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@whispsofkindness
So cool.
HOW TO SURVIVE A HEART ATTACK WHEN ALONE Let’s say it’s 6.15pm and you’re going home (alone of course), after an unusually hard day on the job. You’re really tired, upset and frustrated. Suddenly you start experiencing severe pain in your chest that starts to drag out into your arm and up into your jaw. You are only about five miles from the hospital nearest your home. Unfortunately you don’t know if you’ll be able to make it that far. You have been trained in CPR, but the guy that taught the course did not tell you how to perform it on yourself..!! NOW HOW TO SURVIVE A HEART ATTACK WHEN ALONE… Since many people are alone when they suffer a heart attack, without help, the person whose heart is beating improperly and who begins to feel faint, has only about 10 seconds left before losing consciousness. However, these victims can help themselves by coughing repeatedly and very vigorously. A deep breath should be taken before each cough, and the cough must be deep and prolonged, as when producing sputum from deep inside the chest. A breath and a cough must be repeated about every two seconds without let-up until help arrives, or until the heart is felt to be beating normally again. Deep breaths get oxygen into the lungs and coughing movements squeeze the heart and keep the blood circulating. The squeezing pressure on the heart also helps it regain normal rhythm. In this way, heart attack victims can perhaps buy precious time to get themselves to a phone and dial 911. Rather than sharing another joke please contribute by broadcasting this which can save a person’s life! Be prepared and become part of the solution. Get your free next-of-kin notification card today. Click here: https://www.InCaseOfEmergencyCard.com/
major signal boost
Reblogging cause this could save someone’s life
This could save many lives, reblog
!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Everyone needs to reblog!!
This is for everybody
Lets get the word.just a quick reblogg…and you might save someones life..💯💯
Good information, thanks for this public service announcement!
"They found the coats on Thursday morning. Fifteen winter coats. Good ones, not garbage. Hanging on the chain-link fence outside Lincoln Elementary. No note. No explanation. Just coats, zipped up like ghosts waiting for bodies. Principal Morris freaked out. Called the police. "Could be stolen," she said. "Could be some kind of prank."
But then Kayla Martinez, eight years old, said her mom worked nights cleaning offices and couldn't afford a winter coat this year. She'd been wearing three hoodies layered up. She touched a purple one on the fence, the right size, and whispered, "Can I?" Mrs. Alvarez, the PE teacher, said yes before anyone could stop her. By lunch, all fifteen coats were gone. Fifteen kids who'd been shivering through recess were warm. The next Thursday? Twenty coats. Different fence, same neighborhood, outside the community center. Then thirty coats appeared at the downtown shelter. Then blankets. Then winter boots. No cameras ever caught who did it. No social media claims. Just... coats. Every Thursday. All winter long.
The news picked it up. Called them "The Fence Angel." Interviewed grateful families. But nobody knew.
Until March.
Old man died, Earl Hutchins, seventy-one, lived alone in a basement apartment on Fourth Street. When they cleaned out his place, they found receipts. Thrift store receipts. Hundreds of them. He'd been buying every decent winter coat he could find, spending his entire disability check, and hanging them up at night.
His nephew found a journal entry, "Lost my son to exposure in 2004. He was homeless, prideful, wouldn't take handouts. Froze to death behind a dumpster wearing a T-shirt. If I put coats on a fence, nobody has to ask. Nobody has to admit they need help. They just take it. Dignity intact."
I'm Kayla Martinez. I'm sixteen now. That purple coat got me through fourth grade. I never knew Earl. Never got to say thank you.
But last November, I took my babysitting money to Goodwill. Bought six coats. Hung them on that same fence.
My friends saw. They bought coats. Then their parents did. Then the high school started a coat drive, not for a bin, for the fence.
Last Thursday, there were 200 coats. Scarves too. Gloves. We call it "Earl's Fence" now. There's one in Detroit. One in Manchester. One in Vancouver.
