Intubation/ICU/ventilator/medical fetish tumblr.

YESSS to all of those! Sometimes I ask my husband to wipe sweat off my face, or clean my face with a towel with warm water, or for specific massages.

I've been thinking about how to include proning in scenarios, it's really uncomfortable tho and my neck starts hurting pretty fast, and saliva just spills out often with the tube keeping my mouth open. I'm also really into having my body turned laterally to face left or right with pillows to help position my body like nurses do to ICU patients, but I haven't researched the realistic/medically accurate way to try it yet.

I've been reading up on it, researching it, and trying it since I was very young so I kinda just learned gradually. It's been like 15+ years since I first tried. There's a lot of stuff that goes into it. Things I learned:

-What is intubation and why it is done -Conditions that usually result in intubation and their typical progressions throughout a hospital stay -Timeline of intubation/ventilator dependence/extubation for patients in various conditions

-Vital signs -The ventilator, various settings, and how they help patients with different conditions -Ventilator parts, especially the breathing circuit, closed suction catheter, various attachments to the circuit, HME filter -Airway anatomy and physiology -Proper ETT sizing for my height and weight -Risks and complications of intubation (especially self intubation), how to prevent and mitigate them -Long term side effects of occasionally intubating myself, how long between sessions to let my vocal cords/trachea heal to prevent permanent/significant damage

-Intubation equipment (Laryngoscope, LMA, bougie, guide wire) -Topical and local airway anesthesia -Other medication used during intubation

-Preoxygenation -Ambu bag -Various intubation techniques (direct laryngoscopy, fiberoptic, digital, retrograde) -Best practices to keep the tube as clean as possible during intubation -Proper depth of ETT -What it feels like when the ETT cuff is inflated enough to not leak -Securing the ETT (best types of tape, ETT holders)

-Critical care in general -What tubes/lines/equipment are commonly used for ICU patients -Care of intubated patients specifically -Medications that are usually given to intubated patients -Suctioning procedure (inside the tube and above the cuff)

-How to stay calm and breathe properly while intubated -How to perform self extubation safely and properly while avoiding/minimizing damage to the vocal cords

I actually started with LMAs but to this day I still can't handle having it in my throat compared to an ETT, despite it being less deep in my airway.

First time asking my husband for nurse roleplay instead of visitor roleplay. Feeling pretty good about this one, just thought I'd share it here.

Scenario: ||I've been staying in the hospital for 2 weeks for severe pneumonia. Last week I had to be moved to the ICU, intubated, and put on life support. I’m still in critical condition but now stable and recovering. I will likely make it through this if I stay calm and rest. My hands are restrained to the bed so I can’t pull out the breathing tube which is very dangerous.

Visiting hours are over and now it’s almost my bedtime. You’re an ICU nurse and you’re taking care of me tonight. You just arrived at my bedside to check my condition (oxygen level, heart rate, blood pressure, etc), give me my medication, suction my breathing tube if needed, and take care of anything else I need until I fall asleep.||

Instructions: ||“Hey, (name)? Are you awake?” I nod. “I’m just doing the usual things before you go to bed, okay? Let me take a look at your monitors... (pause) everything looks good. Your oxygen level is looking better today. Your heart rate and blood pressure are nice and stable.”

"I'm going to give you your evening medication through your IV now." >touch my IV line (near left neck) and fiddle with it a bit “(pause) Doing okay?” I nod. “(pause) All done.”

“How's your breathing? Do you need suction?” I pause for a bit then reluctantly nod. “Okay. I know it's uncomfortable. I’ll be fast and gentle. Remember, the ventilator is breathing for you. Just try to relax.” >push the suction catheter (the long tube ending with a green plastic thing) in all the way, pause a few seconds and pull it back out I start coughing and struggling. “You’re doing good. Just one more.” >push the suction catheter (the long tube ending with a green plastic thing) in all the way, pause a few seconds and pull it back out I cough and struggle even more. “All done. Is it any better?” I start to calm down and nod.

