Wellness

Remember that time that you needed me to help out you and your pet and I didn’t do it? I remember that too. I think about it from time to time, and not just when I see you on the street or I’m looking at reviews on Yelp.

I think about it whenever I feel that dark urge to find something to beat myself up about. I remember it when I’m tired and things aren’t going well and I decide to really punish myself by mentally reviewing all the times I just couldn’t pull out a win.

You were really upset. You said if I cared about pets, I’d keep the clinic open late and I wouldn’t charge so much money. I did everything I could to get the care your pet needed as affordably as possible, but I told you I couldn’t do what you were asking for this time. So you told me — and others, whoever would listen — that I’m greedy and that I hurt your faith in humanity.

You know, it hurts to see someone telling one side of an emotional story without being able to add the other side. Especially online, people can be quick to offer support to someone they perceive as a victim of injustice. They grab their pitchforks and head to their keyboards to exact revenge, oblivious to the full truth of the situation.

I’m not here to give you excuses for why I couldn’t do what you wanted, or to try to convince you to change your emotions. I’m genuinely sorry that you and your innocent pet were ever in a situation where you needed to ask for help. Please know I wouldn’t judge anyone in that position, and I understand how hard things can get. My heart breaks for the fear and stress you felt when I explained what I could and couldn’t do to help. It always breaks.

I could give you an endless list of all the times I’ve sacrificed my time, money, health and relationships with friends and family to go as far as I could to help all those I could. I could cry trying to explain how much I care about my patients and how painful it is not to have endless power and resources to fix all that’s wrong with them.

I could walk you through all the costs involved in keeping our clinic open and making payroll for the people who work here — arguably underpaid for what they do — giving it all they have. I can lament the fact that, unlike in hospitals for humans, there are no government programs to support medical care for pets when their families can’t pay the bill.

You might have heard that my profession has a serious problem with depression, compassion fatigue, and burnout. You might even know that veterinarians are more likely to commit suicide than almost any other group. I know that doesn’t change the frustration you feel, but maybe it helps make clear how hard these ethical decisions are for most of us, and how seriously we take what we do.

There’s a long list of reasons that I couldn’t do what you wanted me to do that time. The one that matters most is that I need to help as many families as I can, and that means sustaining myself and those who work with me.

You needed me one time. Just this once! It’s the only time in your life your pet has needed an expensive surgery or ongoing medication or intensive care. It was only one time, and I couldn’t make it happen.

The miserable truth is that it’s not one time for me or for the people I work with. It’s several times every day. Daily, we are begged to take exceptional measures for a pet in need. Daily, we have to make choices about how we can and can’t help the endless tide of animals who come in without the money or time needed to care for them. Daily, the animals come, and we do what we can for them and the people who bring them, whether they’re from the shelter, the farm, the college dorm or beside the highway.

But there is no magical, endless well from which veterinarians can draw. We can’t be a bottomless source of time and discounted or free care. No one can.

I don’t plan to stop trying to help people and pets. So if I’m going to keep this up, there will have to be times when I have to draw a line. I can’t help pets if my clinic goes out of business (and yes, we’d go out of business in a matter of days if we said yes to everyone’s “just this once”).

I can’t be compassionate when I’m depressed and my soul is threadbare. I can’t feed others when my cupboard is bare, and I can’t give them water when my own cup is empty.

I’m going to help as many as I can, as best I can. That means there will be some times when I have to step away so that I can keep moving forward. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you the one time you needed me, but as I prepare to head back to a job that I still find reward in and have resolve to do, I can’t regret my decision.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.

Last week I experienced the worst day of my career. Actually, it rivals the worst day of my life.

It was my first week back from vacation. My old kitty, Meow Meow, had been in boarding during the holidays. When I got her home, she didn’t seem quite right. She wasn’t eating or drinking very well for a couple of days, and she was weirdly clingy. Although I chalked it up to stress, I decided to bring her into the hospital for blood work and IV fluids.

It was an unusually slow morning. Technicians and assistants were puttering around, chatting. There was only one extensive dental procedure lined up, so I decided to get the ball rolling with Meow Meow. I examined her, drew blood, collected urine, and placed an IV catheter. I asked one of our technicians to prepare a bag of LRS. She hung up the bag, and proceeded to get a cage ready. I looked up to see a full bag of LRS, with fluid sitting in the drip chamber, all ready to go; or so I thought. I grabbed the line which had been draped over the hook, connected it to her port, and opened the crank. Something wasn’t right about the way it dripped; I looked at the technician holding Meow Meow and we realized simultaneously, the line wasn’t primed. She swiftly pulled it out, but it was too late. Meow Meow got a line full of air. She died. Almost instantly. CPR failed. Her tiny little body couldn’t survive that.

