

You could describe the environment: (cliche, but cold metal table? Harsh lighting? Straps? A table with sharp scary-looking objects on it? How about the scent of disinfectant (or its absence).

The initial sensation would be the biggest to focus on: does the vivisectionist take their time? (pressure before pain?) shock as nerves fire as they are severed (lightning sensation shooting upwards), and the body’s instinctive flinch or freeze. Initially screaming, swearing? Sweating, rapid breathing, muscle spasms, or even vomiting as the body tries to cope?

Smells: Metallic tang of a large amount of blood (I personally HATE this smell, it's like having a penny in your mouth, or if you've ever used a metal scrubber to clean a pan, it smells kind of like that.), burning flesh (if they use cauterization) etc

If the character is partially sedated for it, keep in mind they will still react to pain, albeit sluggishly.

I hope this helps!

[whumpypepsigal]

Chicago Med s09e10: “Probably not a tension pneumothorax.” — “Hemo pneumo. You're bleeding into your chest.”

[becky-resus]

Against the Clock

The wail of sirens pierced the cold night air as the ambulance screeched to a stop outside the ER. The back doors flew open, revealing paramedics hunched over the still form of a young woman. Becky, 25 years old, was barely clinging to life after a head-on car collision. Blood smeared her face, and her chest heaved irregularly beneath the oxygen mask strapped to her pale face.

“Female, 25, restrained driver, head-on collision. Unstable vitals, GCS is 6. Possible internal injuries. BP dropping—70 over 40. She’s fading fast,” the lead paramedic barked as the gurney was pulled out.

The trauma team, led by Dr. Miller, rushed to meet them. Every second counted. Becky’s limp body was wheeled into Trauma Room 2, where the bright overhead lights exposed the full extent of her injuries. Blood had soaked through her torn clothes, pooling around the gurney.

“Strip her down!” Dr. Miller commanded, his voice sharp and decisive. A nurse cut away her shirt and pants with a pair of scissors, exposing a bruised and battered torso.

“Suspected rib fractures—looks like blunt force trauma to the chest. Check for a pneumo,” Dr. Miller ordered. Becky’s abdomen was distended, her pale skin mottled with purpling bruises that hinted at internal bleeding.

A nurse called out Becky’s vitals, her voice clipped. “BP is dropping—62 over 38. Heart rate 130 and climbing.”

“She’s circling the drain,” muttered one of the junior residents as Dr. Miller assessed her pupils.

Becky groaned faintly, her lips twitching as if trying to speak. “Becky, can you hear me?” Dr. Miller asked, shaking her shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered, but there was no response. Moments later, her head lolled to the side, her body going completely limp.

“She’s unresponsive. Let’s intubate,” Dr. Miller said, already donning gloves. The room erupted into action as the team prepared to insert an endotracheal tube. Becky’s breathing became shallow, her chest rising and falling unevenly.

“Is this head trauma or internal bleeding? We need a fast ultrasound—now!” Dr. Miller demanded.

The hum of the ultrasound machine filled the tense air as the resident slid the probe across Becky’s abdomen. The black-and-white image confirmed what they had feared: free fluid. She was bleeding internally. Before the team could act, the heart monitor emitted a single shrill tone.

“Flatline. Asystole!” a nurse shouted.

For a split second, the room froze. Then chaos erupted.

“Start compressions!” Dr. Miller barked. A nurse climbed onto the gurney, positioning her hands over Becky’s sternum before pressing down in rhythmic, forceful compressions. Becky’s chest caved under the pressure, her broken ribs grinding audibly beneath the nurse’s hands.

“Epinephrine. Now!” Dr. Miller ordered. Another nurse grabbed a syringe and injected the drug into Becky’s IV.

“Charging to 200!” the resident with the defibrillator called out.

“Clear!” Dr. Miller shouted. The team stepped back as the paddles discharged, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through Becky’s body. Her torso arched slightly, then fell back to the table. The monitor remained flat.

“Resume compressions!” Dr. Miller snapped. The nurse returned to the relentless cycle of chest compressions, her hands moving with precision as sweat dripped down her temple. Another round of epinephrine was administered, but the monitor stayed silent.

“Come on, Becky,” Dr. Miller muttered under his breath.

The minutes stretched on like hours. Compression, defibrillation, drugs—the process repeated again and again. The room was thick with tension, the steady rhythm of compressions punctuated by the sharp tones of the monitor and clipped commands from Dr. Miller.

“Let’s go again. Charge to 300. Clear!” Another shock was delivered, the force jerking Becky’s body upward. For a brief moment, the monitor flickered.

“Sinus rhythm!” someone cried.

A weak but steady pulse appeared on the screen. Relief flooded the room as the nurse slowed her compressions, her arms trembling from the effort.

“She’s back,” Dr. Miller said, his voice tight with focus. “Let’s not lose her again. Stabilize her for the OR. We need to get that bleed under control.”

Becky’s breathing was shallow but steady as the team secured her airway and connected her to a ventilator. The nurses adjusted IV lines, pushing fluids and blood products to stabilize her pressure.

“Ultrasound confirms a ruptured spleen,” the resident reported.

“Prep her for emergency surgery,” Dr. Miller said.

Becky was wheeled out of the trauma room and toward the OR, her life still hanging by a thread. Dr. Miller stood by the door, watching as the team disappeared down the hallway. His gloves were streaked with blood, his scrubs damp with sweat. The room was a battlefield—discarded gloves, empty syringes, and wrappers scattered across the floor.

“She made it this far,” Dr. Miller murmured to himself. “Let’s hope she keeps fighting.”

The trauma room was silent now, save for the faint beep of the monitor and the murmur of distant voices. Outside, the night carried on, but for Becky, the fight was far from over.

This is a perfect scenario for me. Where does it go is surgery successful or do I code on the table.

