Are you familiar with the beluga who underwent surgery at the Shedd aquarium? I would like to hear your thoughts!
Yes! I’m very fortunate to know several members of Kimalu’s team (which included 17 veterinarians in addition to their invaluable support staff*) and Kimalu herself! She’s a very sweet, very personable girl, and it was heartbreaking to hear she wasn’t doing well. For those unfamiliar with the case, Kimalu developed subcutaneous cysts around her blowhole that were causing her noticeable discomfort. It was determined that surgery was the best option for providing her relief.
The surgery itself was groundbreaking, but what’s even more miraculous is the anesthesia. General anesthesia was once considered impossible in cetaceans, due to their size and incredibly unique anatomy and physiology. For example, just intubating them requires manually dislocating the “goosebeak” (modified larynx that transects the esophagus) to allow for access to the trachea. That’s also why they can’t breathe through their mouth! Furthermore, they are voluntary breathers, and must be ventilated until conscious enough to breathe on their own again.
While general anesthesia has now been performed successfully a handful of times in smaller cetaceans, it had never been done in a beluga. In fact, Kimalu was only the second beluga in which anesthesia had even been attempted—and now, she is the first ever beluga to have woken up!
This is a gamechanger for belugas in human care (and maybe, somewhere down the road, in the wild). Now that we know surgery and anesthesia can be performed successfully, the scope of care we can provide them just got a whole lot wider. This is only the first step, but it’s a monumental one. And it goes to show the remarkable care zoos and aquariums provide their animals, as well as the contributions they make to scientific advancement.
You can read the full press release here:
On Tuesday, July 1, Kimalu, a 12-year-old beluga whale at Chicago's Shedd Aquarium, underwent a first-of-its-kind surgery to remove a growin
Here are some pictures provided by Shedd, including Kimalu’s CT images:
*The veterinary team at Shedd Aquarium was joined by experts from Colorado State University, Innovative Veterinary Medicine, the Veterinary Specialty Center, Brookfield Zoo Chicago, SeaWorld, North Carolina State University, ZooRadOne, Indianapolis Zoo, University of Illinois College of Veterinary Medicine and Zoological Pathology Program, and Arthrex Vet Systems.
Huckleabbot and post-wisdom teeth removal anesthesia anyone? 🦷💤
Dennis didn’t really… go to the dentist growing up. His parents were serial about brushing every morning and night, flossing every day, and using mouthwash. He grew up with fine teeth—one of the few of his brothers to not have a wicked crossbite. He just never went to the dentist.
Dennis’ wisdom teeth came in when he was eighteen, and his teeth stopped being fine. They grew cramped, his bottom teeth in particular getting snug enough that he could barely get a string of flows through. But as a freshman in college he still didn’t have dentist money. Twenty, twenty-one, and twenty-two passed without any serious issues related to his wisdom teeth, and he got used to working around them. He did medical school and started his residency, used to his teeth.
And then his teeth started hurting. It was subtle, at first. A little tightness in his jaw when he woke up. A mild ache when he’d spoken a lot in one day. A sudden increase in liquid spilling from his mouth whenever he drank without a straw.
Abbot noticed, because Abbot noticed everything.
Dennis didn’t know exactly what was happening between him and Jack. There was no label to it, so far. Dennis got switched over to night shift the last two months of Robby’s sabbatical, and between the craziness of the hospital in the evening, and the gnawing loneliness of being on the opposite schedule of Trinity, Dennis found some level of socialization in Jack.
It started with talking during the shifts, and moved on to breakfast at Waffle House afterwards, and Jack driving him home. It was the eighth time in two weeks that they were together, and when Jack dropped Dennis off at his apartment, he leaned across the seat of his truck to press a kiss to his lips. Dennis froze, then, one hand on the door handle and the other on his bag, before he surged back to meet Jack again, practically falling over the console. Something twinged painfully in his jaw when he did it, but he didn’t care, his focus entirely on the way Jack’s arms wound around him, holding him close, wanting.
And then he started sleeping at Jack’s, among other things he also did at the older man’s home.