“Anything else for tonight? Do you need something to sleep?” I nod. “Okay, I’ll give you something to sleep.” >touch my IV line (near left neck) and fiddle with it a bit (pause) “All good? Anything else?” I look at my restraints and pull on it to draw your attention to it. “Right now, those need to stay on because you’re still reaching for the tube. I know it’s uncomfortable. I do understand that.” “If you can stay calm and you’re doing well tomorrow, we can talk about taking them off or loosening them. Let’s get through tonight first, okay? Sounds good?” I nod.

I try to sleep but start coughing and struggling. "Hey—hey, I’m right here. Breathe with the ventilator. It’s doing the work for you." "You're safe. I’m going to stay with you while you settle down, okay?” >hold my right hand “You can hold my hand until you fall asleep. You're doing okay. Nice and slow breaths.” I start calming down. "That's it. Just try to relax"

btw I just want to ask how would you tolerate the ET tube rather than LMA?

Awake Intubation - Patient POV

Chapter 5 (Final)

You surface slowly again, but this time the world feels heavier. The ventilator breathes for you in a steady, calm rhythm that is familiar now. Still uncomfortable, still intrusive, but familiar.

Your eyes open halfway. The room is darker than before. Only a soft blue glow from the monitors and a pale strip of light from the hallway spilling under the door.

A different figure moves around you. Not the same nurse. Someone new.

Nurse (quiet, gentle): “Hey there, (your name)… I see you waking up a little.”

You try to turn your head toward her voice, but it’s like moving through warm sand. Your neck barely responds.

She adjusts something near your shoulder—your gown, then the restraints. She checks the IV pump, taps the touchscreen, then leans a little closer.

Nurse: “Your sedation’s wearing off again. You’re doing okay, but your heart rate’s creeping up. Let me check your tube.”

She places a hand on your upper chest. Even that small touch makes your breath hitch around the tube.

Nurse: “Shh… it’s okay. You’re on the ventilator. You’re safe. Just try not to breathe against it.”

You can’t help it. Your lungs want to breathe on their own. They try and fail.

Your chest tightens sharply. The monitor responds, rising in pitch. The nurse gently places a hand over your forearm.

Nurse: “You’re fighting it again. It’s okay. Let me help you relax, okay?”

She presses buttons on the ventilator. The machine shifts subtly—slower, deeper breaths.

She brushes a hand over your forehead, moving a strand of hair aside.

Nurse: “You had a rough night before you came here. We’re trying to give your lungs a break. You’re still very sick, but you’re stable.”

The words stable feel like a warm blanket, even if you only half understand.

Then a cough rumbles up from deep inside you—blocked, heavy. Your chest jerks with the effort but the tube stops the sound from escaping. Tears spring to your eyes. Your stomach clenches.

The nurse moves quickly.

Nurse: “You're okay. Don’t struggle. I’ll suction you again.”

The catheter slides down the breathing tube. You react instantly—everything inside you recoils. Your hands tug at the restraints and your legs tense hard. Your eyes squeeze shut as the pressure digs deep into your lungs.

Nurse (soft, steady): “I know. It feels awful. I’m sorry. Almost done…”

A loud, wet suction sound pulls the mucus free.

Air flows easier again. Your muscles unclench slowly, trembling.

Nurse: “There you go. Much better.”

She brushes her thumb gently across your cheek—wiping either sweat or tears. You aren’t sure which.

Your heart rate stays high.

Nurse: “Okay, I'm going to give you something to relax.”

She reaches for your IV line.

You want to tell her to wait. You want to tell her you want to see (your SO). But the tube fills your throat, blocking every sound except a faint, desperate grunt.

Nurse: “You're doing a lot better now. This is just to ease the panic. You’re safe. You can rest.”

The cold warmth of medication spreads through your veins again—a slow wave rising from your arm to your chest, up your neck, fogging your vision.

Her voice follows you into the dark.

Nurse: “Good… just let go again… we’ve got you…”

And you do.

---

The next time you wake, the room is quiet. Quieter than before. The ventilator hums in its steady rhythm. A blood pressure cuff releases its grip from your arm with a soft hiss. Someone shifts in a chair nearby—just a faint fabric rustle.