I never met the man who saved me from freezing. But I'm becoming him, one coat at a time.
Because the best kind of help doesn't ask for credit. It just hangs there, quiet, waiting for cold hands to find warmth."
Let this story reach more hearts..
I make $55,000 a year… and I’m still broker than my 75-year-old grandpa.
Rent ate my future alive.
$1,800 a month for a shoebox studio.
So now… I live in his basement.
This was not the plan.
The plan was rooftop bars, city lights, Uber rides home, and pretending my marketing degree made me an adult.
Instead… it’s suburban Ohio.
Sleeping on a sofa bed from 1983.
Surrounded by walls that smell like cedar and broken dreams.
🧋 I walked in holding a $7.50 iced coffee.
Grandpa looked at it like it was a sin.
“That stuff costs five bucks?” he asked.
“Seven fifty,” I corrected.
“It’s a small luxury. I deserve it.”
He stared at me over his chipped mug of instant coffee.
“You ‘deserve’ to pay off that $40,000 school debt. I just drink coffee. You drink a car payment.”
Living with Grandpa Frank was like living with the Great Depression in human form.
📺 He had one tiny TV that buzzed like a beehive.
No Netflix. No Hulu. No Disney+.
Meanwhile, I was paying for four streaming services I barely used.
“Why pay for all that?” he asked.
“It’s about options,” I shrugged.
“Looks like a waste,” he said, turning back to Channel 4 news.
Then came the burger night.
End of a brutal week.
I was exhausted.
I opened the delivery app and ordered a $28 gourmet burger.
Grandpa was on the porch when the driver pulled up.
He watched me take the bag like I was receiving stolen goods.
Inside, he dished out Whatever’s-Left-Casserole — hot dogs, beans, and something that used to be an onion.
“That must be nice,” he muttered.
“It’s just ONE burger, Frank!” I snapped. “Everything’s expensive! You guys had it EASY! You bought this whole house on one salary!”
He set his fork down… slowly.
“Easy?” he repeated.
“I worked 12-hour shifts at the mill. Six days a week.
Mortgage rate was 14%.
Lunch was a bologna sandwich — every damn day.”
He pointed at my phone.
“That smartphone cost more than my first car.
You have tattoos that cost more than my first YEAR of rent.”
He rolled up his sleeve. The ink was faded, blue, barely there.
“This tattoo came from the Navy.
It didn’t come with a payment plan.
It came with nightmares.”
My throat tightened.
He walked over to his old roll-top desk and pulled out a worn-out savings passbook.
He tossed it at me.
I opened it.
📍 $280,000.
Saved from a factory pension.
On canned soup.
On saying no to “little luxuries.”
He took his plate to the sink.
“You’re right, Alex,” he said quietly.
“I bought this house on one salary.
But I also didn’t have five subscriptions and ‘self-care smoothies.’”
He paused in the doorway.
“You don’t have an income problem.
You have an expense problem.
You’re not poor —
you’re paying a subscription to act rich.”
And damn if that didn’t hit harder than the student loan bill. 🥀
She’s 91 years old, standing in a hospital gown, hands in chains. Arrested for felony theft. The judge could hardly believe it.
Helen and her husband George, 88, have been married 65 years. He has severe heart failure and needs medicine every day just to stay alive. They live on a fixed income, barely scraping by. Last month, their supplemental insurance lapsed after they couldn’t afford the payment.
When Helen went to pick up his prescription, the bill wasn’t their usual $50. It was $940. She left empty-handed.
For three days, she watched the man she loved struggle to breathe.
Desperate, she went back to the pharmacy. While the pharmacist turned away, she slipped the medication into her purse. She didn’t even make it to the door before she was stopped. The police charged her with felony shoplifting.
During booking, her blood pressure skyrocketed, and she was rushed to the hospital. The next morning, still in her thin gown, she was brought into court.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she whispered. “He’s all I have.”
The judge looked at her — small, trembling, 91 years old — and shook his head.
