04/29/2022
I’m not crying….😢
What a Vet Does (anon)
You’d booked to see me ‘cos you remembered me from a few years ago. Your dog still has a chronic problem, you were clearly worried, but there was something you weren’t saying. We took your dog out for a walk, to ‘trot him up and see him move’, but mainly to get outside to the bench in the practice garden; open air and privacy often helps people share. We walked out, past my next couple of appointments in the waiting room, we sat and I listened. Yes, the dog’s weight is a problem. Your wife feels sorry for the dog, as she has arthritis too. She feeds treats to make him feel better. You’re worried about her; she’s fallen to a different method of coping, its causing rows but recently you’ve got her to switch from brandy at least to wine, which you think must be at least a little better for her but you’re still really worried. How you needed to tell somebody that, and you remembered that I’d listened and helped when I saw you before. We talk a little more; nothing earth shattering but it seems to help to know that it’s a common problem, and there is help around. We’re going to meet up again in a few weeks, for another ‘check-up’. I know we’ll get out to sit on the bench again; I’ll try to make sure to leave some time afterwards so I don’t run late, but it often gets booked up. I’ll apologise to those who wait, and hope they understand though I can't explain, it was necessary.
Your pet doesn’t need to see me. Hasn’t done the last half dozen visits, but I still keep asking you back. He was a retirement puppy, bought for you and your husband; the walks and trips you’d enjoy together. If I’m honest, a giant breed wasn’t the greatest choice but I can also agree, he’s hell of a cute. It was your husband’s decision, finally; he always made all the big decisions. And then suddenly, cruelly swiftly, he was no longer there: so now it’s you and your puppy, now a hulking lad; he’s gone lame. You show me a picture of your husband’s gravestone; you talk fast but quietly, in sudden rushes; you apologise frequently for sharing; each time I say please don’t worry. You’re wading through grief’s swamp, and your conversation comes in bursts like you’re breaking the surface for a gasp of air. Your walls have closed in, you find journeys difficult; but you’ll do whatever your pup needs. And – when you come up with him, you carry on and visit your daughter with her new-born child. We maybe do a little physio, with time sometimes the nurses see you. You become a regular fixture, fortnightly at least. The screensaver on the front of your phone switches from a gravestone to a first birthday cake. That’s the real progress we wanted to see.
Your pet is also a puppy. The list of problems is long. Ever so long. Some we can fix, some we can help, some would always be there, and unfortunately will worsen with time. The costs of what treatment could be done would impact your family deeply, and it’s not for us to encourage you into financial difficulty. With the best will in the world, and even with every box ticked, discomfort would always remain. It’s my job to break that news to you; sat on the floor with a friendly, furry, panting face between us. And not just to transfer a grim rucksack of facts, but to help you grasp it without guilt, to help you reach your own conclusion, to reassure you I’d make the same choice (I would) and then, amidst all that emotion, to deliver my clinical skills that will bring that sweet puppy to rest from its pain. I’m professional throughout, that’s what you need from me, and I’ve got a job to do, one I’ve done a thousand times before. But when we’ve closed the door behind you, after the nurse has taken your pup’s body away, my private tears flow: released with no stopping; intensely for a few moments. The tissues aren’t just for the clients, but we don’t let our emotions get in the way or go on parade.
Why is the bill so expensive? Trust me, I wish it was lower. I want to repair this fracture, every part of me screams ‘let me fix it’. I trained for this, I’m good at this, I love doing this, that x-ray looks simply horrid, broken bones are a vulgar, violent, picture of pain, but look beautiful with a repair. So now I feel like a firefighter stood at the foot of a ladder, ready to do what’s needed: but waiting for a credit card swipe before climbing. And that makes me feel rotten inside. And actually, the bill isn’t expensive – it’s as low as we can make it to be. But nurses need wages and lights need electricity and the hundred costs of running a business may not be there up front for all to see. You chose not to take out insurance, yet you want the best for your pet. I understand both those decisions, that you’ve made, but the consequences are now in front of us and the decisions, you must understand, weren’t mine.
No, you don’t mind me asking, about that patch upon your leg. It’s a daft story really, I feel asleep on the electric blanket, itched like hell for a couple of days but it’s stopped now, in fact I can’t feel the surface at all now. I put on these shorts ‘cos it’s oozed a wee bit. ‘Stubborn old goat won’t go to the doctor!’ your wife chips in. Now I’m in no way a doctor, despite the initials on the door. But I do know some stuff and I hold your eye contact and I talk to you straight and I drag from you a promise, a proper promise. Your wife looks relieved and grateful. That afternoon she calls the practice, just to let us know. You’ve been admitted on intravenous antibiotics, they say you’re going to be OK. The receptionist passes on your message and your thank you. It meant a lot to me.
Blue felt tip on a folded card, mum’s explanation of the squiggles below, with a handwritten note on the other page. Your little daughter is autistic, she finds vet visits very hard, but she has to come along in the middle of the day and knows something is wrong with her pet. So in the consultation, when I gave her the plastic model bones, knelt down and explained to her what we were going to do, and how it would help, and checked she was happy for me to do that – it made everything easier for mum too.
Your son is agoraphobic, wheelchair bound since the crash broke his spine. This dog is his special companion; a special and deep bond has formed. But that one instant, when he dashed through an open door with his neighbouring companion has brought a tragedy on the road. There’s no word but cruel for the injury: a spinal fracture, paralysis starting. You’d call it ‘far-fetched’ if this was the script of a drama, but this is the reality now. Yes, we can repair the fracture. No, we don’t know what the future holds: each spinal injury is different, but there is a good chance of recovery. Let’s proceed. Generally, the backstory is left at the operating theatre door: there’s only a patient, a procedure and a team within, and so it should be. This time, you were all with me in theatre, like a background beat in a loud barn. I wasn’t just performing a procedure, I was trying to fix a family, and that responsibility bore heavily down upon me. The post-op radiographs looked fine; I phoned as relieved as you with the news. Spinal recoveries take time: every few days a little bit more. Your son felt able to come to the discharge, his pet toddled towards him. I remember your joy as a family- all patients are special but hell, we’re allowed some to be the most special of all.
Vets are good at keeping quiet about this stuff. We’re posting this anonymously. It goes on in every single practice. Sometimes those conversations are over stable doors, farm gates, or consult tables. Sometimes they make a massive difference, but you won’t hear about them at all. None of these are made up, invented or embellished. They won’t appear on practice newsletters, or social media posts. They might be talked about in staff-rooms, or across an op table whilst our hands are working away. Hopefully colleagues will share them, rather than carry them alone, but that isn’t always the case either. These tales are all part of what a vet does; what they carry alongside them within.
So, if your vet runs a bit late, you can’t get a convenient appointment, the fee seems a stretch or whatever it is – please cut them a wee bit of slack.
There’s a lot going on in a vet’s life, and its not just the pets we fix.