You try to open your eyes, but they feel glued shut. It takes effort, but slowly, the world swims into view. Soft afternoon light filters through the blinds. Your room is calm.

And sitting beside you, (your SO).

His head is bowed slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looks afraid.

Your breath catches—not air, not yours, not under your control, but something emotional, something deep.

You want to call to him. You want to reach for him. Your hand doesn’t move. The restraints hold your wrist to the bed.

He hears the change in your breathing anyway. His head jerks up. For a split second, he looks lost—unsure if he imagined the sound. Then he sees your eyes open.

His whole face breaks.

In relief.

In fear.

In love.

(your SO) (soft, breaking): “Hey… hey, sweetheart. You’re awake.”

He stands immediately, one hand hovering just above your cheek like he’s afraid to hurt you. He looks at the breathing tube, at the restraints, at the IV lines—pain washing across his face again and again. You try to speak. Try to tell him you’re here. Only a soft, strained sound comes out around the tube.

(your SO): “No, no—shh… don’t try to talk. Don’t try to move.”

His hand finally settles against your forehead, warm, gentle, trembling.

(your SO): “You scared me so bad. They said you were crashing, that they had to put you on the ventilator, that you might not wake up for a while.”

His voice breaks. He swallows hard and keeps going.

“But you’re here. You’re looking at me. You fought really hard. They said you're going to pull through.”

A cough rattles in your chest again, involuntary and harsh. The tube shifts, scraping your throat. You flinch, eyes watering.

“Nurse? She’s coughing! Can someone…?”

A nurse enters swiftly.

Nurse: “Hi (your name). Hi (your SO). I can see she’s getting a bit uncomfortable.”

The nurse checks your vitals, adjusts the ventilator, then looks at (your SO) gently.

Nurse: “She’s still very sick, but she’s doing better than yesterday. Waking up like this is a good sign.”

(your SO) lets out a long, shaky exhale. His hand stays on you.

Nurse (to you): “(your name), I’m going to suction you again. Just the same as before. It’ll feel awful for a few seconds but then you’ll breathe easier.”

You tense before the catheter even touches the tube. (your SO) notices immediately.

He leans close, his forehead nearly touching yours.

(your SO): “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Just breathe… or, uh… let the machine breathe for you. You know what I mean.”

You would laugh if you could.

The suction starts.

You flinch, jerk, cry—but his hands cradle your head, thumbs brushing your temples in soothing circles.

(your SO): “You’re doing so good. So good. Just a little more.”

When the suction ends, you sag into the pillow, exhausted, trembling, but breathing easier. The nurse lowers the lights a little.

Nurse: “She needs rest. She’s still very fragile.”

(your SO) nods, then turns to you again.

He sits, takes your restrained hand gently between both of his, and lowers his forehead to your knuckles.

(your SO): “Try to get some sleep, babe. I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

The nurse adjusts your IV. Sedation warms your veins and your vision blurs. The ventilator breathes slow and steady.

(your SO)’s thumb strokes the back of your hand until everything fades. And you let yourself slip under one more time—safe, held, loved. You're going to be okay and recover, and he'll be with you here with you every step of the way.

---

Awake Intubation - Patient POV

Part 4

You rise toward consciousness like someone drifting upward through deep water.

At first there is nothing but a faint hum. A soft, steady hiss… click… hiss… click, somewhere close to your face. Then a heart monitor, beeping slowly and rhythmically. Air feels thick and heavy inside your chest, moving in and out without your permission.

You become aware of your body next.

Your mouth is being held open by a bite block. Something thick is lodged deep in your throat, pressing against the back of it. You try to swallow but you can’t. Your tongue is dry, glued to the tube.

Your heart stutters with confusion.

You can feel a feeding tube going from your nose into your stomach and a urinary catheter that tugs when you try to move your left leg. A blood pressure cuff is wrapped around your upper arm, and a pulse oximeter on your left index finger.There are multiple IV lines on your body. Two of them, one on your neck and one between your thigh and pubic area, feel larger than the others

Your eyes open.