One mid-afternoon, Dennis and Jack didn’t have work, and had woken up late. Dennis meandered into the bathroom while Jack went to make them food. Dennis borrowed Jack’s toothbrush, running the bristles under the water before adding a dollop of toothpaste, and began to scrub at his teeth. A searing strike of pain so obtrusive and shocking keeled him over, his hand gripping his jaw tightly, eyes squeezed shut as it emanated through him. Jack found him swishing his mouth, grimacing, eyes brimming with tears.
So, he and Jack weren’t dating. They were just fucking, getting food together, and working at the same establishment. But Dennis was on Jack’s insurance, and Jack was paying to get Dennis’ wisdom teeth removed. None of it made any sense—regardless, that’s how he ended up here, gauze packed thickly into his mouth as the orthodontic surgery nurses helped him into Jack’s truck.
“He’s been very brave,” one of the nurses nodded emphatically as Jack leaned over the seat to buckle a gooey, droopy Dennis into the passenger seat. “Lots of our older patients get pretty emotional after. I think he just needs a nice nap!”
The nurses and Jack chuckled, and Dennis deflated into the seat, tired eyes slipping shut.
“Yeah, he’s a good kid,” Jack smiled at them, “thanks for all your help.”
The door shut, and Dennis was alone with Jack, about to be staying at the older man’s place for the first while of recovery before he’d get carted back to his and Trinity’s apartment. Jack’s hand came down on Dennis’ thigh, gently squeezing, as he began the drive home.
Dennis was delirious. The words flowed from his mouth before he could stop them.
“‘Dey thought ya were my dad, Jack.”
“Did they?” Jack laughed, and drummed his fingers against Dennis’ knee. “Maybe it’s cause of my grey hair.”
“Y’could be,” Dennis breathed, and slouched further, knees spreading further apart haphazardly, “if you’d had m’when you were, uhm,” Dennis’ jaw ticked, the gauze soaking up the blood, “twenty two?”
Jack’s hand slid away from Dennis’ thigh, moving instead to curl around the back of his neck. Dennis sighed, leaning into the touch.
“I could be, yeah. I don’t mind that, though.”
There was something smug in Jack’s voice. A little pleased. It flew over Dennis’ head, the warmth of Jack’s hand perfectly distracting. A laugh tumbled from Dennis’ mouth, garbled, muffled.
“I like it.” Dennis admitted, free, easy. Jack’s hand massaged his neck more firmly, thumb rubbing at the side with the perfect sort of pressure.
“Y’know what?” Jack hummed, and turned the music up with a button on the steering wheel, “I think I like it too, baby.” He glanced over to Dennis. “And I like you.”
“Y’do?” Dennis glanced over. “For real?”
“For real,” Jack grinned softly. “I’ll ask you out when you’re coherent, sweetheart.”
The first sense that come to you is sound. As you become aware the soft sounds lulling you into a peaceful bliss, as if the sound of wheels over tile floor was the calm of ocean waves. With time the sound develops more clarity, the clanks of the moment of the gurney feeling sharper. You can hear people speaking, although still unaware of how many or what they are saying. Not bothered to try to decipher any of it. You could feel you were moving, the gurney slowing or rounding corners here and there. It seems your mind is beginning to come back to you at the same time as your sight does. As you squint to open your eyes you’re greeted by the aggressive brightness of fluorescent lights flashing above as you pass beneath them. You resort to closing your eyes again but the damage is already done.