[ereardon]

Golden Hour || Ch. 6

[Bob Floyd x Bradley Bradshaw x OC]

A Bob Floyd & Bradley Bradshaw AU [Hart of Dixie inspired]

Synopsis: Willow, Georgia. Barely even a town, just a speck on a map that you tried to wipe off, mistaking it for a crumb. You’re the outsider: a fancy New York doctor, fresh out of a failed engagement, with zero primary care experience. You’re also the new town doctor, taking over for a recent retiree who was beloved. His son, Bob Floyd, is the other physician at the practice, and takes an immediate dislike to you. But you were looking for a fresh start, and Willow doesn’t seem all that bad if you can get past the fact that there's only one restaurant in town. It helps that you've caught the eye of Bradley Bradshaw, the town attorney, despite the fact that you vowed to take a break from dating. How long until you start to make friends in a town where social circles have been set in stone since elementary school? And what will it take to make Bob Floyd see you’re not as bad as he wants to believe you are?

Pairing: Bob Floyd x OC; Bradley Bradshaw x OC

Tropes: Love triangle, enemies to lovers

Warnings: Alcohol, medical procedure/blood, hospitals

Chapter summary: Bob and Olive work together on a medical emergency; Olive wakes up in Bradley's bed; Bob's jealousy shines through

WC: 2.6K

Masterlist here; previous chapter here; next chapter here

The crowd parted like the red sea. You could feel the heat of their gazes as you and Bob rushed through the hallway into a conservatory, the glass ceiling soaring. In any other situation you would have marveled at it. 

But the man lying with his tie pulled loose on the floor was your main concern. 

You and Bob rushed to where he laid on the wood ground, one on each side. You leaned in, listening to his breaths as Bob asked, “What happened?” 

“He fell down those stairs.” An older woman pointed to the set of stairs along one side of the wall. “And we heard the crash and he was gripping his chest.” 

You looked at Bob. “Decreased breath sounds.” You took his limp wrist in your hand and felt for a pulse. It was buzzing. “Increased heart rate.” 

Bob’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mr. Flannery, it’s Bob. Can you tell us what you’re feeling?” 

On the ground, Mr. Flannery’s eyes fluttered open. His lips, a pale gray, parted, but no words came out. Just a raspy breath. You shook your head. “This isn’t a heart attack.” 

“Where did you say he fell?” 

Charlotte frowned. “Does it matter?” 

“Yes, Char, it does,” Bob snapped. “Did he fall on his chest or onto his back?” 

“His chest.” A boy in the back piped up. “I saw it but I was too late.” 

You and Bob looked at each other at the same time. “Pneumo,” you whispered. Bob nodded. “We need a knife, a sharp one, like a steak knife. And a bottle of vodka. And a straw.”

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Flannery asked, eyes wide 

“Ma’am, your husband has a collapsed lung.” You tied your hair up into a ponytail and pulled out a bottle of hand sanitizer from your purse, squirting it on your hands before passing it to Bob. “We have to drain the fluid from his chest to re-inflate the lung.” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“It can’t wait.” Bob pulled off Mr. Flannery’s shirt buttons, exposing his bloated chest. “Here.” You handed him the bottle of vodka that someone had placed to your left. 

Bob shook his head. “I haven’t done surgery since med school rotations,” he said quietly. “This one is on you.” 

You sucked in a breath. “Call an ambulance, tell them we have a pneumothorax coming in and to prep for a chest tube.” Quickly, you dribbled the vodka over his chest, and over the steak knife before counting down from his collarbone. The room was quiet as the knife dug into flesh, blood pooling onto the skin as you pressed deeper before reaching for the thin cocktail straw, shoving it down into the space, the hiss of air re-entering the lung filling the room. You leaned back as Bob looked over at you from across Mr. Flannery’s body, a smile on his delicate face. You smiled back, looking up at Mr. Flannery’s wife. “He’s going to be fine.” 

“Thank Jesus,” she whispered, tears dotting her lash line. Outside, you saw the bright colors of the ambulance. “Oh my, that’s the paramedics.” 

You and Bob tended to Mr. Flannery as the paramedics got him cleaned up and on the stretcher. One of them frowned at you. “Did you do this?” 

“Yes.”

“Pretty advanced for a nurse.” 

You looked down at your white nurses outfit, now more realistically splattered with dark red blood. “Nurses are more capable than you think.” 

He shrugged, loading the stretcher and closing the back doors. You sagged against the wall, breath finally easing. Bob appeared at your side, holding out a wet towel. “Here.” 

“Thanks.”

“That was amazing.” 

You snorted. “No it wasn’t.” 

“Seriously, it was,” he replied. “You were so calm and deliberate. I couldn’t have done it.” 

“You could have and you would have.” 

Bob shook his head. “No. I haven’t cut in years. All I do is fill prescriptions, talk to people. Check for high blood pressure.” 

“That stuff is important.” 

“Not as important as surgery.” 

“You know just as well as I do that surgeons get a big head,” you said. “And it’s almost always for no good reason. They’re not better than anyone else. They just know how to do more with thread.” 

“Thank you. For stepping in and helping.” 

“That’s the job, right?” you asked. “Fix people. Even if we’re not fixable ourselves.” 

“Olive.” There was something sad in his voice. An inflection that caught you off guard. 

“I should go find Bradley,” you said quietly. 

Bob nodded. “Yeah, sure.” 

“I’ll see you later.” 

You could feel the heat of Bob’s eyes on you as you walked away. Inside, the party had mostly gone back to normal. You found Bradley in the main living room, a beer in one hand. His chocolate eyes lit up when he spotted you. “Doc! Heard about the save. You’re a small town hero.” 

You blushed. “This hero wants a drink.” 

“Wine coming right up.” 

“Make it tequila,” you said and Bradley raised an eyebrow. Across the room, Bob leaned across the door frame, eyes quietly watching. “The night is just getting started.” 

***

The light strained your eyelids as you opened them and winced. “Fuck,” you muttered. The pounding in your head was a thousand drum solos mixed over each other. 

You felt around for your phone and paused. The material beneath your fingertips felt different. Eyes opening, you looked around. You weren’t in the guest house. 