“Take those chains off her,” he ordered. “This is not a criminal. This is a failure of our system.”
He dismissed the charges immediately and ordered emergency assistance for both her and George.
In the hills of Colletto Fava, in Piedmont, Italy, once stood an enormous pink rabbit, over 60 meters tall: Hase, created in 2005 by the Austrian art collective Gelitin. Woven from waterproof fabric and stuffed with straw, it was designed to be climbed, walked on, and hugged by visitors, like a toy fallen from the sky. Its purpose was not only to entertain but also to show how art and nature intertwine: the artists planned for the rabbit to slowly decompose over the years, until it disappeared.
By 2016, the weather had already begun to erode its form, and today, only a few traces remain. Where the gigantic Hase once stood, vegetation has reclaimed its place. This artwork, more than a curious attraction, became a silent reminder that time never stops, not even for the most monumental creations.
"My name is Juliana. I’m 79. I’ve washed dishes at the St. Mary’s Community Kitchen for 12 years. Not as a volunteer. As an employee. $10.50 an hour. I do it because my pension isn’t enough, and because I love the smell of hot water on clean plates.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, we serve 200+ lunches to folks who’ve got nowhere else to go. Retired teachers. Single moms. Veterans. People who lost jobs. People who look tired.
I noticed something in Year 3.
People would scrape perfectly good food into the trash can. Not because it tasted bad. Because they were ashamed to take it home.
A man in a stained work shirt would dump half his meatloaf.
A young mom with hollow eyes would scrape her salad into the bin.
They’d glance around to see if anyone was watching. Then quickly hide the food in their bags.
Shame is louder than hunger.
One cold Tuesday, I saw a teen girl, maybe 16 scraping mashed potatoes into the trash. Her hands were shaking. I asked quietly, “You want this?”
She froze. “I..... I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“People’ll think I’m greedy.”
That night, I took an old cooler from my garage. I washed it. Dried it. Taped a sign on it, “TAKE ONE. NO ASKING.”
Next morning, I filled it with extra portions we always made, unopened cans of soup, sealed apples, bread rolls still warm. I didn’t tell anyone. Just set it by the employee exit, not the main door. So no one had to walk past the dining room to get it.
Day 1- No one touched it.
Day 2- The teen girl took an apple. Left a note, “Thank you. For not seeing me.”
Day 3- The man in the work shirt took a can of soup. Put $2 in the cooler.
I never spoke about it. But I started seeing changes,
The young mom brought her toddler. Took two apples. Left a drawing.
A veteran started leaving his extra roll in the cooler before he left.
One man brought a thermos of coffee. “For the dishwasher,” he said, nodding at me.
Then last winter, I had a stroke.
Woke up in the hospital. My daughter said, “Mom, people kept calling. Asking how you are.”
I thought it was the kitchen staff.
Wrong.
On my first day back, I saw it,
The cooler was gone. In its place stood a small wooden cabinet—handmade, with shelves. Taped to it, “JULIANA’S SHELF. TAKE WHAT YOU NEED. LEAVE WHAT YOU CAN.”
Inside,
Canned beans from a farmer’s market volunteer.
Knitted scarves from a woman who’d once scraped her food.
A jar of coins with a note, “For your meds.”
The kitchen manager told me, “The veteran built this. The teen painted it. That mom? She’s the one who called the hospital every day.”
I cried. Not because I was sick. But because I realized,
The most important work I’ve ever done wasn’t washing dishes.
It was seeing people when they felt invisible.
Today, “Juliana’s Shelf” is in 14 community kitchens across three states. No one runs it. It just works. People take what they need. Leave what they can. No speeches. No rules. Just quiet kindness.
My doctor says I need to rest. But I still go to work.
Not for the $10.50.
For the clink of a can being placed on the shelf.
For the teen who now brings sandwiches for me.
For the veteran who says, “Morning, Juliana.” like I’m his friend.