“Subject 42 has awoken.” Someone announces as you feel a hand briefly squeeze your shoulder reassuringly. You can feel the glove sticking slightly to your clammy skin as it pulls away. This is when you realize your lack of a shirt, or gown. With what feels like extraordinary effort you open your eyes again and manage to tilt your head slightly to look each way. You can see at least four or five people surrounding you, walking your gurney down a long corridor before the gloved hands of someone at the head of the bed firmly moves your head back to center, shining a light in each eye. It’s hard to gather your thoughts but you think back, can you remember being in any accident? I must be in the hospital obviously, you think. You become aware of the rising beeping of what you can only assume is a heart rate monitor. The hands above you lightly tapping one of your cheeks trying to rouse your full attention. “Take some deep breaths for me. We are almost there.” At this point you finally find the focus to make eye contact with the stranger above you, whose face was mostly obscured by a surgical mask. You do your best to suck in a shakey breath as you burst through a set of double doors. Before you can comprehend what’s happening you’re being lifted and positioned on an operating table by 4 or so masked figures in scrubs. Each arm is stretched out and secured in place before you can begin to think of resisting, the table moves some, and your legs are secured too, albeit in a much more compromising position. Looking down you see your naked body, adorned by a multitude of wires and sensors across your chest and abdomen, you’re not normally shaved bare like this either. You feel movement on one side and look to the left where you see someone pulsing a large syringe into an IV port already in place.
You don’t get to watch for long before your head is being tilted up and back as a mask comes down over your mouth and nose, held firmly in place by strong hands. “You need to calm down, 42, you’ve been through this before. Slow deep breaths. Just let the medicine do its job.” The man spoke in a reassuring tone but nothing he said did anything to ease your rising panic, if anything he added to it. But you didn’t have long to let your thoughts snowball, forseeing your panic the anesthetist had already begun squeezing the rebreather bag, slowly and steadily filling you with whatever plasticly smelling gas was coming through the mask. Just a couple breaths in you’re feeling light and detached. You’re still confused, sure, but no longer feeling the rush to act. You are just a passive passenger in your body, you didn’t know what the many hands touching you were doing but it was none of your concern. You were just along for the ride.
You lost your sense of time long before gaining consciousness in the hallway, unsure and unbothered by how long you’d been breathing in the sweet gas, until now you’re feeling something new, the heavy detached feeling had transformed into something different, you felt very present. Hyper aware of every sensation. You could feel the pull of the sticky pads on your chest and stomach, the wires brushing against your skin with each breath. The air felt so much colder against your exposed genitals, was that wetness?…Oh god, what is that heat building! A groan escapes your lips that I’m not even sure you were aware of as you try to arch your back and wither in your restraints, unable to get far. It all builds so fast! You had no knowledge of how desperately you needed to be touched until you felt the researcher’s gloved hand graze your labia, causing a visible shudder. You started to wonder again what was happening but before your thoughts could progress you were seeing stars…
The lead researcher, sat between your legs fully inserted two fingers into your aching hole. Clenching down, back arching, a moan more animal than human erupted from behind the mask held to your face. You try to comprehend the white hot sensation stemming from your groin as the fingers curl to massage your G-spot momentarily before withdrawing. Leaving you with an aching need you’ve never known before. “Yup, the subject is ready to proceed”
I love when you’re in the prep area and they come in to ask you questions. Ask me about my life, my habits, my family and medical histories. Tell me about the prep, the procedure, and the recovery. Type notes on your computer, gloved fingers flying across the keyboard. Then have the surgeon come in and let’s do it all again.
I love when the next nurse comes in to start your IV. First she pulls on tight gloves, then she holds your hand and pokes your wrist until she finds the perfect vein and wipes it clean. She turns to pick up the IV and tells you “big pinch.” You look away. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” repeats on a loop in your head. And then it slides into your vein. It’s no big deal. You feel a little foolish for letting her reverse psychology work on you.
But you also know at this point, you’ve lost the fight. They have full access to you, your body, your soul. You’re going under. It’s a matter of when, not if.
I love the versed. The anesthesiologist comes into the prep area with a big, clear syringe in her breast pocket. Hot. She reaches in with one of her gloved hands and tells you she has a cocktail for you. She holds it up to the light, ensuring a perfect dose, then removes the cap, inserts it into one of the ports on your IV line, and pushes it quickly. The chemical calmness, anxiety reducer, the liquid weighted blanket enters your system. Everything looks a little brighter, sounds a little softer, and you feel weightless like you’re floating on a cloud.
I love the move to the OR. You have someone pushing your bed from behind, and a nurse by your side. They chat with you to distract you further, but the versed is kicking in so you already don’t care. The square ceiling tiles roll by and the OR doors open with a hiss. As you roll in, nurses are snapping on gloves, filling syringes, and setting up for the procedure.
