He got his 600+ tattoos to help cope with his daughter suffering from Ehlers Danlos syndrome, a rare condition affecting connective tissues.
Irish Daily Mirror TERRIER JOSH PUTS BITE ON BLACK CATS JOSH KOROMA dented Sunderland’s promotion play-off hopes and edged Huddersfield closer to safety.1 min |April 19, 2023
Irish Daily Mirror CELTS MAY NOT KEEP CAM AND CARRY ON TREBLE-chasing Celtic fear Cameron Carter-Vickers might not see out the season.1 min |April 19, 2023
There There: A Novel: 9780525520375: Orange, Tommy: Books
Irish Daily Mirror I'M CIAN TO MAKE AMENDS CIAN SHEEHAN admits the Limerick footballers have let themselves down as they bid to redeem their season against Clare on Saturday.1 min |April 19, 2023
Irish Daily Mirror Over 90% of women not funded GRACE WALSH has lifted the lid on the difficulties of life as a female intercounty GAA player2 mins |April 19, 2023
Irish Daily Mirror DOUBLE TROUBLE Murphy one of very few in Kingdom who know what it takes to defend Sam2 mins |April 19, 2023
Analyses Of Non Coding Somatic Drivers In 2,658 Cancer Whole Genomes
Irish Daily Mirror DROPPED JOEY EARNS BOSSES PRAISE JOEY CARBERY has been praised for the way he has dealt with being dropped as Munster strive to finish their South Africa mission with Champions Cup qualification.1 min |April 19, 2023
Irish Daily Mirror No one is immune to Danegers of suicidal thinking.. TV adventurer battled dark times but counselling helped his mental health2 mins |April 19, 2023
Island Ad-Vantages Teamwork Key In DISHS Search For First Win DEER ISLE—The boys soccer team lost to Bangor Christian 16-3 on October 1, in a game that was a tale of two halves.1 min |10/10/2019
Ethel Stein Archives
Daily Star Leopardess just spot on SNOW LEOPARDESS will head straight for the Randox Grand National after claiming her third win of the season yesterday.1 min |February 14, 2022
The Times of India Delhi A simple, science-backed guide to keeping your 2022 resolutions Losing weight, exercising more and ditching unhealthy habits are some of the most popular New Year’s resolutions to make — and the ones most easily broken. Here’s how to stay motivated through the year2 mins |January 30, 2022
BBC Wildlife Forever Young A slower pace of life is behind the longevity of the world’s oldest ever animal: a humble clam3 mins |November 2021
Editions & Works On Paper: New York Auction October 2022
Late Tackle Football Magazine SUPER COOPER HENRY CLARK EXAMINES THE PATH TAKEN BY SWANSEA CITY’S IMPRESSIVE MANAGER STEVE COOPER7 mins |February - March 2021
Racing Ahead FRANKIE GOT IT WRONG FOR ONCE Ben Morgan was cursing the great Italian after a less than Glorious second6 mins |September 2020
Sporting Shooter Sea Ducks And Seafood A trip to Maine’s coast provides both wingshooting and culinary delights for US hunter Jarrod Spilger7 mins |November 2019
A Local Human Vδ1 T Cell Population Is Associated With Survival In Nonsmall Cell Lung Cancer
Heroes of the Faith Billy Nicholson The Irish Whitefield William Patteson Nicholson (1876-1959) was a Presbyterian preacher and evangelist born in Bangor, Co Down. Nicknamed ‘The Tornado of the Pulpit’, Nicholson spent his early years on his father’s cargo ship, but began to preach in 1899 at the age of 23. He was known for his ‘men-only’ meetings and straightforward language. In the Belfast shipyard of Harland & Wolff, a ‘Nicholson shed’ was erected to house stolen tools that newly converted workers returned as a result of Nicholson’s preaching!6 mins |October - December 2019I’m in confession, and the priest and I have been talking for two hours. I chose to take this sacrament face to face and avoid the anonymous dim, smelly confessional booth with the scowling Angry Jesus picture that I remember from my youth. It’s been over 30 years since my last confession and they call it “reconciliation” now. The luxury of this personal approach is the allowance of time. After reviewing my entire adult life Father Tom, a kindly septuagenarian, and I veered off into other philosophical topics. With nothing more to confess, he asked about robbery and murder. I assumed he was joking and I denied the claims.
“Oh, no problem. If you want to talk more, just give me a call.” With that, Father Tom escorts me out of the Jesuit parish rectory and into the late spring evening.