“What the hell?” you whispered, surveying the empty room. It was classically appointed: cream linen curtains, a lovely dark wood canopy bed, a cane dresser topped with a vase of flowers. You squinted. Where the hell were you? 

The door swung open and Bradley strutted in with a glass of water and a croissant. “Morning Doc.” 

You stared at him. He had on a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt. Bradley sat the items down on the nightstand to your right. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Like death personified.” 

He chuckled. “Tequila will do that to you.” 

You looked around at the rumpled bed and then back at Bradley. “Did we, um?” Your hands flailed around and Bradley’s eyes went wide with recognition. 

He shook his head. “No ma’am.” 

“Thank God.” He laughed. “No offense,” you added quickly.

“None taken.” God, his voice was smooth and rough at the same time. Deep and luscious. “I don’t make a habit of sleeping with women who are entirely not in their right mind.” 

“How bad was I?” 

“Before or after you danced on the table?” 

“No I didn’t.” 

Bradley chuckled. “You did. Quite a show, Doc. I’m impressed.” 

You buried your head in your hands. “Oh my God, I have to move. Again. I’ll never live this down.” 

“You weren’t the only one,” Bradley added, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Bob also got quite hammered.”

“Really?” That piqued your interest. 

“Yup. Saw him going upstairs with Charlotte.” 

You grimaced. There was something about that girl, you couldn’t put your finger on it but you didn’t like her. “Good for them.” 

Bradley’s eyes searched yours for a moment, sensing your tone. But then he thought better of it and dropped it. He opened his mouth to say something as the doorbell rang. “I’ll be right back.” 

A few moments later, you heard the door open and voices in the front of the house. Curious, you slipped out of bed, head pounding, tiptoeing around the corner. Bob stood in the doorway. “Mr. Flannery is at Atlanta General,” he said. “I’m going later today, but the medical team there has let me know he’s stable.” 

You let out a sigh and both Bob and Bradley’s eyes turned to you. You froze as Bob’s blue eyes roamed over you: oversized t-shirt that you didn’t remember changing into, hair a mess, bare legs and feet. 

His face hardened. “Dr. James.” 

You stepped in closer. “So he’s doing fine?” 

Bob nodded. “Yes, no complications.” 

“I should go with you,” you said. “To the hospital to check on him.” 

“You look like you’ve got your hands full,” he said. There was a tightness to his words. 

You frowned. “He’s my patient, I’d like to check on him.” 

“Fine.” Bob stepped back. “I’ll see you there.” 

“You don’t want to drive together?” 

“I’m leaving now,” Bob said. “And you’re underdressed. Goodbye, Bradshaw.” He stepped off of the porch and was gone before you could respond. Bradley shut the door and you crossed your arms over your chest. 

“What’s his deal?” you asked. 

“Bob?” 

“He’s so hot and cold,” you replied. “Last night he was so nice to me after the procedure. And now he’s like this. I don’t get it.”

“He’s got a lot going on in his life,” Bradley said. “Don’t take it personally.” 

“I don’t see how I can’t,” you muttered. “Considering it’s me he’s being mean to.” 

“Come on Doc,” Bradley said gently. “Let’s have some coffee and maybe you’ll forget about Floyd.” 

“Doubtful,” you groaned, but allowing Bradley to steer you back into the bedroom. You settled into the bed and lifted the cup of coffee to your lips, sighing as you took a sip. “Fuck, that’s good.” 

He grinned. “Blue Bottle grounds. I order them from California.” 

“Maybe I need to start drinking my coffee here every day instead of Breakers.” 

“I’d like that.” You turned to Bradley, eyebrows raised. He shrugged. “Hey, you’re the one in my bed.” 

“You put me here!” 

He laughed. “You crawled in voluntarily. I know you didn’t ask but I’ll just let you know that I slept on the couch.” 

“Good to know.” You set the coffee cup down. “And the t-shirt I’m wearing?” 

Bradley held up his hands. “I set it out for you but you changed all by yourself.” 

“So what you’re telling me is you’re a real gentleman.” 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, Doc.” 

You leaned back against the pillows. “Never did I think this is where my life would be.” 

“Enjoy it,” Bradley said. “Life is slow down here. It’s nice.” 

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It is nice.” 

***

“Dr. Olive James,” you said at the nurses station. “From Willow. I just wanted to check on a patient, Mr. Flannery?” 

“One moment, please.” You turned around, tapping your heel, waiting for the nurse on the phone while a group of EMTs rushed to the desk. “Dr. James? He’s in room 504.”

“Thank you.” You slung your purse higher over your shoulder. 

One of the EMTs squinted. “Hey, aren’t you that nurse from the party last night? The one who put in a temp chest tube?” 

You smirked. “Yes, I am. But that was a costume.” 

“What?” 

“I’m a double board certified surgeon and obstetrician,” you replied and the EMT’s eyes went wide. 

“Why’d you let me believe you were a nurse?” 

“Nothing wrong with being a nurse,” you replied. “I couldn’t do my job without nurses.” 

Upstairs, you exited the elevator and turned left. The astringent smell of the antiseptic and the flickering overhead lights brought you back to the hospital in New York. It felt wrong to be strutting down the hallway in pumps and a dress instead of scrubs and Hokas. 

“Hello?” You knocked on the open door. “May I come in?”

“Come in, sweetheart.” 

You rounded the corner. Mr. Flannery laid on the bed and his wife stood at his bedside. They smiled as you entered the room. “Hi. How are you feeling?” 

“Like a new man,” he said with a smile. 

“Dr. James.” Mrs. Flannery rushed to your side and grabbed your hands in her ice cold ones. “Thank you so much for saving my husband.” 

“No need to thank me,” you said. “It was nothing. Dr. Floyd helped as well.” 

“It was all you,” Bob said. You turned, eyes wide. Bob was sitting on a chair in the corner, one leg crossed over his opposite knee. 

You flushed. “Thank you. But I just wanted to drop by and check on how you’re doing.” 

“Doctor says I’m no longer at risk for an infection, and should be clear to leave tomorrow.” 