Dim light. A ceiling with rounded tiles. A monitor glowing green beside you. Someone moving at the edge of your blurry vision.

You try to move your arm, but something is holding it down. You realize your wrists are restrained.

Your chest tightens, panic sliding hot and fast through your veins. You try to take a breath—but something else breathes for you. The machine forces air into your lungs in fixed, mechanical cycles. You try to inhale on your own—your body tries to—and immediately the forced air clashes with your effort.

Your breath becomes a jarring cough around the tube.

The monitor starts beeping louder.

A figure appears beside you instantly.

Nurse: “(your name)? Hey, sweetheart. Hi. You’re waking up. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Her hand settles gently on your forearm.

Nurse: “You’re in the ICU. You had trouble breathing last night. Your oxygen dropped too low, so we put a breathing tube in to help you. You’re on a ventilator now. It's a machine that breathes for you. Just try to stay calm for me, okay?”

You blink slowly, trying to process her words, but the tube forces air into your chest again. You try to exhale early, or hold your breath, but the ventilator overrides you. It's very uncomfortable and you start coughing.

Your body fights it. You don’t mean to, but you do.

Your head jerks. Your chest tightens. Tears prick your eyes.

Nurse (soothing, firm): “I know it feels uncomfortable. I know it’s scary. Don’t try to breathe over the machine. Let it do the work. You were very sick, and you’re still in critical condition. But you’re safe.”

She wipes your cheek gently. You hadn’t realized you were crying.

A few minutes pass as she adjusts your blankets and tighten your restraints.

Then your breathing becomes more difficult again. There's mucus building up in the breathing tube. Thick, wet, and stuck deeper than you can cough out. The ventilator alarms with a low, irritated tone.

Nurse: “Okay, (your name)… I hear that. You’ve got mucus in your tube. I’m going to suction you, alright? It’s uncomfortable, but it’ll be quick and it’ll help you breathe.”

You try to shake your head, but your body is weak, your neck heavy. The nurse reaches behind your pillow, steadying you so you can’t pull away.

Nurse: “I know… I know. Take a moment. I’m right here with you.”

You feel something disconnect near your mouth.

A pause.

Then a thin catheter slides down inside the breathing tube.

The sensation hits instantly—sharp pressure deep in your chest, an urge to cough so overwhelming it feels like drowning.

Your body spasms, trying to sit up, trying to get away from it. The restraints on your wrists pull tight as you instinctively reach for the tube.

Nurse: “Almost done—almost done. Stay with me, (your name)…”

A wet, sucking sound. Thick mucus rushing upward through the catheter.

Your chest releases. Air flows easier. The catheter slides out. You gasp around the tube, helpless and exhausted.

Nurse: “There we go. Better. That’s better.”

You sag back into the pillow, shaking. Your eyes blur again.

Her hand finds your shoulder, warm and steady.

Nurse: “You did really well. I know that was awful. But you’re doing a lot better. You're gonna be okay.”

Your heartbeat is still racing, your breathing uneven and panicked. She looks at the monitor, then back at you with a soft sigh.

Nurse: “You’re still too awake for how sick your lungs are. I’m going to give you something to help you rest, alright? Just to keep you comfortable and keep you from fighting the ventilator.”

You want to tell her yes. Everything hurts and you don't want to be awake right now. But your throat is full of plastic, and only a strained, muffled sound escapes you.

She gently squeezes your arm.

You hear the click of a syringe connecting to your IV line.

Then a cool rush spreads up your arm. Your vision softens at the edges. The room becomes heavy, slow, distant.

The nurse’s voice follows you as you sink back down, sinking into warmth and dark and quiet.

Nurse (fading): “Just sleep, (your name)… let us take care of you… you’re gonna be okay…”

The breaths from the ventilator become easier to tolerate. You stop trying to breathe out of sync with the machine. And then you drift off back to sleep.

Awake Intubation - Patient POV

Part 3

You barely register the voices around you anymore. Everything feels far away, blurred by exhaustion and lack of air. The ambu bag forces breath after breath into your lungs, too big, too fast, too loud.