I drive home in silence. The sun slips behind the Smoky Mountains. I thought confession, an unburdening of the soul, would feel more cleansing. I don’t feel particularly lightened. My hospital identification badge is still clipped to my dress. It lies heavy on my chest.
Antonello Da Messina (antonello Di Giovanni D'antonio)
Have you ever killed anyone? The question unnerves me. I’m a nurse. I’m a healer. I’m supposed to help people. Uncomfortable memories suddenly surface: patients, colleagues, and situations I haven’t thought about for years rush back.
I remember pushing my fingers into a baby’s chest for 20 minutes, but none of the pressure would bring him back to life. I remember standing next to a little girl with a Do Not Resuscitate order, watching lines on her monitors flatline. I remember the stunned grief of the mother who was told we weren’t going to start dialysis on her son because his overall condition was too grave and the dialysis would be futile. There were others: too many children we couldn’t save, too many parents we couldn’t console.
I grasp at images and feelings, feebly articulating what I’m thinking. But the pictures are gauzy and my words are clumsy. “I don’t know. How are we defining killing?”
Spring 2012 By Sva Visual Arts Journal
Mirage dies a few weeks after my confession to Father Tom. Mirage is part of a herd of horses near my house. I ride one of his herdmates, Sundrop, and I consider Mirage to be one of my own. A majestic Tennessee walking horse, he is the alpha and at 29 years old is still going strong except for a little arthritis. On a Tuesday morning Mirage slips in the pasture and can’t get up. His leg is broken. The woman in charge of the horses that day brings the herd up late for their breakfast; she is busy with upcoming trail rides. The people running the barn don’t do a head count. No one notices he is missing.
Four hours later a kayaker spots a black horse alone in the field, struggling to rise. He calls the barn. The vet arrives first. Mirage is dehydrated. He has baked in 80-degree heat for four hours, suffering with a broken leg. He is put down immediately. His owner can’t get there in time. She couldn’t say goodbye.
Mirage’s former owner is my riding instructor, and she erects a shrine in his stall at the barn. We lesson students bring things for the altar: pictures, his halter, his bit and bridle. The black toy horse I bought him for his birthday joins the offerings. We huddle together under the barn lights and share Mirage stories.
Art Out And About: In The Us And Abroad
I’m uncomfortable watching her cry. Something in me stirs and I open my arms to her. She sags into them, sobbing harder. Hugging her, I feel like a traitor to Mirage, but the woman’s pain seems genuine. My riding friends remain immobile during this exchange. I hope these are not crocodile tears.
I’m back at the rectory entrance waiting for the solid oak door to open. I trace the outline of the slate patio with my shoe. The door hinges creak. Father Tom appears at the threshold and ushers me back into the same moss-green room as before.
“It’s not really a fair question to ask a health care provider. I’m a nurse. People die on me all the time. One Christmas our NICU lost seven babies in 10 days, and five of those assignments were mine. I’ve turned off ventilators and unhooked IVs. I’ve done CPR on a baby but couldn’t get the heart beating again. As a nurse practitioner I’ve been part of discussions where we decided to discontinue care or not get things started. I put my cat down because she only had months to live and I wanted her to die on my schedule before she got worse. Does any of this make me culpable of killing?”
Visual Artists' News Sheet
My boss calls me at home on a January evening. He’s a physician but I call him Fred. He’s a kind, quiet man and one of few words. “We have a new consult. NICU.” “Okay. Do you need me to come in?”
“Polycystic kidney. We don’t know how bad but if it is, we need to plan for PD catheter. I’m arranging with the surgeons.” He sighs.
Amadeo’s kidneys have cysts, bubbles of fluid that formed in his kidneys while he grew from an embryo to a baby. These fluid-filled cysts expanded, encroaching on the rest of the kidney, pushing the normal tissue out of the way and making the kidney bigger. Amadeo drew the unlucky straw of having cysts in both kidneys. His kidneys and lungs jockeyed for space in his tiny abdomen but the kidneys, being the heavyweight, won the fight and squished his lungs high into his upper chest. The lungs didn’t have room to grow and thus didn’t develop properly. Amadeo was born with kidneys too big and lungs too small.
Cinderella's Ballet Shoes By Sue Nicholson
There was a time in the not-so-distant past when these babies would die at birth because the lungs couldn’t breathe, the kidneys wouldn’t work, or both. Not breathing is an obvious cause of death, but
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