This is my truth,
You don’t need a big heart to change the world.
You just need to see the small things people throw away, and give them back with dignity.
P.S. My daughter says this story’s “too simple” to go viral. But if it reaches one person who’s ever felt invisible.... then it’s already done its job.”
.
Let this story reach more hearts....
.
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Mary Nelson
“This is what grief is.
A hole ripped through the very fabric of your being.
The hole eventually heals along the jagged edges that remain. It may even shrink in size.
But that hole will always be there.
A piece of you always missing.
For where there is deep grief, there was great love.
Don't be ashamed of your grief.
Don't judge it.
Don't suppress it.
Don't rush it.
Rather, acknowledge it.
Lean into it.
Listen to it.
Feel it.
Sit with it.
Sit with the pain. And remember the love.
This is where the healing will begin.”
“‘Why did you do all this for me?' Wilbur asked. 'I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die... By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle.
Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that.'”
~From Charlotte's Web by Elwyn Brooks, “E.B.” Whit
She was drowning.
And the world was still cheering.
No one noticed the silence beneath the applause.
No one… except one person. 💔
It was June 2022, at the World Championships in Budapest.
American artistic swimmer Anita Álvarez had just finished a breathtaking routine — grace and control woven into water and light.
But when the music stopped… she didn’t rise.
Her body floated for a moment — still, suspended.
Then it began to sink.
Quietly. Slowly. Out of sight.
The crowd kept clapping. Cameras kept rolling.
No one saw her fading — except Andrea Fuentes, her coach.
Andrea didn’t need to think. She felt it.
She knew Anita’s rhythm, her limits, her breath.
And without a word, she leapt into the water — clothes and all —
diving deep, wrapping her arms around her unconscious swimmer,
lifting her back to the surface.
Back to air. Back to life. 🫶
Since then, I keep thinking —
Who sees you when you start to sink behind your smile?
Who would dive in for you, no hesitation, no waiting for help?
And maybe even more important —
Would you notice someone else going under?
Sometimes, saving a life isn’t about heroics.
It’s about paying attention. 👁️
Feeling. Acting. Loving.
Don’t let the people around you disappear beneath their silence.
Be the one who sees.
Be the hand that reaches through the water. ❤️ ARE YOU THAT FRIEND???
Credit to the respective owner ✍️
#bethatfriend #illuminatinglives #EmpoweringChange #riseshinelive
I know the exact pressure it takes to crack a rib during CPR. But last Tuesday, I learned a patient’s silence can break a doctor’s soul.
His name was David Chen, but on my screen, he was "Male, 82, Congestive Heart Failure, Room 402." I spent seven minutes with him that morning. Seven minutes to check his vitals, listen to the fluid in his lungs, adjust his diuretics, and type 24 required data points into his Electronic Health Record. He tried to tell me something, gesturing toward a faded photo on his nightstand. I nodded, said "we'll talk later," and moved on. There was no billing code for "talk later."
Mr. Chen died that afternoon. As a nurse quietly cleared his belongings, she handed me the photo. It was him as a young man, beaming, his arm around a woman, standing before a small grocery store with "CHEN'S MARKET" painted on the window.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. I knew his ejection fraction and his creatinine levels. I knew his insurance provider and his allergy to penicillin. But I didn't know his wife's name or that he had built a life from nothing with his own two hands. I hadn’t treated David Chen. I had managed the decline of a failing organ system. And in the sterile efficiency of it all, I had lost a piece of myself.
The next day, I bought a small, black Moleskine notebook. It felt like an act of rebellion.
My first patient was Eleanor Gable, a frail woman lost in a sea of white bedsheets, diagnosed with pneumonia. I did my exam, updated her chart, and just as I was about to leave, I paused. I turned back from the door.
"Mrs. Gable," I said, my voice feeling strange. "Tell me one thing about yourself that’s not in this file."
Her tired eyes widened in surprise. A faint smile touched her lips. "I was a second-grade teacher," she whispered. "The best sound in the world... is the silence that comes just after a child finally reads a sentence on their own."
