Sentences with phrase «other systemic signs»

Pemphigus / SLO as it occurs in the greyhound involves the nails only, there are no other systemic signs - though there may certainly be a poor appetite and / or lethargy associated with the chronic pain.

Not exact matches

A baby with a systemic bacterial or yeast infection (including thrush), may also develop diaper rash so be sure to check in with doctor if you baby has a diaper rash that isn't improving in 3 to 4 days or if baby shows any other signs of illness, as these types of diaper rash may require more specialized over the counter or prescription treatments.

The therapy was found to have an acceptable safety profile in all patients, with no clinical or laboratory signs of systemic cytokine release syndrome, a potentially serious toxicity that has been observed in other CAR trials.

Lymph nodes will be enlarged if the fibrosarcoma has metastasized to them and systemic signs may be obvious if other organs are involved.

In severe or acute cases, there is often respiratory distress, an abnormal heart rhythm, muffled heart and lung sounds and other signs of systemic shock.

Routine blood work to rule out a systemic problem and assess the anesthetic risk better able to identify fluid build up, swelling, cysts, bleeding ad other subtle soft tissue changes inside the brain and therefore an MRI is a better able to identify fluid build up, swelling, cysts, bleeding ad other subtle soft tissue changes inside the brain and therefore an MRI is a better tool, especially if the dog has signs of brainstem or cerebellar disease, or if it is a breed of dog that is predisposed to gliomas, such as the Boston terrier.

In cats with signs of urinary tract inflammation, blood work is evaluated to check kidney function and to determine if there is any evidence of infection or other systemic illnesses.

Dermal signs (skin), along with other systemic symptoms, which are associated with different allergic reactions, mainly characterize these allergies.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,