“Any complications?” you asked. “Difficulty breathing, racing heart rate. Feeling like you’re swimming underwater?” 

Mr. Flannery shook his head. “No, ma’am. Nothing like that.” 

You smiled. “Well, everything sounds good in that case. I’ll let you rest.” 

Just as you turned, Charlotte entered the room. Her tiny nose puckered up when she spotted you. “Dr. James.” It came out thin and judgy, just like she was. 

“Charlotte,” you replied. 

“Bobby.” She turned to Bob, voice raised a half an octave. “Do you want to get some coffee?” 

“I should be going,” he said, standing up. “I’ll see Dr. James out.” 

“Thank you again,” Mr. Flannery said. 

“Any time.” 

You and Bob headed for the door as Charlotte narrowed her eyes in the background. Even though he was two feet away you could almost feel the heat of his hand on your back the way it had been the night before at the party as he steered you through the crowd. A shiver slipped down your back. 

It was a silent walk down the hallway. Hospitals had a certain smell, feel. You could practically hear codes calling, beepers buzzing. A part of you longed for it. The rush. The adrenaline. The sleepless nights. The sound of a newborn baby’s cries. The steady beep as a ventilator was shut off before silence eclipsed a room. 

Bob stopped at his car parked in the front row. “So are you and Bradley a thing?” he asked. 

You frowned. “What? No, we’re just friends.” 

Bob snorted. “Friends, sure. I also have friends who sleep at my house wearing only a t-shirt.” 

“I heard you slept with Charlotte last night.” It slipped out of your mouth, hot like fire. 

Bob looked taken aback. “What? No, I didn’t.” 

“Oh really? Because I heard you went upstairs together.” 

“Only because she was distraught,” he said. “And I had to put her to bed.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“Do you care?” Bob asked. Those three words made your throat close up. 

“No,” you said after a moment. “Why would I?” 

“I don’t know,” he said, head tilted to one side. “Seemed like you do.” 

“You’re the one who asked about me and Bradshaw first.” 

“He’s my friend,” Bob replied. 

“Mine too.” 

Bob’s eyes narrowed. He unlocked his car. “I’ll see you at the office, Dr. James.” 

“Dr. Floyd,” you replied as he opened the door. 

Walking away, you felt a gnawing at your stomach. The trip to the hospital had reminded you of everything you had left behind in New York. There was a bustle to Atlanta General. An air of anxiety that you thrived on. 

But it wasn’t just that. It was watching Bob drive away. Something he had said sat heavy on your chest. 

Do you care? 

Tag list or follow my library page @ereardonlibrary:

@eli2447 @xomrsalliej4787xo @xoxabs88xox @cool-ultra-nerd @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun

@blue-aconite @bobfloydsbabe @wkndwlff @clancycucumber230 @taytaylala12 @double-j @djs8891

@double-j @topguncultleader @momc95 @hangmandruigandmav @minamisulemisa @shawnsblue @seresinhangmanjake @brehonodea @babyminghao @crthurston @angelbabyangee @secretsicanthideanymorey

@mizzzpinkink @mygyn @sadpetalsstuff @averyhotchner @oneelleandaneye @rosewritesitout @atarmychick007

@wittywhispers @wildlyobserving @eyesthatroll @localhockeygirll @rosiahills22 @sexythollandd @djs88911 @rxmtoon @darkestbeforethedawn166 @cactajuiceice @purplevortexx @dempy @lemur46

@louie-bugug @arson-tmm @valkyrja-siren-blog @avengers-fixation @fudge13 @phantomxoxo @a-court-of-roscoe-and-babyy @not-two-shrimp @abaker7474 @evans-dejong @mandylove1000 @teacupsandtopgun @na-ta-sh-aa @xoxabs88xox @xomrsalliej4787xo @th3-oncoming-storm @3tabbiesandalab

[macgyvermedical]

Wilderness / low-resource medicine question: What can be done about misaligned/displaced broken ribs when surgery is not going to be available for a while (if at all)?

It takes a LOT of force to cause a rib fracture to become displaced, if only because there is a lot of muscle and other ribs that naturally form a nice splint. The presence of displaced rib fractures indicate that so much force was applied to the chest that there is probably significant damage below the surface.

This damage includes severely bruised or even punctured lung, pneumo- or hemothorax (blood or air building up in the chest cavity), pericardial effusion (buildup of fluid around the heart that puts pressure on it so it can't beat well), and depending on where the impact occurred, damage to the big bleedy organs (liver or spleen).

For this reason, the presence of multiple displaced rib fractures would be a "go fast" situation (usually a helicopter evacuation if one was available).

There's not a ton you can do about internal injuries in a wilderness setting. If you happen to have a 14g IV catheter and someone trained at the paramedic level they might be able to do a "chest dart" for a pneumothorax, but other than that, everything else needs surgery or something that's impossible to do without at least an EKG available.

The only thing you really can do at a lower level of training is to tape a bulky dressing snugly over the ribs. This can be a pillow or folded blanket taped just over the area of injury (not all the way around the chest). This helps decrease pain and makes breathing easier.

After this, treatment would be using any pain medication that is available (except aspirin, due to bleeding risk), encouraging the person to breathe as deeply as possible, and getting them out of the wilderness.

[shadowphoenixrider]

Skin Deep (2/2)

(Continuation to this. I hope you like dialogue because, erm, there's a lot of it here! Also forgive me for my first attempt are writing...most of the X-Men here! I'm doing my best! Medical descriptions continue, but with less blood this time.)

"So, Hank, tell us what you've discovered of our new friend's mutant powers." Professor Xavier said, gesturing for the doctor to speak.

"Shadow's power are utterly fascinating!" Beast replied excitedly, glancing briefly to the young woman sitting on the medical cot, before addressing the others that had gathered in equal curiosity; Wolverine and Rogue stood either side of the professor, whilst Gambit leaned up against the wall, shuffling his cards to keep his hands busy.