I was shattered. I screamed and wailed over her dead body in the treatment room. How could this have happened? How could a bag have been spiked, a drip chamber filled, and the line not primed? Why didn’t I check it? Why MY cat? Why didn’t I get that bag ready myself, as I normally do? Why did I bring her in? I should have left her at home. She probably would have been fine.

My husband and I took her to the crematorium. I cried for a long while, clutching her wee body tightly in my arms. I apologized to her for allowing this mistake to happen, to take her life. I thanked her for all the joy she brought me through the years and hoped that she enjoyed her life with us.

I took a couple of days off work to grieve and lament. I requested the owners of the practice call a meeting to review protocol; to remind the team that careless medical practice is a recipe for disaster; to bring some justice for Meow Meow. I came back to find out that nothing was said or done. Instead, it was swept under the rug, like so many other things have been in the past. Oh, and Meow Meow’s test results were normal too.

Meow Meow died because of sloppy work. I wish I could tell you there was a reason this distraction occurred; that we were super busy and it happened in a moment of chaos. However, there is absolutely no excuse for it.

It is my hope that in sharing this story, I can remind those in the veterinary community that vigilance must always be practiced. Systems must be in place to prevent errors. We must always check each other’s work. We must constantly remind ourselves that this is serious work, as lives are hanging in the balance. We can do better. Some of us need this reminder more than others.

It is my hope that Meow Meow’s story will save a life.

Editor’s Note: This piece broke my heart, as a pet lover and as a colleague. The author’s admonition to learn from her mistakes is a loving testament to her beloved pet. I also hope as a community we know the importance of being gentle with ourselves when mistakes happen, which they, unfortunately, do to us all. 

One story circling social media is “The Story of Two Wolves.” In this story, a boy walks with an elder and begins telling of a struggle. Two wolves are fighting within him. The first wolf is made up of all negative emotions; anger, hate, ego, and maliciousness.

The second wolf encompasses positive emotion; love, kindness, compassion and empathy. The boy asks his elder which wolf will survive. The elder simply replies, “The one you feed.”

Deep stuff right there. A wonderful story to remind us that our energy contributes to our emotions. But if you’re not into philosophical musings because you are busy in real life, I would like to break this down for you.

These wolves do not just represent our human emotions. They represent small situations we deal with every day. The evil wolves of vet med can be an angry client, coworkers who treat you like crap, 1-star ratings, or a toxic environment.

The good wolf is the client who brings you donuts, the parvo puppy going home after hospitalization, a coworker who teaches you or learning something new. Any life situation or clinic situation has their own versions of evil and good.

So now let’s talk about feeding them. We’ve all had our victories. Seeing a patient who was critically ill respond to treatment walk out the door is one of the most amazing feelings in the world. In those moments we feel like we created magic and our faith in goodness is restored. But it’s fleeting at times.

We experience it and then we move on. We talk to our family about it with dinner. But then the day ends, and we forget about it to a degree.

We all have that one client. The one who doesn’t want to comply with recommendations and is downright rude to the staff. A client who seems to enjoy talking down to others and completely ignoring any attempt to help their pet. The client who gets the team in a tizzy and then staff needs to vent. So, they talk about how awful this person is or how rude they are. And then, one more staff member joins in and then another.

Now we have a full-on venting session that has taken up a huge chunk of our time and no one has left feeling any better.

What wolf do you feed? Do you feed the wolf who encourages, is kind or makes you realize you have the best job in the world? Or do you feed the wolf who leaves you feeling angry, irritated and losing your faith in humanity? Which one do you talk about more? Who do you think of when your head hits the pillow at night?

When we deal with these wolves, it is so important to remember that we get to choose how we feel. We can look at our victories, our amazing work, or our little moments of happiness. Or we can focus on the inconveniences and problems we deal with every day.

We choose where we invest our energy and where we invest it is important in getting through this crazy world of vet med. The battle will always be there.  Look for your blessings and remember that we determine what wolf lives in us.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the DrAndyRoark.com editorial team.