Veterinary Medicine- It's really not that bad!

Lately, I have been interested to note that there are numerous angsty posts circulating on various social media websites regarding my chosen profession. Most of them are rather gloomy and strive desperately to convince the reader that the life of an everyday veterinarian or veterinary technician/assistant/receptionist is HARD! They go on about the various difficulties we face, including the owner who blames you for their pet's illness, those who accuse you of being a money-grubbing heartless wonder, unexpected anesthetic death situations, heart-rending illnesses, etc. I am of the impression that the writers tend to be relatively new to this profession, and are suffering the disillusionment that can come with almost any career after one has been at it for a few years.

A common thread that I sense throughout most of these posts is the "you don't know how hard my job is" thread. I read the posts and nod knowingly, having experienced virtually ALL of the disastrous scenarios presented. I feel the pain and distress of the writers, and can empathize with each and every one of them. It is all true- there is no denying that sometimes this is a pretty tough profession to feel like you are making a difference. However, what I keep coming back to is that in spite of all that, I still enjoy my profession. I felt like I should really post a counterpoint to the other posts that are out there, pointing out that in every day that I work, something heartwarming, affirming, magical, comforting, sobering, strengthening, or otherwise amazing occurs. The key is to be looking for it.

Let me point out a few examples from the past few days here at our hospital- I have changed the names of pet and owner, but the situations are real.
As I think back, the first thing that comes to mind is the situation of "Noah" and "Pam", a dog and owner combination that forever strengthened my belief in the amazing thing we call the human-animal bond. Noah was (yes, he's passed-on now) perhaps the OLDEST yellow lab I have ever encountered in practice. He wasn't just chronologically old, either; he EXUDED old. Each time he came to the clinic, which was frequently, the first hint that he was there was the sound of the nails of his hind legs dragging across the tile floor, occasionally punctuated by the THUMP of him losing his balance and dropping to his side for a moment before gamely scrambling back up and soldiering on. The first thing you noticed when you came in the room with Noah, however, was his RADIANCE. To look at him, he was just an old, thin, muscle-wasted yellow lab, but you almost wouldn't see these things because of the feeling you got from him. His wise old eyes would look up at you, his thin old tail would wag madly back and forth, and he'd sashay right across the room to my stool, pausing to avidly sniff both of my pant legs. If he turned too quickly, he'd unceremoniously collapse in his hindquarters, but the light in his eyes never dimmed. No matter how badly my day had gone, Noah could make up in 30 seconds for ten or fifteen of the distressing situations explained so touchingly in other blog posts.

For the last year of his life, Noah had profound weakness and neurologic deficit in his hindquarters. He often had accidents in the house, and occasionally fell down the stairs when the owner let up her vigilance. Nevertheless, in true Noah form, his smile never dimmed. When Noah's time came, it was, of course, on a weekend after hours. He came in to the clinic recumbent in cardiovascular collapse. Every parameter we could measure was abnormal, and he could barely hold his head up, but his tail continued to wag with any mention of his name or any attention paid to him. Pam knew this was the end, and together we helped him slip away. As I withdrew the euthanasia solution syringe from his IV catheter, and saw the sweet old tail finally lie still, I thought, "It could take me a lifetime to quantify the lessons I learned from one sweet old dog", and that has proven to be true.

Another situation presented itself today that reminded me of the joy of this job. "Jane" and her cat "Sampson" came for a visit. Sampson has become a huge, fluffy, shiny picture of health- a far cry from nearly 3 years ago when he was suffering from uncontrolled diabetes, profound allergic skin disease, and a lingering upper-respiratory infection acquired as a kitten. At that time he had lost a significant amount of weight, his hair was coming out in patches, his blood glucose was over 600 (a person would be in a coma at that level) and his eyes were dull and uncaring. All he could think of was to get off my exam table in the most expedient way possible. Now, after thousands of dollars, and millions of prayers, hugs, and sleepless nights, he is the picture of health. He sat smugly on my exam table, confident in the fact that his owner would do anything in her power to assure his comfort. As the reigning authority figure in the room, he allowed my exam, and even appeared to appreciate the head scruffles and belly rubs he got as a reward.

Jane and Sampson have taught me so much about dedication and devotion, as well as reminding me to really THINK about each patient. I remember many an evening spent musing about Sampson's condition, oftentimes without coming to any real conclusion as to how best to proceed. As is the case so often in medicine, it was one of the last options tried that was the key to his recovery. Numerous literature searches since have yet to reveal a similar case to his, and yet it is clear that his improvement appears to be permanent. THAT, my friends, is the reason I love this profession.

Perhaps another thing that is often overlooked in the course of everyday veterinary work is the human connections we make with our clients. Virtually all of my close friends were first good clients. We have laughed, cried, grieved, and rejoiced together. Our relationships have changed, grown, evolved, and sometimes faded with each passing pet. I think that some of the most gratifying moments for me are the thank you cards from those who have lost a pet companion of so many years, expressing their gratitude for all we did. This feeling is surpassed by the next time I see them, typically with a new, squirming, completely untrained, wild-eyed, tail wagging bundle of fur that will become our next great mutual adventure. I've been in this profession long enough now that I commonly am seeing the third or fourth iteration of pet companion for my friends. I am seeing the pets of their GRANDCHILDREN, and I am commonly giving one long last hug and pat on the head to the old dog or cat that I first saw as that squirming bundle of fur on my exam table fourteen or fifteen years ago. It is a solemn responsibility, and yet such a privilege. I so appreciate that opportunity; to see an entire life well-lived, and to be there at the conclusion. For me, the parting really is such sweet sorrow- I picture all those years, all those exams, (all those rectal thermometers!) and the conversations had with the owner. I see the adult child there, holding the hand of a grieving parent, and remember them as the six-year-old they were when the pet was young. Our pets provide such a microcosm of our own lives...lives lived in fast-forward, so to speak. Sometimes when I come home, I see my own children, playing with my own pets, doing homework, practicing music, putting away dishes, and the poignancy of the moment just brings back my experiences of the day. Hopefully it is at that time that they get an extra hug, a pat on the back, or simply a tickle on my way by.

Is there a lesson in this message? I certainly hope so. For me, it is that my profession gives me 15-20 opportunities every day to experience LIFE. Sometimes it isn't pretty, oftentimes it is smelly, depressing, and a bit sad, but the thrilling thing is that each time that exam room door opens, it will be DIFFERENT. I try to remind myself that there is no such thing as "just another vaccine appointment", and that these amazing patients and owners are each a brilliant star in the cosmos of life, all at different stages. The lessons I learn when I take the time to see them in that way are endless. Life is good!