A nurse squeezes your hand gently.

“(your name)… we’re going to try again. Deep breaths. You’re still with us.”

Someone lifts your chin, tilting your head back. Another nurse wipes the mucus and spit from your lips so the mask can seal properly.

“Preoxygenate her again. We need those sats up.”

The ambu bag compresses—harsh, rhythmic. The pressure fills your chest, forcing your ribs outward. You cough weakly into the mask, but the bag doesn’t stop.

Your vision flickers. Your fingers twitch.

A calm voice near your cheek whispers:

“You’re still doing so well, (your name). Almost there. Just stay with us.”

The nurse returns to your field of view—the one intubating you. Her eyes are focused, determined.

“Okay, (your name). Second attempt. Try not to move. We’re right here.”

The sedative makes your mind slow, but your body still panics.

Your head is positioned back. Your jaw is opened. The cold laryngoscope slides in.

Immediately your throat convulses.

You gag violently.

Your hands jerk upward before you even realize you’re moving. One of your fingers grazes the endotracheal tube she’s trying to insert.

“No, no—hands down!” a nurse says quickly, grabbing your wrist.

Another nurse takes your other arm.

But your body is fighting without permission—you reach toward your mouth again, desperate to get the metal out of your throat.

“She’s struggling—hold her, hold her—”

Hands press your arms down firmly against the bed.

“(your name), calm down. We need to get the tube in.”

The laryngoscope digs deeper, searching for the right angle. You feel the nurse adjusting it, lifting your tongue, tilting your head, trying to find your vocal cords. It feels like she’s prying your entire throat open.

Your gagging gets worse—your chest heaves, stomach spasms. Your legs kick. Someone holds them down.

“Restraints. Get the restraints on—quickly.”

You feel fabric straps sliding around your wrists. Your body shakes, coughing and retching around the metal.

Then—

“Lots of mucus again. I can’t see.”

A suction catheter slides in. The harsh slurping noise vibrates inside your airway. You gag hard enough that your eyes flood with tears.

“She’s losing oxygen. Pull out, bag her again.”

Suddenly the metal slides out of your mouth. The ambu mask seals over your face again.

Whoosh—air is forced in.

Whoosh—again.

Whoosh—again.

You cough into it, choking on leftover mucus.

Your restraints tighten fully—your wrists secured to the bedrails. Hands hold your legs down until the straps are fastened around your ankles too.

“She’s combative—secure her legs.”

“I’ve got them.”

“(your name), sweetie, I know this is awful. Deep breaths, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

The room spins every time they squeeze the bag. You can’t draw a breath on your own anymore. You feel yourself slipping under the weight of exhaustion.

“She’s getting weaker. We need to get the tube in this attempt.”

Someone strokes your cheek.

“We're almost done, (your name), Stay with us. We’re right here.”

---

Preoxygenation again.

Forced breaths.

Pressure, pain, coughing.

Your restraints pull tight as your body jerks with each bagged breath.

The nurse intubating you leans close.

“(your name), we’re going in. Stay as still as you can. I promise we’re almost done.”

Your head is tilted. The laryngoscope slides in again. You gag instantly, but you can’t reach for anything now, because the restraints are holding your arms down.

Your legs strain against their restraints as the nurse positions the blade deeper.

A second nurse steadies your head.

“I see it… almost… almost…”

Your throat feels like it’s being pried open. Mucus collects again. You cough hard around the metal.

“Suction. Quick.”

The catheter slurps fluid out of your airway. The nurse moves the laryngoscope slightly.

Then—

“I’ve got the cords—passing tube.”

You feel the endotracheal tube slide deep into your throat.

Your whole body convulses in a massive gag reflex.

You choke, cough, pull so hard on the restraints that the bed shakes under you.

“Inflate the cuff.”

A few seconds later, you hear the faint pfffft of the balloon inflating inside your airway.

"It’s in."

Air is immediately pushed through the tube, deep into your lungs. It feels wrong. Too forceful. Your throat spasms again.