"She has the gift of cellular communication and manipulation; not to the extent of being able to shapeshift, but it seems she is able to perform manipulations on the micro-level to command cells to move, divide and perform all their specialised functions as they have evolved to do. Indeed, she is so in tune with them, she can process information from them as if they were her own; sometimes even more efficiently than normal."

"How so?" Xavier asked, steepling his fingers.

"Cells in our bodies communicate by the use of biochemical signalling." It was Shadow who spoke this time. "With the exception of nerve cells, which use the changes in their membrane potential - a form of electrical charge - to transmit electrical signals, usually by the use of voltage gated ion channels."

"Fucking hell, now there's two of them." Wolverine groaned, and Gambit had to suppress a smirk.

"I can control these signals myself, but I also seem to be able to...streamline them? I can make things happen much more quickly than what a human or mutant's body could do alone." Shadow nodded to Gambit. "A pneumothorax-"

"A pneumo-what?" Rogue frowned. "English please, sugah."

"Pneumothorax - 'air in chest'." Shadow explained. "It's when air becomes trapped in the pleural sac that wraps around the lungs to keep them lubricated, and avoid friction from rubbing against the ribs as they inflate and deflate. Usually those of the size I found in Gambit's require a drain, but I managed to eliminate it just by speeding the process of the reabsorption of air into the surrounding tissues."

"Not only that, but the wound you repaired." Beast gestured. "Gambit, if you'd be so kind to show the rest of us your right palm."

Gambit tugged his glove off, opening his hand up to the others as they leaned over.

"There's nothing there, sugah." Rogue raised an eyebrow. "Sure you're not jokin' with us?"

"Non, there definitely were something here, mon amie." Gambit said. "Made a mistake wit one of my cards durin' de scuffle, cut my hand open pretty bad. Couldn't move my fingers dat well after. Like they be caught on something."

"It was a deep laceration with an injury to a palmar digital vein and a seventy-five percent division of the extensor tendons." Shadow added. "A repair that would have certainly required surgery and several months of hand therapy to heal properly."

Wolverine uttered a low whistle. Gambit found himself flexing his fingers. No wonder she was so intent on healing me. That fils de putain nearly disabled me for months!

"And yet there's not a mark to be seen." Xavier commented, rubbing his chin. "How does it feel, Gambit?"

"Like before it were hurt." He replied, spinning a card expertly through his fingers to demonstrate. "Wouldn't have believed it myself if Gambit didn't see it happen wit his own eyes." He looked to Shadow, offering her a smile. She returned it with a shy one of her own, ducking her head.

"I've told you how the scene looked when Wolverine and I got there, Professor." Heads turned to see Cyclops walking into the medbay. "Yet Gambit was completely fine. Shadow's power seems to be like Wolverine's healing on tap."

"Glad you could join us, Cyclops." Xavier smiled. Gambit noticed movement out of the corner of his eye; Shadow had tilted her head in the very same motion she had when they'd first met. "Yes, I remember your description of the scene. It is very fortunate Gambit crossed paths with someone with such gifts."

"Petite?" The Cajun asked, shifting attention once again. Shadow's blue eyes flicked back and forth a moment, thinking.

"You've got a cut, Cyclops," she said. "I think it's...your left hand?"

Everyone's gaze swung back to said mutant, who looked taken aback.

"I...I do. I got a papercut a couple of minutes ago. How did you-"

"Ya hearin' something," Gambit's eyes fixed on Shadow, realization dawning, "aren't you?"

She blushed, looking away and scratching at the back of her neck.

"Yeah." Her gaze returned, although now she was looking at her feet dangling off the edge of the cot, her hand playing with her hair. "It's...a part of my power. When hurt or damaged, cells release a chemical signal to call for assistance. For some reason, I can hear it. The stronger the sound, the more the person is hurt."

"Extraordinary!" Beast breathed.

"Lotta people hurt in lotta differn' ways. Bein' able to hear all that, all the time? That sounds a pretty noisy life, sugah." Rogue said gently.

"Yes and no." Shadow admitted. "It seems to be just for recent traumatic injuries than anything chronic like cancer. But..." She wrapped her arms around herself. "You're right. I've had to learn to tune it out sometimes. Especially in crowded places, but also..." Her fingers curled into her hoodie. "People get weird sometimes when you offer to help. You know?"

No-one had to say anything, or even nod to understand. Even the mutants who could pass knew the tightrope you had to walk, not to hint or suggest you were something else, an 'other'. Regardless of the comfort in your own skin, the danger remained in the back of your head.

"I am sorry your gifts have brought you sorrow." Xavier spoke kindly.

"Thank you, but I'm one of the lucky ones." Shadow replied, smiling sadly. "It's easy enough to hide, and it doesn't give me too many problems."

"Now hold on a second." Wolverine spoke up. "If it's easy to hide, why'd you get attacked in the first place?"

"The sound I hear when someone's in pain is like tinnitus - a ringing tone." Shadow explained. "But I heard a completely different noise, like the signal was going in and out." She sighed, running a hand through her curly hair. "I got curious, followed it to the source, which was the guy with a gun welded to his arm." A wry smile. "I asked if he was doing ok, and he took offence. You know the rest."

"The cybernetics were extremely crude." Beast mused, scratching his chin. "You were likely hearing his body under stress, reacting to the foreign matter forcibly bonded to it."

"Den you were in the wrong place at the wrong time." Gambit shook his head, twirling a card over his fingers. "Lucky I were dere, petite."

"Yes." Cyclops folded his arms. "Though it sounds like he would have attacked anyone, mutant or otherwise. He just got 'lucky'."

"That's not exactly comforting, Slim." Was Wolverine's gruff response.

"At least this escalation appears restricted to a single person." Xavier spoke calmly. "A dangerous extremist that we managed to stop before he could cause any damage."

"Gambit beg to differ." The Cajun grumbled.

"What've you gotta worry 'bout?" Rogue grinned at him, thumping him on the shoulder almost hard enough to knock him to the side. "She fixed you right up!"