They stop you right next to the table, lower the railing, and have you scoot over. Your gown gets caught underneath you, and you try to fix it, but you can’t because you’re sitting on it. You lay down without caring because you’ll be out cold in a couple of minutes and it’s not your problem, they’ll fix it if they need to. And you’ll never know either way.
I love the prep. You’re lying on the table. It’s cold, just like the room, and the gown offers little protection. Gloved hands are moving quickly, but with measured precision, all around you. One nurse is adjusting your IV fluids. Another is placing Velcro straps around hour wrists, securing them to the arm of the table. Someone lifts your hand to put a pulse oximeter on your pointer finger.
The anesthesiologist is lifting your gown at the neckline to place heart monitor stickers on your chest. She uses her left hand to hold the gown up while the right hand goes in. The first sticker goes way on the left. As she puts it down you feel her gloved fingertips on your skin, and as she takes her hand away, she drags her fingers across the sticker to make sure it stays in place, but then you feel her fingers again once they reach the other side. She gets another sticker and repeats the same process in the middle of your chest, and then again for the final sticker on the right.
I love when the anesthesiologist puts the oxygen mask on. Before that, she turns around and starts fiddling with the anesthesia machine, making sure all the heart monitors and the pulse oximeter are working properly.
Then she starts turning valves for the gas. She picks up the mask in one hand and turns towards you, corrugated tubes following. She uses her other hand to lightly tap under your chin as she says “Chin up, please.” In your versed-induced high, there’s no option but to listen to the request that’s really an order. As you tilt your head back, she holds the mask up high and says something like “This is just oxygen.” as she lowers it over you. As it gets closer, the mask and her gloved hand start to look bigger. When it’s almost on you, you start to hear the air hissing through the tubes.
As it settles softly on your face, a few things happen. 1) Her gloved hand is resting delicately on your face. Her thumb and pointer finger are on top of the mask, supplying a mild pressure to create a tight seal, causing pressure on the bridge of your nose. Her other three fingers are wrapped gently around your chin, with her palm resting on your check. 2) You smell the plastic, which isn’t very pleasant. 3) She tells you to take some deep breaths, and you inhale the cleanest air you’ll ever breathe. You take several more breaths and it’s really refreshing.
I love the feeling of propofol. There are a few different ways you can be induced too.
The first is that the anesthesiologist pushes it. Sometimes she’ll leave the mask resting gently on your face, other times she’ll have another nurse hold it. Either way, she starts with the small syringe of lidocaine to minimize the burn of propofol. Then she gets the massive, milky-white syringe, clicks it into the port, and pushes it. She’ll say “Pick a nice dream.” or “We’re going to take great care of you.” or “See you in a little while.” or, if she’s fun, “Start counting.”
The second is that she keeps holding the mask, her hand resting delicately on your face, maybe even both hands covering almost your whole face if you’re lucky. One of the nurses, usually out of view, will sneak in the lidocaine and propofol. You won’t see it coming, and sometimes you don’t feel it either.
The third, and by far the most rare, is that she lets you push it! She puts the syringe in your hand and tells you to push it. This usually requires her help because as you get towards the bottom, you lose strength as it starts to take effect. She’ll put her hand around yours and push with you. So hot.
Whichever way it happens, the punchline is the same. Warmth floods your veins. Metallic taste in your mouth. Your vision starts to blur. Your eyes unfocus and roll back into your head. Lights pulsate, sounds fade into the distant, and then you’re out cold.
I love knowing that the anesthesiologist has her hands all over my face, it’s so intimate. After the anesthesia wins as it always does, she’s going to run her fingers along my eyelids to check for reflexes. She might even open the eyes completely. Some open the jaw too. I love the idea of a nurse playing with my limp face.
No reflexes means I’m out like a light. Then she’s going to tighten her grip on the mask with one hand, really digging into my face and chin. The other hand will grab the breathing bag and start squeezing, rhythmically breathing for me.
