Wellness

“You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of.  You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.” Philosopher Albert Camus.

The plan was so clear when I was in my early 20’s and the comfort that came from that certainty was amazing.  I knew exactly where I needed to go and had a very specific detailed “Plan”.  I’m an organizer and I had organized my life to my end goal, or so I thought.

I approached each challenge like a mountain to climb, where each mountain was to lead me to my civilization, a place called happiness.  With my hiking boots on, backpack full of supplies, and walking stick in hand, I started on that clearly mapped trek.  At the summit of each mountain, I knew exactly which mountain to tackle next.

Undergrad, acceptance to vet school, complete first year of vet school, then second year, externships, etc.  With time, more peaks began to rise in front of me providing me with directions to go away from the clearly mapped trek.  At first it was clear the direction to follow, in time the direction became hazy.

Over time the supplies in my backpack dwindled, the stick broke some where back on mountain 8, and there I stood, at the top of yet another mountain with no idea which way civilization was.   In that moment I realized I create civilization, and that meant civilization was where ever I stood on whatever mountain I was on in that moment.

Making camp and holding my own during difficult weather or when drinking water was sparse, was not easy.  But in time I found others to camp with and I realized, I am not alone and the reality is that there is no “plan”.  It is just me and my civilization, that I create as I walk forward.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll gladly take on a difficult hike up a new mountain and at times I may have to hunker down for a wicked snowstorm.  The difference is today I embrace the struggle, because I know the struggle is the path to my happiness. The “plan” is vague, and that is okay.  Reality is hard and in fact can suck at times, and that is okay too.

I’m content because I have a vision in mind, and this vision is nothing like I’m mindlessly running around a mountain range with no clothes on hoping I don’t die of exposure.  The path is not a “plan” but in fact the one I choose, and now I enjoy civilization along the way.

Another way to look at the mountains is the concept of The Backwards Law noted by philosopher Alan Watts (The Wisdom of Insecurity published in 1951).  The more effort we put into climbing those mountains to find civilization, the farther the civilization is to us.  In other words the harder we work to find happiness, the more unhappy we become. As you dig into this concept Watts shares we can see that pain is a way that can lead us to having a better awareness of a more desirable path, however without the pain we do not know the path to contentment.

Each mountain along the way has both negative and positive aspects.  In order to continue toward the peak of a mountain or relax into a valley, we must embrace them both.  The beautiful open meadow with freshwater is easy to embrace, the agonizing incline scampering over large boulders, not so much.

We value the meadow because of the experience we had with the incredibly intense incline and we welcome the incline away from the meadow knowing that another vista of amazing beauty is to be provided to us at the top of that incline.  We do not stop at the peak, we look for the next meadow to explore and the next incline to tackle.  That is life. We look at the negative as not bad and the positive as good, but that in fact both are part of us that are equally required and without them both, there is no us.

On this journey through the mountains there is a start point (birth) and an endpoint (death) with countless important steps along the way.  Often we make adjustments when we have determined that we started up the wrong mountain or perhaps the valley is too steep.  Each of those steps is valuable and important in working to come to the “endpoint”.  We can’t skip a step, nor linger at one for too long, in the end we keep moving forward, tackling each new mountain.

In addition, the goal is not about the end result, death, it is all the steps along the way.  I mean we are not born only to look forward to death.  We are here to enjoy each of those steps and embrace the uncertainty that comes from the fact that we don’t know what step 10 could hold, while we are involved with step 5.

We know we are moving towards that future step, but it is unclear and uncertain what that looks like.  That is where happiness lies, because happiness is not a “plan” we develop, it is actually the value in each step as they present themselves, some related to positive moments and others negative.  When we accept uncertainty, things become all that more clear and comfortable.

Step 10 is where one maybe today, and step 20 is in the distance, maybe even many mountain ranges away, we work to embrace the uncertainty of its place.   Following core values and passion allows us to have confidence we are on the path we should be on. With each mountain we tackle we work on creating our civilization as we go, embracing both the positive and negative aspects of the path, and we take the next step into the uncertain trek that is our life’s journey.

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.