Nurses steady you from both sides.

"The breathing tube is in. You did great, (your name). You’re okay. Breathe with it.”

They suction through the tube now—deep, invasive pulls that you feel inside your chest. Then they suction above it through your mouth. Your vision whites out from coughing.

Hands stroke your arms, your forehead, your shoulders.

“The hardest part is done. Just breathe. The tube is helping you now. You did so well.”

Someone attaches the ventilator tubing.

Click.

Click.

Hiss—whump—hiss—whump.

The ventilator takes over your breathing.

Your chest rises and falls in perfect machine rhythm.

You’re overwhelmed.

You try to pull your arms inward instinctively but the restraints hold.

Your legs twitch, trying to curl, but those straps hold too.

“It’s okay, honey. The restraints are just to keep you safe. Don’t fight the ventilator. Let it breathe for you.”

A doctor adjusts the ventilator settings.

“She’s very tight. Let’s start on volume control with lower tidal volume. Increase PEEP to support her oxygenation.”

“Agreed. We’ll titrate pressures once she settles.”

A nurse leans into your view again, brushing your damp hair from your forehead.

“(your name), you're on the ventilator now. I know it feels awful, but it’s saving your life. Try to let the machine breathe for you. Don’t try to breathe over it.”

You can’t answer. You can only stare, wide-eyed, tears soaking into the pillow.

“You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re in ICU now. We’re going to watch you very closely. You're not going to be left alone, we're here if anything happens, okay?"

Another nurse adds, gently:

“The next few days will be hard, but you’re not alone. You’ll rest, you’ll let the ventilator do the work, and we’ll take care of you every step of the way.”

Someone dims the lights a little. You feel sedatives being pushed into your veins.

The ventilator keeps breathing for you. And you finally stop fighting.

Awake Intubation - Patient POV

Part 2

Hands move across your body—not harsh, but quick, practiced. The alarms keep chiming, and the ambu bag continues forcing air into your lungs in sharp, mechanical rhythm.

A nurse leans into your field of view, her voice steady but urgent.

“(your name), we need to intubate you soon. Before that, we need to get you fully set up for ICU care. You’re very sick. Stay as calm as you can. Try not to move.”

You try to nod, but another breath is pushed into you and your head lifts slightly with the pressure.

“We need two more IV sites. She’s going to need drips.”

“I’ll take right arm. You take left.”

Your arms are gently positioned outward. Alcohol swabs. Gloves. The sting of needles. You flinch, but your body is too exhausted to pull away.

“Good job, (your name). Hold still, sweetheart. I’m almost done.”

Your oxygen mask is lifted briefly so they can pass tubing for the NGT suction. A sudden cold sensation blooms deep in your throat and stomach as they connect it to suction.

A nurse explains softly, as if noticing your panic:

“We’re draining your stomach, okay? For the intubation. It’ll help prevent vomiting and help us see. You’ll feel the suction, but it’s normal.”

You feel it—like something tugging, pulling hollow inside your chest and abdomen. It’s uncomfortable, unnatural, but you can barely focus before another forced breath from the ambu bag fills your lungs.

A different nurse crouches close to your face while taping your new IV.

“We’re giving you some medication now—just enough to relax you. You won’t be fully asleep, but it’ll help you tolerate the procedure.”

Your vision slows around the edges. Not gone. Not even blurry. Just… heavier.

Someone changes the Foley bag. You feel the tug, the shift, the click of plastic. More hands adjusting you, lifting the sheet, pulling new tubing into place.

“Vitals?”

“Heart rate 138. Sats 85 on bagging.”

“Keep bagging. We need her as oxygenated as possible.”

A soft hand rests on your shoulder.

“(your name), we’re almost ready to place the breathing tube. Try to keep your body still. You’re doing really well.”

You don’t feel like you’re doing wel, not with the way your chest keeps fighting the rhythm of the bag. But you keep trying.

---

The ambu bag forces deeper breaths into you, one after another, faster than you can naturally take. They tilt your chin up. Someone else fits a mask tightly, the seal perfect, and the air comes harder.