As this happening, the gown is being ripped open so the surgical team can begin prepping for the procedure.
I love the idea of being out cold and intubated, a short break from all the worry and exhaustion of the world with all your basic needs being carefully monitored. A nurse is going to start by putting things on your chest. A breathing tube and a blade will be needed for this. Once it’s time, the anesthesiologist will put the bag down and remove the mask.
Then, she’ll put one hand on your head and tilt as far back as possible, opening the airway as much as possible. With her other hand, she’ll slide the blade with a camera on it down your throat, illuminating it with the light and getting a clear view of your vocal cords on the screen. She’ll hold up her free hand and the nurse will hand her the breathing tube, which promptly goes down your throat and through the opening in your vocal cords. The nurse will fill a syringe with air, attach it to the hose coming off the tube, and inflate the cuff so it stays in place.
Then they squeeze the breathing bag a few times as the anesthesiologist gets her stethoscope and listens to your chest. If the breathing sounds good, the tube is secured with tape.
I love knowing that my eyes are lubed and taped shut. I wonder what that feels like when you’re awake.
The left eyelid is pulled back and lube squirted onto the eye before the lid is shut and pressed to spread the lube around. Then the same thing happens with the right eye. The nurse is ripping pieces of tape to cover both and they are applied to cover the entirety of each eye. This not only protects the, it keeps them moist.
I truly love every bit of anesthesia. Anesthesiologists and OR nurses are the most caring and hands on of anyone in the medical industry. The sights, the sounds, the feelings from start to finish are all incredible. It’s a magical thing 😍🥰🤩
I've seen so many tiktoks with this idea and I've seen some great writers play with it, so I decided to try my hand at it with our favourite drummer. And as always, thanks to @19blackbutterfly97-blog for working with me on our little universe! <3
Pairing: Rockstar Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 1,151
Rating: T (fluff, slight angst)
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: Coming out of surgery is weird enough. Coming out of surgery and discovering your boyfriend is a ridiculously handsome, tattooed rockstar named Bucky Barnes? Even weirder. Especially when you keep looking at him and asking the only logical question: Why?
Author's Note: Please check the tags for any possible triggers. Thank you!
Your eyelids feel ten pounds each. Your mouth is dry. The room is all soft beeping and pale curtains and fluorescent light that somehow feels both too bright and too far away. Your thoughts are swimming in syrup, bumping into each other like sleepy bumper cars.
You blink once. Twice.
There’s a man sitting in the chair beside your bed.
A very handsome man.
A ridiculously handsome man.
Dark shirt stretched over broad shoulders, skin covered in tattoos, hair a little messy like he’s been running his hands through it too much. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at you with this look on his face that is way too soft and way too intense for a stranger.
You squint at him.
He immediately perks up, relief washing over his face.
“Hey, baby. There you are.”
You stare. Because, okay…?
One, he is very pretty. Two, he is definitely not a nurse. Three, why is he talking to you like that?
Your brows pinch together.
“Who…are you?”
He freezes. Actually freezes.
The relief on his face gets replaced by a very specific kind of panic.
“…what?”
Your eyes drift over him again, suspicious and a little impressed despite yourself.
“Why are you in my room?”
His mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again.
“I’m—”
He glances at the nurse by the monitor like maybe she’s going to jump in and explain this better than he can.
She does not.
In fact, she very obviously bites back a smile and busies herself with the blood pressure machine.
The man looks back at you, now fully thrown.
“I’m Bucky,” he says carefully. “Your boyfriend.”
You stare at him for a long, long second. Then glance around the room like there might be hidden cameras.
“My boyfriend,” you repeat.
“Yeah.”
You look at him again. Really look.
At the tattoos. The jawline. The shoulders. The concerned blue eyes.
Then, very seriously, you whisper, “…why?”
The nurse makes a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh covered by a cough.
Bucky looks like you’ve just shot him.
“Why?” he echoes.
You blink at him, still drugged to hell and trying to work this out with the two functioning brain cells currently available.
“You’re very…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “That.”
He lets out one startled, helpless laugh. “That?”