"Dat don't mean it didn't hurt de whole time!" He retorted, shooting her a look. She just replied with a raised eyebrow, amused. "'Sides, dat fight be harder den Gambit expecting." He frowned, looking back to the professor. "If dey start figurin' out how to wire dose blasters up, we're gon' be in a lotta trouble."

"Indeed." Xavier nodded. "However, we are getting off subject." He turned back to Shadow and Beast. "You clearly have some control over your powers, but I am curious of the limits of your potential. I presume you've never used them in anger?"

"No." Shadow shook her head. Gambit raised an eyebrow, watching her carefully.

Lying...? He wondered.

"I can't manipulate cells beyond one or two in a pteri dish without having direct skin-to-skin contact with them, and it takes a while to establish the connection with another's body." Shadow continued. "And that's not easy to do when they are other things going on - people throwing hands at you tends to disrupt your concentration."

The Cajun's dark gaze flicked to Xavier, wondering if he sensed the same thing he had. The Professor may have the clarity of a telepath, but Gambit had read more than enough people to sense something was off. His gut told him there was something she wasn't telling them. But what, he had no idea.

"I get the impression that our friend has learned to control her mutation, yet little more." Beast suggested. "Do you practice your powers at all, Shadow?"

"On myself, yeah. I use them when no-one's looking, to heal bumps and scrapes." She folded her arms. "Hard to practice on others though, without revealing myself."

"I can imagine it's not an easy thing to ask someone." Cyclops said. Gambit traced the edge of the card he was holding, recalling the strange feeling of someone under his skin.

"No. Nor easy to explain." Shadow sighed, her hands fidgeting with her sleeves. "I was lucky I had an understanding partner for a while, who let me practice on him."

Gambit saw Rogue cross her arms from the corner of his eye, sadness flashing across her face for a moment.

"What happened to him?" She asked softly. Shadow's shoulders slumped.

"Things fell apart. He loved me for who I was...but he wanted that part of me to stay a neat party trick, something to put on the shelf that only the two of us could use as an asset." She scowled. "There were other problems, that of two high school sweethearts growing up and away from one another, but it was my powers that broke us in the end. Because they can be safely ignored, he wanted me to just put them aside and concentrate on marrying, settling down and having babies together. As if my powers aren't a part of me like my eyes or lungs or hair!"

Her lips curled into a furious snarl, eyes flashing with boiling resentment.

"I have a power that doctors could only dream of having, something that could help, and instead he just...wanted me to forget about it, pretend to be normal!" The anger soon broke however, and a thickness entered her voice. "I'll never be normal. And after everything we'd both been through, I thought he'd understand that better than anyone."

Shadow chuckled bitterly.

"Not that it really matters now, though. Even if they'd let me practice as a mutant, I never could pass the tests needed to qualify as a proper clinician." She glanced up at Beast, who offered her a sympathetic smile. "Had to go for a lab tech job instead. I figured maybe my ability could still help with diagnostics if I was careful and could back my reports up with evidence. Tilt the needle more in the patient's favour, you know?"

"I sense a 'but' coming." Cyclops said what Gambit was thinking. Shadow blew a sigh out of her nose.

"Everything was fine for a while. Then, I'm three days into my annual leave and I get a call saying they're tacking three months of administrative leave onto the end of it." She ran a hand through her hair. "One of the techs got his thumb up his ass about me 'potentially' being a mutant. Overheard me talking to myself and thought it was good grounds to start shit."

"I presume this had nothing to do with your ability, since you can communicate with cells silently." Beast spoke, a claw tapping his chin in thought.

"No, nothing to do with my power. Sometimes I just talk to myself to help me think through a problem. Or just inanimate objects in general. It's just a thing I've always done since I was a child, nothing to do with being a mutant." She lifted a shoulder. "Maybe something I said in my ramblings could have been suspicious? But at the same time, how do you prove that I'm actually speaking to something to communicate, over just plain eccentricity?"

"People like those see mutants in every corner." Wolverine grunted. "Woulda only been a matter of time."

"Yeah, I guess so." Shadow agreed, briefly pulling her lips into a thin line. "So, yeah. Signed off work 'cos of some asshole, and now I potentially have a hate group gunning for me too." She rested her elbows on her knees, her forehead on her knuckles. "Deep joy."

"You have my deepest sympathies, Miss Shadow." Beast spoke, resting a massive hand delicately onto her shoulder. "But, if we may return to the subject of your current power and limitations?" She looked back up, nodding. "Thank you. I have reason to believe that whilst you have a good grasp on your powers right now, their greater depths are as of yet untapped. You should be able to refine them in multiple ways; offensively, defensively and as a general utility, both for yourself and others."

"I figured as much myself." Shadow said. "I've been able to exceed my body's normal limits temporarily by some subtle manipulations, but it's difficult to maintain due to the damage it causes. Such as lifting the control limts on my muscles - I could use them to their full potential to lift a car, but it requires focus first to lift the limits and keep them off, and then to endure and heal the damage suffered from such an act."

"That could improve with time and training." Beast replied. "As you well know, you wouldn't be able to heal as you do without practice, or be able to tune the sounds of hurt from others out."

"I am curious as to your current limitations of your healing." Xavier spoke, and Gambit felt the telepath's gaze on him. "You said you can only use it with skin-to-skin contact?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "I need it to be able to commune with another person's cells and form the connection into their body. It's like I have to move my consciousness into the person, and that's what takes the time. Of course, if the injury is in just one area, like the arm, it's quicker for me to connect with that area than it is to fully 'move' into another's body."

Gambit paused his card shuffling, interest piqued fully.

"Interesting. From what Gambit told me of what happens, it seems as if your body enters a trance - still alive and functioning, but your mind elsewhere."

"Yeah. I kinda...'lose' connection with my own body temporarily, especially if I fully 'move' into another's. But it's more a case that I don't notice what my body's feeling - not that I've actually moved inside the person."

"So if your body was to be hurt or the connection broken..." Beast mused.

"I'd be ripped back into myself." Shadow said, winding one of the drawstrings of her hoodie around her finger. "Had it happen a couple of times by accident, and it's always unpleasant. It takes me a couple of seconds to adapt to a person's body when I enter and then readapt to my own when I return - you can imagine that a jarring re-entry doesn't exactly make me feel very good."