“Give her full volumes.”

“I am. Hold that head position.”

Your heart pounds under your ribs. The room feels too bright.

The nurse who will intubate you steps into your line of sight, gloved, eyes focused.

“Okay, (your name). We’ve given you a light sedative. You’re still breathing on your own, which is good. We’re going to put the breathing tube in. Try your best not to fight it. Don’t bite. Don’t grab anything. Just breathe and follow the bag.”

Her hand rests briefly on your cheek, grounding you.

“You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Then she picks up the laryngoscope.

---

Your head is tilted further back. A hand supports it, keeping you still.

“Open your mouth for me, (your name). That’s it… good…”

The laryngoscope slides in. Cold metal. Your tongue is pushed down. Your throat spasms instantly.

You gag hard.

Your whole body jerks.

A nurse at your side whispers urgently:

“It’s okay, it’s okay, we're breathing for you.”

The intubating nurse peers inside, voice tight with concentration.

“There’s a lot of mucus. Suction.”

A suction catheter slips in alongside the metal blade. A harsh slurping noise fills your throat. You retch again, harder.

Your fingers grip the bed sheets so tightly your knuckles ache. Tears spill from your eyes. The sedative keeps you from panicking outwardly, but your body trembles helplessly.

A nurse squeezes your hand.

“Good girl, (your name). Keep holding still. We’ve got you.”

The laryngoscope tilts. The nurse guides the endotracheal tube in.

Your throat closes reflexively, gagging so violently you gag up spit, stomach acid, then nothing—your stomach is nearly empty from suctioning.

Your muscles shake with the effort. The nurse continues threading the tube deeper.

Someone calls out:

“Check placement.”

The bagging pauses. A stethoscope presses to your chest.

“I’m hearing stomach. Not lungs.”

“Tube’s in the esophagus. Pull it.”

The tube slides out. The motion triggers another intense gag. You vomit - nothing comes out but saliva and a thin trickle of yellow.

You cough, dry-heave, gasp.

Hands move quickly.

“Mask back on. Bagging.”

The ambu bag seals over your face again. Air is forced in harder this time. You choke against it, but you can’t stop it. You’re too weak to resist.

A nurse wipes your mouth gently, voice quiet and urgent.

“You did so well. I know that was awful. We’re going to try again, okay? We’re giving you a little more oxygen first. Just breathe with the bag for us.”

You start to cry, but suddenly the ambu bag forces more air into your lungs.

You hear the staff regrouping:

“Sats 82. Preoxygenate again.”

“Reset equipment. More suction ready.”

“Let’s give her a minute to recover.”

Hands stroke your forehead, your arm.

“You’re okay. Keep breathing. We’re not leaving you.”

The ambu bag rises and falls steadily above you. Your body feels cold. Your throat is burning. Your body is shaking knowing that they’re about to try again.

Awake Intubation - Patient POV

Part 1

You wake with a jolt of panic.

There isn’t enough air.

You try to inhale, but it feels like someone is squeezing your lungs with cold, relentless hands. Every breath burns. Every breath is too shallow. You claw instinctively at the oxygen mask on your face as your chest heaves.

(your SO) is standing beside your hospital bed in the regular ward, his voice sharp with fear.

“Nurse! Someone, please! She can’t breathe!”

You try again to draw air, but your body won’t cooperate. The room tilts. The edges of your vision pulse black.

Footsteps rush in. Two nurses, then more.

“Her sats are dropping. Eighty-two… seventy-nine…”

Someone lifts your chin. Someone else adjusts your oxygen flow. A hand touches your shoulder.

“(your name), look at me,” a nurse says, firm and close to your ear. “You’re not getting enough oxygen. We’re helping you, okay? Stay with us.”

You nod, but another wave of suffocation sweeps through you. Your back arches involuntarily as you gasp.

A doctor enters, voice low and decisive.

“We need to transfer her to ICU. She’s tiring out. Get the ambu bag, she’s not getting enough air.”