“Handsome,” you say, like you’re doing him a favour by clarifying. “And tattooed. Like…a suspicious amount.”
He puts a hand over his mouth. The nurse fully turns away at that point, shoulders shaking.
You narrow your eyes at him and continue, “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?”
“That you’re my boyfriend.”
He drags a hand down his face and looks at the ceiling for strength.
“Yes, sweetheart. I’m sure.”
You consider this.
Then, with total sincerity, “So I really pulled you?”
He just stares at you. The nurse loses it entirely and has to walk out of the room for “supplies.”
Bucky looks back at you, somewhere between offended and wildly amused.
“Yes,” he says finally. “You ‘pulled’ me.”
You nod slowly, deeply impressed with yourself.
“Good for me.”
That gets him.
He laughs, head dropping, one hand scrubbing over the back of his neck as he tries to recover.
“Oh my God.”
You’re still studying him, though, because this is a lot to take in while your brain is full of anesthesia fog and hospital ceiling tiles.
“You seem sad,” you say.
His head snaps up.
“What?”
“You looked sad when I woke up.” You frown. “Did I die?”
His entire expression softens so fast it almost hurts.
“No, baby,” he says quietly. “You didn’t die.”
“Oh.” You relax a little. “That's good. Dying sounds inconvenient.”
He leans closer, forearms resting on the bed rail now, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You scared me a little, though.”
You squint at him.
“Because I forgot your face?”
He huffs a laugh.
“Yeah. Little bit.”
You look at him again, really trying this time. The voice is familiar in a way the face still isn’t. Warm. Grounding. Like hearing a song you know through a bad speaker.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
“Don’t be.” His hand comes close to yours on the blanket, then pauses. “Can I?”
You look at his hand.
Big. Veined. Rings glinting in the stark hospital light. Familiar in a way that makes something in your chest tug even through the fog.
You nod.
He takes your hand so gently it’s almost ridiculous, thumb brushing once over your knuckles.
There it is.
That feeling.
Something in you settles. Your eyes flick back up to his face.
“Ohhh.”
He lifts a brow.
“Ohhh?”
“I know you.”
That smile he gives you then is so soft and relieved it makes you want to cry for reasons your medicated brain cannot currently process.
“Yeah,” he says. “You do.”
You squeeze his hand weakly.
“Still weird that I’ve got such a hot boyfriend.”
He chokes on his own breath. From the hallway, you hear a nurse laugh again. He points at you with his free hand.
“You are never living this down.”
You blink slowly.
“That sounds like a future me problem.”
“Absolutely is.”
You sink deeper into the pillows, still holding his hand.
“Are you famous?”
He stares.
“What?”
“You look a little famous.”
He barks out a laugh.
“A little?”
You nod, then immediately regret the motion because the room gets floaty again.
“Like if a tattoo convention and a cologne ad had a baby.”
He covers his face with his hand.
“Jesus Christ.”
You smile dreamily.
“I’m hilarious.”
“You are on so many drugs.”
“And yet.” You lift his hand slightly. “Still got you.”
He looks at you over his fingers, completely gone now. Amused. Wrecked. A little helpless.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”
There’s a quiet moment after that.
The monitors hum. The curtain shifts. His thumb keeps moving slowly over your hand like he’s reassuring himself you’re really okay.
You squint at him again.
“Do you have snacks?”
That makes him laugh again.
“I do, actually.”
“You really are my boyfriend.”
He nods solemnly.
“Emergency crackers in my jacket pocket.”
You gasp, scandalized and impressed.
“That’s husband behavior.”
He goes very still.
Then very, very carefully says, “You wanna maybe remember my last name before we discuss that?”
You smile, eyes already drifting shut again.
“Too late,” you mumble. “I’m in love with Hospital Boy.”
He leans forward and kisses your forehead, smiling into it.
“Tough break for Bucky, then.”
Your fingers tighten around his one last sleepy time.
“No,” you murmur. “He can stay, too.”
And if he sits there grinning like an idiot for the next twenty minutes while you doze off holding his hand?
