06/25/2025
The Things I Never Document.
They ask for notes.
TPR. Meds. Treatments.
Heart rate at 8:00 a.m.
Flunixin given at noon.
Breathing Treatment at 2:00 p.m.
Catheter flushed at 4:00 p.m.
But there’s no place in the chart
for the tremble in my hands
as I comforted a c**t
too young to understand
why his dam wouldn’t stand up again.
No checkbox for the silent moments
spent in the stall,
my hand resting on a sweat-soaked shoulder,
waiting for a heartbeat
to either return
or fade for good.
They ask me to note lameness,
but not the ache in my own bones
as I lifted another heavy limb
while watching hope drain
from an owner’s tired eyes.
I record swelling. Drainage. Wound scores.
But not the hours I spent brushing and washing out a tangled mane,
because she hadn’t let anyone near her in days—
until I just sat. Quiet. Patient. Present.
There’s no line for the quiet way
a gelding dropped his head into my chest
when sedation took hold—
as if to say
“I’m scared, but I trust you.”
I sign off procedures.
Not the stories.
Not the way I whispered,
“Good girl,”
a hundred times
while the IV drip fought against colic pain.
I document sedation,
but not the way I held her head
as her legs gave out—
because the end had come,
and someone had to be there
to love her through it.
The system wants numbers.
Temperature. Gut sounds. CRT.
But it never asks
how many times I’ve blinked back tears
just to stay steady with the needle.
Or how many long walks
I’ve taken at dusk
beside horses I wasn’t sure would see the dawn.
Because being an equine nurse
isn’t just dosing and bandaging.
It’s witnessing.
It’s patience.
It’s honoring the silent contracts
between horse and human,
between pain and healing.
So if you ask me what I do,
know this:
Yes, I take vitals.
Yes, I treat wounds.
But I also hold space.
For fear.
For release.
I also bear witness.
To life.
To death.
To pain.
To resilience.
I am an Equine Veterinary Nurse.
And the truest parts of my work
will never be documented.
📸 Bailey Andrews
