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Quote by Jodi Sky Rogers

“How does one navigate this territory in the interim? This tricky place of peripheral connection to motherhood? Also, considering that the partial or what I’ve taken to calling ‘perimatrescence’ triggers not only the desire to have a baby, but also awakens the need to express and share your nurturing or mothering qualities - How do you give yourself permission to nurture or embody your ‘mothering heart’, so to speak? In other words, how do you express the energy of the wild mother archetype in daily life while you are still journeying towards motherhood?”

Quote by Jodi Sky Rogers

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Jodi Sky Rogers

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“It was getting late, but sleep was the furthest thing from my racing mind. Apparently that was not the case for Mr. Sugar Buns. He lay back, closed his eyes, and threw an arm over his forehead, his favorite sleeping position. I could hardly have that. So, I crawled on top of him and started chest compressions. It seemed like the right thing to do. "What are you doing?" he asked without removing his arm. "Giving you CPR." I pressed into his chest, trying not to lose count. Wearing a red-and-black football jersey and boxers that read, DRIVERS WANTED. SEE INSIDE FOR DETAILS, I'd straddled him and now worked furiously to save his life, my focus like that of a seasoned trauma nurse. Or a seasoned pot roast. It was hard to say. "I'm not sure I'm in the market," he said, his voice smooth and filled with a humor I found appalling. He clearly didn't appreciate my dedication. "Damn it, man! I'm trying to save your life! Don't interrupt." A sensuous grin slid across his face. He tucked his arms behind his head while I worked. I finished my count, leaned down, put my lips on his, and blew. He laughed softly, the sound rumbling from his chest, deep and sexy, as he took my breath into his lungs. That part down, I went back to counting chest compressions. "Don't you die on me!" And praying. After another round, he asked, "Am I going to make it?" "It's touch-and-go. I'm going to have to bring out the defibrillator." "We have a defibrillator?" he asked, quirking a brow, clearly impressed. I reached for my phone. "I have an app. Hold on." As I punched buttons, I realized a major flaw in my plan. I needed a second phone. I could hardly shock him with only one paddle. I reached over and grabbed his phone as well. Started punching buttons. Rolled my eyes. "You don't have the app," I said from between clenched teeth. "I had no idea smartphones were so versatile." "I'll just have to download it. It'll just take a sec." "Do I have that long?" Humor sparkled in his eyes as he waited for me to find the app. I'd forgotten the name of it, so I had to go back to my phone, then back to his, then do a search, then download, then install it, all while my patient lay dying. Did no one understand that seconds counted? "Got it!" I said at last. I pressed one phone to his chest and one to the side of his rib cage like they did in the movies, and yelled, "Clear!" Granted, I didn't get off him or anything as the electrical charge riddled his body, slammed his heart into action, and probably scorched his skin. Or that was my hope, anyway. He handled it well. One corner of his mouth twitched, but that was about it. He was such a trouper. After two more jolts of electricity--it had to be done--I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips to his throat. "Well?" he asked after a tense moment. I released a ragged sigh of relief,and my shoulders fell forward in exhaustion. "You're going to be okay, Mr. Farrow." Without warning, my patient pulled me into his arms and rolled me over, pinning me to the bed with his considerable weight and burying his face in my hair. It was a miracle!”

“She kept her ears permanently tuned to the chicken voices outside, so knew immediately when a coyote had crept into the yard, and barreled screaming for the front door before the rest of us had a clue. (I don't know about the coyote, but I nearly needed CPR.) These hens owed their lives and eggs to Lily, there was no question.”

“He pressed a finger to her carotid and swore. She was dead. His target. Dead. Not on his watch was she gonna stay that way. “You’re not dying today, lady.” He grabbed the switchblade knife from his jean’s back pocket, flicked it open, then cut down the front of her sweater. He pocketed the knife and clasped his hands together, then laced his fingers and pressed the heel of his hand to the middle of her sternum and began compressions.”

“from my Linkedin post: The sudden cardiac arrest of a Buffalo Bills football player, Damar Hamlin reminds me as a cardiologist that widely available, basic life support classes teach the two primary determinants of victim survival: -time to initiation of effective cardiopulmonary resuscitation, -time to electrical defibrillation. As described in my memoir, Different Drummer; "Cardiac resuscitation has evolved from physicians cutting open a patient's chest and rhythmically squeezing the victim's heart...to closed-chest compressions at a rate equal to the song Stayin' Alive'... Defibrillation can now be administered by trained laypeople using an automated external defibrillator, a device that is often available in public facilities...”

“Michael Hendricks, a neurobiologist at McGill University, is even more blunt. "What's being done now in the commercial cryonics industry is garbage. They're making puddles of pink mush in a liquid nitrogen tank. It's nothing that could ever be used for anything," he tells me. While it might eventually be possible to chill living people to a temperature near freezing and keep them in a kind of hibernation state, Hendricks says that "when you get into people who have died, and then the cryonic people show up with their head saws—it's too late by the time you get in there with a saw. The tissue starts breaking down, and importantly, it's pretty fast.”