//serendipity

I take a back step and look at myself in the mirror. A vet really shouldn't be cheering the illness on. Sometimes I end up feeling like an ambulance-chasing blood-sucker - hoping for the worst even as the hope fades from the client's eyes.

Whenever an interesting surgery or procedure pops up, it's hard to be neutral; give the percentages, the costs and the prognoses, in a level voice when you just want to try the myelogram, the splenectomy, the liver lobectomy, the thoracotomy or amputation. You can't very well say "I REALLY want to try this" when you know the prognosis isn't very good and the owner can't or won't pay for it.

Even so, I can consign myself to always hoping for the correct diagnosis, regardless of whether it is interesting or banal. Rather than hoping for the rare and wonderful and (often) euthanasia-inducing diseases, I have changed to hoping for the quick and accurate diagnosis. Rather than "Dr. Gregory House"-ing it, I find myself looking back retrospectively and saying: Contemporary knowledge taken in consideration, could I have possibly reached the diagnosis any sooner? Or with less tests?
I have found in recent times that this is always very satisfying.

Yes: your dog may have cancer, but at least we found it for less than $200 of tests, rather than you spending $500 trial-treating the non-pathognomonic symptoms.

Sometimes doing a blood test, hoping for some sort of a change, or just to eliminate a disease can seem like a waste of time. But that one time out of ten, you can end up saving a lot of heartache and suffering.

There's nothing more satisfying than serendipity. And Serendipity only comes when you've already put in the hard yards.

//words

Well, I’ve just sent off your sympathy card. I hope it can convey a piece of my condolences. I hope you’ll be okay. I still feel like it’s just not enough. I euthanased your beloved pet, I ended its life; I feel like I should send flowers or something. Maybe some chocolates. Words just don’t seem like enough to make it up to you.
Back to my desk. I need to read up on myasthenia gravis…
There on my desk. A huge bundle of beautiful orange and yellow flowers. A box of chocolates. And a card. It’s from you.
Inside, there are just two words.
Two little words can contain so much. And two words are all it takes.

“Thank you.”

I.. you.. but I.. what?


You’re welcome.
And thank you. It really means a lot.
Thank you.

//roles

There are six of them in a carry cage. They can barely breathe; the snuffling noses and rattling chests are audible from across the table. They’re so small, too small for me to see a vein. It will have to be straight into the heart. I pick one out. It's too weak to struggle. Its heart is fluttering wildly. I line up the needle and pass it between the ribs. The kitten twitches as the needle passes through the skin. I falter. I miss the heart. I pull out. My hands are shaking. Deep breath. Try again. I miss a second time. Poor kitten, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. The kitten is starting to wriggle now. I close my eyes. Oh kitten, I don't want to do this, it's not fair.

No. No. Shut off the emotion. That's it. Focus on the procedure. Do it right. Do it perfect. Focus. Hands are steady now. There are the landmarks. Put your needle right there. Do it fast. Inject. Feel the heart stop. Good job. Well done. The next one is instant. Keep them coming. I'm good at this, see? The nurse passes me the last kitten. This one is the liveliest of the bunch. It looks at me with huge, bewildered eyes. "I don't know, either," I whisper. "I just don't."

I gather the little bodies and wrap them in a towel. The lady from the RSPCA informs me that I should expect another batch this afternoon. I go back into my consult room. Wash the table. Wash my hands. Look in the one way mirror on the wall and fix my hair. There's a consult waiting. You should see them. Come on, drag yourself away from the mirror. Dry the table. Dry your hands. Dry your eyes.

Deep breath. A smile creeps across my face. I feel it reach my eyes. I call them in. The smile reaches my voice. These owners have a kitten fresh from the pet shop. I teach them how to feed it and treat it for fleas and worms. We laugh and make small talk as I vaccinate the kitten. On her way out the owner thanks me. "You must have so much fun," she says, smiling. "Playing with animals all day." I say nothing, just smile back. My mind still filled with those big bewildered eyes.

//beginnings

After my first month in practice, my boss sat me down and asked me how I was going. I thought about all the mistakes I’d made, the dumb things I’d done or said, and the deep sadness I’d felt alongside those tiny but significant moments of triumph. One month out and I still felt useless. I needed so much support. When was I going to actually feel like a vet?

“I’m still pretty stressed out. I’m just so slow and I need so much help even now.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“I actually still feel like a bumbling student.”
“Well, get used to it.”
“What?”
“I’ve been at it twenty years and the feeling still hasn’t gone away.”

I realised then that I wasn’t alone, not really. I was going through what thousands of vets had gone through before me. Everyone, even my respected and infallible boss had done some stupid and embarrassing things. Everyone started somewhere. And even decades on, everyone is always still learning.

I guess that’s why they call it a veterinary practice.

My journey had only just begun. The road ahead was going to be long and tortuous. But I finally understood that there was no actual destination. Only the journey. There were going to be good times, there were going to be tough times, and, oh yes, there would be stories to tell.