About the Author

Kimberly Pope-Robinson is a veterinarian life coach who started the 1 Life Connected movement, www.1lifecc.com in 2015. She is dedicated to helping the profession connect their career with their life’s passion. 1 Life Connected creates the space to give us each permission to find our unique path towards suitability in the veterinary industry. Dr. Pope authored the book “The Unspoken Life, Recognize your Passion, Embrace Imperfection, and Stay Connected” which provides a framework in helping the veterinary profession find well-being in the lifestyle we call a career.

I am an introvert. If you’re reading this post, you might be too. Introverts are abundant in veterinary medicine. Many of us chose this field because animals made us feel connected to the world without the constant “work” of being around people. As it turns out, people are as big a part of this job as animals are. Most days it’s one part cuddling, two parts medicine, three parts grief counseling and four parts customer service. Just look at my typical day:

I walk into the clinic at 8:45 and am immediately bombarded with questions. A boarder has diarrhea, should we start him on ID? Buffy’s Mom is here for a Proin refill but we’re out of stock, what should we do? Once I’ve addressed those, I round on hospitalized patients. I check the EMR and see that I have 14 items in my inbox. I go through them, marking the negative heartworm tests as reviewed and making sure there isn’t anything emergent. I’m left with eight calls to make.

The first appointment is a family with a lab puppy. I get down on the ground and “ooh” and “ahh” with enthusiasm. I ask questions about how long they’ve had the puppy, how the little girl is enjoying her new friend and how the housebreaking is going. I give the puppy an exam and begin explaining vaccine protocol and basic preventative care. I talk about feeding and training. Once I’ve answered all the family’s questions, I say goodbye and take a few minutes to write up my records.

The next appointment is a 12-year-old Yorkie who’s been coughing. I go over the history and ask a few more questions before starting my exam. He’s got a grade four heart murmur and a heart rate of 180. I tell the client my suspicions but explain the need for chest x-rays to confirm. He’s got a vertebral heart score of 12, an enlarged right atrium and a perihilar interstitial pattern. I put the patient in oxygen while I go back to the exam room to talk to the client. I explain the pathophysiology of congestive heart failure, the treatment and the prognosis. The client already knows most of this because his father passed away three months ago from CHF, he tells me. I give my genuine sympathies and spend a few minutes listening and offering some comforting words before I have to move on. A quick glance at the clock shows me what I already know—I’m falling behind. I put off writing my medical records and head into the next exam room.

I see seven more appointments that morning. I ask detailed histories, go over differential diagnoses, explain the importance of diagnostic tests, go over results, explain pathophysiology, and advise clients on treatment options. I also hear about vacation plans, kids’ graduations and sick family members. I gush over Callie’s unique markings and Jake’s blue eyes.

I finish morning appointments at 12:30, and have only written up four of my medical records. I check my inbox and see I’m back up to 11 calls. Nothing is urgent so I head to the break room and take 30 minutes for lunch.

At one, I head back down to the treatment room to get started on some callbacks. I get through five of them before it’s time to start my cat dental; a break from the abundance of social interactions that morning.

Afterwards, I call the client to let them know surgery went well and that Pineapple is awake. I write up the dental report, then look at my inbox—the six from before the dental are now nine. I alternate returning calls and catching up on my medical records.

My evening is a lot like my morning, except in addition to nine more appointments, I have to discharge the cat dental and the CHF dog who was luckily stable enough to go home. Appointments go smoothly and I managed to finish on time. I called back three clients I hadn’t been able to get ahold of earlier, along with four more that had called over the course of the evening. At 8:45, 12 hours after I arrived at work, I get to head home; physically and mentally beat.
I am not complaining about my job. I am truly interested in making sure my clients understand what’s going on with their pet’s health. I genuinely empathize with their family circumstances. My interest is real but it’s exhausting.

For those of you who aren’t clear what it means to be an introvert, it means that social interactions use up our mental energy. But just because interacting with others is “work” doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it.

I can enjoy being around people, but for every hour I spend doing so, I need two hours of alone time to recharge. That means after a 12 hour work day like the one above, I need a full 24 hours of recuperation. And after three or four shifts in a row, I need all weekend to myself. I don’t want to go out to a bar with my friends; even texting them back feels exhausting. And forget dating—I can’t even muster up the energy to type a response to my newest connection on Bumble.

I give my all to my job because I love it. But at the end of a long week, it really does feel like I’ve given it my all. Like I’ve drained myself so thoroughly that I have nothing left to put towards social relationships.