I wrote it down in my notebook. Eleanor Gable: Taught children how to read.
I kept doing it. My little black book began to fill with ghosts of lives lived.
Frank Miller: Drove a yellow cab in New York for 40 years.
Maria Flores: Her mole recipe won the state fair in Texas, three years running.
Sam Jones: Proposed to his wife on the Kiss Cam at a Dodgers game.
Something began to change. The burnout, that heavy, gray cloak I’d been wearing for years, started to feel a little lighter. Before entering a room, I’d glance at my notebook. I wasn’t walking in to see the "acute pancreatitis in 207." I was walking in to see Frank, who probably had a million stories about the city. My patients felt it too. They'd sit up a little straighter. A light would flicker back in their eyes. They felt seen.
The real test came with Leo. He was 22, angry, and refusing dialysis for a condition he’d brought on himself. He was a "difficult patient," a label that in hospital-speak means "we've given up." The team was frustrated.
I walked into his room and sat down, leaving my tablet outside. We sat in silence for a full minute. I didn't look at his monitors. I looked at the intricate drawings covering his arms.
"Who's your artist?" I asked.
He scoffed. "Did 'em myself."
"They're good," I said. "This one... it looks like a blueprint."
For the first time, his gaze lost its hard edge. "Wanted to be an architect," he muttered, "before... all this."
We talked for twenty minutes about buildings, about lines, about creating something permanent. We didn't mention his kidneys once. When I stood up to leave, he said, so quietly I almost missed it, "Okay. We can try the dialysis tomorrow."
Later that night, I opened my Moleskine. I wrote: Leo Vance: Designs cities on paper.
The system I work in is designed to document disease with thousands of data points. It logs every cough, every pill, every lab value. It tells the story of how a body breaks down.
My little black book tells a different story. It tells the story of why a life mattered.
We are taught to practice medicine with data, but we heal with humanity. And in a world drowning in information, a single sentence that says, "I see you," isn't just a kind gesture.
It’s the most powerful medicine we have.
The crowd at Detroit’s Ford Field fell into a hush as Eminem lowered his mic mid-verse, his eyes locking onto a weathered sign held high in the front row: “I got into Stanford. You said we’d rap.”
The arena held its breath as a young woman stepped up onto the stage — Lily Tran, once a foster child, now a full-scholarship student at Stanford University, one of the most prestigious institutions in America. At just 9 years old, Lily had met Eminem at a backstage meet-and-greet.
Back then, she told him her dream: to escape hardship through education and music. Eminem had crouched down, hugged her, and said: “When you get into college, if I’m still rapping, we’ll do a track together.”
Today, she kept her promise. And so did he. Together, they performed an emotional rendition of his classic “Lose Yourself.” Lily’s voice was shaky at first as she took on the verses he’d given her, but with each line, her confidence grew — as if every memory, every struggle, and every hope she’d carried had poured straight into the beat.
The stadium, usually roaring with energy, fell silent, wrapped in the raw power of the moment — and then erupted into cheers, tears, and applause. As the final note hit, Eminem leaned toward her and whispered: “You didn’t just keep your promise… you reminded me to keep mine.”
The audience rose to their feet in thunderous applause — not just for a performance, but for something far rarer: a moment where hip-hop became more than music — it became hope, resilience, and a promise fulfilled 💙
Saw this post earlier today it gives you something to think about .
“Today I spent the whole morning pouring this concrete path, carefully making sure every inch was smooth and even. I stepped away for a short break, came back, and there it was, a turtle had taken its time strolling through like it was making a grand entrance.
At first, I was so pissed off, knowing I’d probably have to redo the whole thing. But then I looked at those little tracks and couldn’t help but laugh. I guess I learned something very important today: no matter how slow you are, you can still leave a huge mark.
Now I don’t know if I should smooth it over or keep it as its own kind of art."