Your oxygen mask is lifted away. Immediately the sensation of drowning intensifies.

A larger mask replaces it. Hard plastic, tight against your cheeks.

“(your name), deep breaths if you can.” a respiratory therapist says.

Her hands squeeze the ambu bag, forcing air into your lungs. It’s too much, too fast, but the pressure opens something inside you and you choke in a breath.

You try to raise your hand toward the mask—startled by the sudden, forced breaths—but a nurse catches your wrist gently but firmly.

“No, sweetheart. Hands down. Leave the mask. Let us help you breathe.”

She guides your arm back onto the bedrail and keeps her hand over yours so you can’t reach again.

Alarms go off. Your monitor beeps erratically. Numbers you can’t fully see or understand flash.

“Get her IV pump unplugged. Foley’s secure. NGT stays in. Grab the portable O2 and monitor.”

“Bagging at twelve a minute. She’s still working.”

“Let’s move.”

The room becomes a flurry of motion around you. Equipment is unhooked, switched to portable versions, pushed alongside your bed. A nurse leans close to your ear as everything starts moving.

“(your name), we’re taking you to ICU now, okay? They’re going to help your breathing. You’re doing really well. Stay awake for us.”

Your bed jerks forward. The room slides sideways. The ambu bag hisses and whooshes in harsh rhythm with your gasps.

(your SO) moves beside you, walking quickly, face pale.

“I’m right here, love. They’re going to take care of you. I’m right here.”

Another nurse keeps bagging you as the bed rolls down the hallway. Her arm rises and falls steadily, forcing breaths into your starving lungs. Each one feels too big, too invasive—but also the only thing keeping you alive.

You hear voices as you pass open doors.

“Oh my god, is she okay?”

You want to close your eyes but the panic keeps them wide, burning.

The nurse on your right keeps talking softly.

“(your name), when we get to ICU, they’ll take over right away. They’re going to put a breathing tube in and put you on a ventilator. It's a machine that helps you breathe. You’re very sick, but you’re in the right place. Just focus on your breathing, okay?”

Another breath is squeezed into you. You cough weakly against the mask, but there’s no pause in the rhythm.

“Almost there, (your name). Just a little longer.”

The doors open with a heavy click. The lighting changes—brighter, colder. More voices.

“ICU team ready? Bed incoming! Respiratory distress, severe hypoxia.”

“Got it. Bring her in. What’s her sats?”

“Eighty-two on bagging. Very fatigued.”

Hands immediately surround you again. The ICU nurse takes over bagging with stronger, faster compressions.

The air forced into your lungs now makes your chest rise sharply. Too sharply. You try to cough around it, but you can’t.

“We need her over to the ICU bed. On three—one, two, three.”

Your body lifts and shifts. The sheets are cold under your back. Someone adjusts the head of the bed, raising it.

The new nurse leans close, her eyes sharp but kind.

“(your name), honey, listen to me. You’re not keeping your oxygen up. You're too unstable for sedation, so we have to intubate you while you're awake.”

Awake.

You freeze, lungs burning.

Her voice softens but stays urgent.

“Your oxygen is too low to safely sedate you right now. If we put you to sleep first, your breathing could stop before we get the tube in. So we need to place the breathing tube while you’re still awake enough to keep breathing with us. We’re going to help you—just follow our instructions.”

Another forceful breath is squeezed into your lungs. You cough, gag, gasp.

A hand squeezes yours.

“You’re doing so well, (your name). We’re right here.”

The room buzzes with activity—laryngoscope metal clinks, suction is set up, medications drawn but not used yet.

“Okay. We preoxygenated her. Let’s get started.”

The nurse speaks one more time, right next to your ear.

“(your name)… we’re going to put the tube in now. Stay with us. Deep breaths. You’re safe.”

Your vision blurs at the edges as gloved hands guide your chin upward and the bright laryngoscope light fills your eyes.

Please keep sharing pictures your collection and what you like about medical play.

Don’t let any of the pushy creeps get to you- I always hope to keep this community safe for people to share and engage with the fetid regardless of how involved you are with it.