"No, it doesn't." Xavier agreed. Gambit lifted an eyebrow. Getting forced out of someone's head must feel the same way for the Professor and Jean.

"What's it like, bein' under someone's skin?" It was Rogue who spoke this time.

"Loud." Shadow chuckled. "Bodies are a riot of noise, both from cells talking to one another to just the general sounds like the heart beating, breathing, all that." Her eyes became far away, flicking back and forth in thought. "It...is hard to explain. It's like I become someone else, but I'm not them. I'm...I'm like a house guest. I can listen to their music, move their furniture around and stuff like that, but it's not my house."

"Sounds 'bout right." Gambit chimed in. "Feels like dere someone under your skin wit you."

"Brrr," Rogue shivered. "Don't like the sound of that, sugah."

"Yeah, it a weird feelin' at first. But after a while you get used to it. It don't hurt, it just...uncomfortable. Least to begin with."

"That's pretty much how my ex described it." Shadow nodded. "Uncomfortable and weird, but not painful. I can understand why people wouldn't enjoy the experience, nor the thought of having someone with near free reign over the most precious thing to them."

"Near free reign?" Xavier asked, his brows furrowing. "You don't have full control?"

"No." Shadow shook her head. "Like I said, I'm a guest. I've not yet been forcibly evicted by someone on purpose, but they still have full control of their body whilst I'm inside them. Anything I do, the person could fight back against me."

"Did dat when Gambit felt his fingers move without him." The Cajun added. "Her grip strong, but not complete."

"With enough strength and contrary directions, a person can overpower me." Shadow said. "I mean, all it would take is for someone to sock me in the jaw and I'm flung straight out." She turned her head slightly, looking thoughtful. "I also...have rules."

"Rules?" Gambit's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Technically I have control over every cell in the body. That includes brain cells." A sudden tension tightened the air. "I don't think you need me to tell you what that means, even over the fact I can already technically puppeteer a person if I wanted to." Shadow slowly raised her gaze to the others, meeting their eyes and holding them firmly.

"I don't know what I can do in that regard, I don't want to know, and I never will know." She spoke firmly, with conviction. "It is my one unwritten master rule I follow above all others - I will never touch or interfere with another's cognition or will or anything to do with the brain. Partially because it is wrong, and partially because I'm shit scared about how badly I could fuck someone up if I make a mistake. Help someone suffering a stroke, sure - that's just a blood vessels, I know how they work. But I will never, never touch the brain tissue itself."

Gambit considered her, impressed both with the heated force behind her words, and the fact she'd shown her hand in this way. It would have been easy to lie by omission, and yet here she was, highlighting how much trust he'd laid into her hands. He'd essentially given himself to her like a patient gave themselves to a surgeon, and like that surgeon, she'd repaid his trust only by taking care of him. No more, no less.

"An admirable code to live by." Beast said softly. "Your own Hippocratic Oath."

"I try to follow that too." Shadow said. "'Do no harm'."

The doctor gave her a wry smile.

"The Hippocratic Oath is a little more lengthy than that, but the colloquial version will be more than enough for your needs, I think."

"Words don't give me much comfort, sweetheart." Wolverine growled. "We just have to trust that you won't mess with our heads?"

"You wouldn't need Shadow's help anyway." Gambit countered. "You heal jus' fine on ya own."

"That may be Cajun, but what about the others who need her help? What about you?"

"She looked after me well enough."

"You don't have to trust me." Shadow retorted, pulling herself up to her full height. "Like I said, I wouldn't be able to heal you anyway if the contact wasn't fully consensual. Besides," she gestured broadly. "the fuck am I gonna do? I'm useless unless my hands are on someone's skin! I don't even know how to fight! I have nothing to gain except a grave."

"We are getting ahead of ourselves." Xavier spoke with steely firmness, fixing Wolverine with a glare. "You are assuming that Shadow will even stay with us."

Wolverine grunted, folding his arms but offering no further objection.

"But Professor, that is your preference, isn't it?" Cyclops piped up. "For Shadow to stay whilst we investigate the Friends of Humanity member that attacked her?"

"It is my recommendation, yes." Xavier agreed, turning to the young woman. "If you stay, you can train and refine your powers, and perhaps learn some techniques to help keep yourself safe when you leave us in the future. This will not be a permanent placement, unless you wish it to be." His ice blue eyes shot another glare at Wolverine. "Regardless of current opinion."

"Still don't like it." Said mutant grumbled.

"Why is her powers differen' to what the Professor an' Jean can do?" Rogue asked, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow. "They could do much worse, but we're fine with them! Ah, no offence, Professor."

"None taken, Rogue."

Wolverine growled in frustration, scowling.

"Fine. But if she stays, I'm keeping an eye on her."

"That's fair." Shadow nodded. "So long as you'll at least grant me that chance for a scrap with you if I do screw up, and you don't just off me whilst I'm sleeping."

"Thought you said you couldn't fight?"

"I can't." She smiled, holding her hands out. "I just prefer to be stabbed in the front, not the back."

Despite himself, a smile tugged on the corner of Wolverine's mouth, and also on Gambit's.

"Does that mean you've made a decision, Shadow?" Xavier asked.

"Yeah." She nodded. "I'll stay for a little while. Least 'til the heat dies down from those guys, and my job lets me back in."

"A fair agreement." Xavier smiled slightly. "There are some spare dorms for you to stay in, and we can help make arrangements to move some of your personal belongings here, if you wish."

"I'll go and sort that, Professor." Cyclops spoke, taking his leave.

"I'll let the others know we got a new guest." Rogue added, offering a smile to Shadow. "Welcome to the family, sugah."

"Now, to more prudent matters," Xavier began, "whilst you are our guest here, you will be expected to pick up your side of the tasks here, as well as train. This is a school, not a hotel."

"Wasn't expecting a free hand-out." Shadow replied, looking to Beast. "I'm happy to help as best I can, and I'll try to keep out from under your feet otherwise."