To my friends and family, I hope you can understand and forgive me when I seem to disappear for a while, or take two days to respond to your text. I promise to keep trying to find the balance and do my best to be a better friend.

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.

It is one of my biggest pet peeves when it comes to instilling wellness into the veterinary profession… veterinary care providers who would rather be a martyr than model good behavior for their colleagues and staff.

I’ve seen it all too often: the veterinarian who always stays late to see the end-of-the-day emergency, the technician who picks up all the extra shifts when someone else can’t work, or the administrator who insists on planning every group event for the hospital.

The wording I hear most commonly in these situations is “well, someone has to do it” or “nobody else will do it”.  However, it seems to me that if that same person did not agree to do it, then someone else in the practice would have to!  More commonly than not, I have the sense that these veterinary care providers are “taking one for the team” over and over again, rather than letting someone else step up to the plate.  They prefer to be the martyr, rather than modeling healthy behavior for others.

So, what do I mean when I use the term martyr?  By definition, Merriam-Webster says that a martyr is a person who sacrifices something of great value for the sake of a principle.  I would argue that when veterinarians and technicians fail to set boundaries between work and life (i.e., leaving work on time when possible, not answering work email on the weekend, not giving out personal cell phone numbers) that they are sacrificing their lives for the practice of veterinary medicine.

And while I love this profession just as much as most of us, I believe it is imperative that we foster a life outside of the work that we do.  Specifically, participating in hobbies or activities that have nothing to do with veterinary medicine (or even animals, for that sake!).

A martyr can also be described as a victim or a great and constant sufferer.  In many ways, I think this concept relates to veterinarians and technicians as well.  In the past, I have posted articles on social media advocating for self-care, sleep hygiene, or other tips for veterinary care provider wellness.

What I often see written in response is nothing short of disheartening…comments that resemble “well, I work 16 hours 7 days each week and have no time for such activities” or “if you would just get rid of all of the nasty clients and rude co-workers, all of my problems would go away”.  Sounds like victim mentality to me…

I am not saying that as veterinary care providers we do not have a difficult job.  Yes, we can deal with difficult owners, we can clash with certain co-workers, and we can be subject to multiple instances of moral distress whereby we are forced to do things that are against our moral and ethical values (e.g., euthanizing an otherwise healthy animal because an owner cannot afford medical care).

However, there is a lot that we can do to protect ourselves and foster resilience and well-being in this profession that offers many wonderful moments as well (i.e., think of the last patient that you saved or the last client that sent you a thank you card).

Rather than constantly sacrificing our life outside of work by subjecting ourselves to 18-hour work days, less than 2 weeks of vacation per year, phone calls from clients on our personal cell phones, and no self-care whatsoever, I advocate that we consider the opposite.  There is absolutely no reason to feel guilty for leaving work on time or setting boundaries around work-life balance, yet we do.

I admit that I have also struggled with the notion of doing something “just for me”, which can feel like letting my team down or not doing “enough”.  But this mindset must change or we are not going to be able to sustain ourselves in this profession.  We know too well what happens when we work more than 12 hours without drinking water, eating food, going to the bathroom, or stopping to breathe… co-workers are exposed to our “hangry” behavior, clients start to notice, and mistakes happen.

I urge everyone as veterinary care providers, especially those in a leadership role who can set the tone for the hospital culture…please model healthy behavior for your team.  Take all the vacation time that is allotted each year.  When you finish your work on time, leave work on time rather than getting sucked in to another case or conversation.

Make time for self-care activities such as eating healthfully, exercising regularly, socializing with friends, connecting with loved ones, and getting the recommended 7+ hours of sleep each night.  Let’s support each other and not look down on others who set boundaries and choose life over work.

Rather than compete in conversations about who has it worse, let’s engage in discussions about how we can make it better.

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.

About the Author

Marie K. Holowaychuk, DVM, DACVECC is a small animal emergency and critical care specialist and certified yoga and meditation teacher who also has an invested interest in the health and well-being of veterinary professionals. She organizes Veterinary Wellness Workshops & Retreats for veterinarians, technicians, and other veterinary care providers. To sign up for newsletters containing information regarding these events and veterinary wellness topics, please click here. More information can be found at www.criticalcarevet.ca.