"I am certainly grateful for another pair of hands." The doctor grinned at her.

"Good." Xavier said, becoming thoughtful. "Did you say you were expecting to be on leave for three months?"

"Round about, yeah. I have one week of annual leave, then the admin leave starts." Shadow snorted. "Least I should be grateful they let me keep the holiday..."

"Alright. Then we will make the necessary arrangements to accommodate you." Xavier turned. "Please come with me, Shadow. We'll sort out the details in my office."

The young woman nodded, hopping off the medical cot to follow closely behind. Gambit watched her go, sharing a quick smile with her before his gaze became a little more intent than he expected; whilst Shadow's hoodie was baggy and hid much of her form, her jeans absolutely did not. He found his gaze wandering down her back to her hips and legs, lingering to watch her thighs flex under the denim-

Wolverine elbowed him in the ribs.

"Put your tongue back in your mouth, Cajun." He grunted, a smirk playing on his gruff features. "She's not on the menu."

"Gambit can appreciate fine art without havin' to touch it, mon ami." He retorted, glaring. "'Sides, thought ya didn't like her."

"Hmph. Maybe she's not a threat. But still gonna keep an eye on her, just in case." Gambit folded his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Don't give me that look. You shouldn't be getting ideas either way; she'll be gone after those three months, anyway."

It turned out that Shadow would stay for much, much longer than that...

[thoughtportal]

In order to catch liars, the ancient Chinese would sometimes give the accused a mouthful of uncooked rice during interrogation—and then ask the person to open wide. Dry rice would indicate a dry mouth, considered evidence of nervous guilt—and sometimes grounds for execution.

The notion that lying produces observable physical side effects has stuck with us, and one man thought he’d cracked the science of lie detection in the 1920s, amid a truly modern boom in crime. This was the era of Prohibition, dominated by bootlegging gangsters—Chicago alone was said to be home to 1,300 gangs—and some police departments adopted increasingly brutal tactics to wring the truth out of suspects: beating and burning detainees with cigarettes, or depriving them of sleep. Unconstitutional but widely applied across the nation, according to a major report commissioned by then-President Herbert Hoover, these techniques did result in confessions—many of them highly dubious. 

One police chief in California thought he could usher in a new era in which science would make the interrogation process more accurate and humane. August Vollmer of the Berkeley Police Department was a committed reformer who began recruiting college graduates to help professionalize the force. His interests dovetailed with those of John A. Larson, who had recently received a PhD in physiology from the University of California, Berkeley, and had a passion for justice. Larson joined the Berkeley force in 1920, becoming the first rookie in the country with a doctorate. 

Vollmer and Larson were particularly intrigued by the possibilities of a simple new deception test pioneered by William Marston, a lawyer and psychologist who would later earn fame as the creator of Wonder Woman, with her famous Lasso of Truth. (Marston unofficially used the test on some criminal defendants during probation proceedings.) Larson spent punishing hours creating a far more sophisticated test, tinkering in his university lab on an odd-looking assemblage of pumps and gauges that he would attach to the human body using an arm cuff and chest strap. His device would measure changes in pulse, respiration and blood pressure all at once, during continuous monitoring of a subject under interrogation. Larson believed the contraption would flag false answers via distinct fluctuations etched by a stylus onto a revolving drum of paper. An operator would then analyze and interpret the results. 

By the spring of 1921, Larson unveiled the machine he called a cardio-pneumo-psychogram, and later simply a polygraph, a nod to the multiple physical signals recorded by the stylus. A San Francisco Examiner report later said it looked like some mix of “a radio set, a stethoscope, a dentist’s drill, a gas stove” and more, all arranged on a long wooden table. However ramshackle it appeared, Larson’s innovation, with its continuous battery of measurements, leaped beyond all previous attempts to track the body’s involuntary responses. In a frenzy of sensationalist reporting, the press dubbed Larson’s polygraph a “lie detector,” and the Examiner swooned: “All liars, regardless of cleverness, are doomed.” 

Larson himself didn’t quite buy the hype. As he tested the invention, he found an alarming error rate and grew increasingly concerned about its official use. And while many departments across the country embraced the device, judges proved even more skeptical than Larson. As early as 1923, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia ruled polygraph results inadmissible at trial because the tests were not widely accepted by relevant experts. Still, cops kept using the machine. Larson watched in dismay as a former colleague patented an updated version of the idea in 1931. 

While Larson’s original machine collected dust, imitators with sleeker modern versions proliferated, all hewing roughly to the same parameters as Larson’s—and millions of people were subject to testing. During the Cold War, the State Department used polygraph tests to oust alleged Communist sympathizers and gay employees from the federal government. Many innocent government workers lost their livelihoods, while others who were eventually exposed as treasonous—including the infamous spy Aldrich Ames—managed to dupe the tests. For his part, Larson got a medical degree and spent his remaining career as a psychiatrist. Yet he was forever soured on the polygraph, eventually describing the device as his very own “Frankenstein’s monster,” unable to be controlled or killed. 

In 1988, Congress finally passed a law generally banning private employers from requiring the test, though some government agencies still turn to it for screening, and police may use it on suspects as an investigative tool under certain circumstances. 

“It’s an instrument of great hope but also great pain,” says Kristen Frederick-Frost, curator of modern science at the National Museum of American History, where Larson’s original polygraph anchors an exhibition, “Forensic Science on Trial,” open through next summer. In the 1930s, the Berkeley Police Department almost tossed the machine in the trash, but Vollmer thought it might one day have historical value and saved it. In 1976, the Berkeley Police Department donated it to the Smithsonian, where it sat in storage for decades. Over the past five years, seven conservators have helped to revive its motley parts for display. Some of the rubber and plastic had become stiff and degraded. Other parts were fragile, grimy or missing. The paper was seriously compromised. Today, though, “it doesn’t look like an old dusty thing that nobody cares about,” says Janice Stagnitto Ellis, the museum’s paper conservator. “It looks vital.”