The laboured gasping is now echoing in another voice as I end the life of this elderly cancer patient’s last and only companion. She sobs and sobs, cradlng his lifeless body, crying with unending heartbroken sorrow, and
she wails to no one, why, please why can’t she go with him too, please. All I can do is
clutch her hand tight as her tears soak into my shirt.
Showing posts with label moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label moments. Show all posts
11.9.12
18.4.11
“Oh god, you have to help him, you have to put him out of his suffering.”
The owner is openly crying as I walk out to the van.
“He’s just been screaming in pain since I got home, I don’t know what’s wrong with him but I can’t stand it, he’s in so much pain, you have to put him to sleep.”
I open my mouth to say something comforting or to convince him I can help, that we don’t have to take such drastic measures. But as I near the van I can hear the yowling for myself. It’s a bone chilling, soul rocking sound when you hear an animal in unmistakable, unimaginable agony.
I slide the van door open gently. The cat screams and runs headlong into the back of the van. Crying, the plaintive cry of a creature in pain. He looks at me, looks at the open door. In the same split second the owner and I realise that he’s going to make a dash for it. I leap into the van and the owner slams the door shut behind me. I can hear the owner sobbing, becoming fainter as he is obviously walking away.
Alone in the dark now. It’s the weekend and I have no nurse to help me catch the poor frightened animal. I look at the euthanasia solution in my hand, at the needles in my pocket. This animal is in pain - and an animal in pain will bite. It’s dark. I have no way of catching it, and restraining it while holding up the leg vein, and injecting the solution into that vein... It will probably try to kill me if I touch where it’s sore. I don’t even have sedation on me, and I’m reluctant to open that door lest the cat make a run for it. My policy is to never do euthanasias in cars, because you just don't have control. But I don't have a choice here. What on earth do I do? Some days I have trouble euthanasing an animal that’s on its last legs and can’t even lift its head - and those are pretty much the only animals I would volunteer to do on my own without a nurse, someone to hold and comfort the animal, and to raise the vein so I can see where I'm injecting.
I move into the square of light from the tiny window. The cat has stopped crying for a moment, but I can hear it gasping. “Puss puss,” I whisper. How on earth can I help this poor animal?
A flicker of whiskers appear in the light. The cat is crawling to me, panting heavily. His paw touches my foot.
I reach out and pat him. He doesn’t move.
I reach out and take his leg. He doesn’t move.
I hold up the leg vein with one hand. With the other I insert the needle into his leg, a blind shot, I can't see what I'm doing. In the dim light a rush of blood into the syringe confirms that I’m in the vein.
The cat mews, soft little mews between laboured gasps.
I inject the solution. His panting softens, slows, and fades away.
The owner is openly crying as I walk out to the van.
“He’s just been screaming in pain since I got home, I don’t know what’s wrong with him but I can’t stand it, he’s in so much pain, you have to put him to sleep.”
I open my mouth to say something comforting or to convince him I can help, that we don’t have to take such drastic measures. But as I near the van I can hear the yowling for myself. It’s a bone chilling, soul rocking sound when you hear an animal in unmistakable, unimaginable agony.
I slide the van door open gently. The cat screams and runs headlong into the back of the van. Crying, the plaintive cry of a creature in pain. He looks at me, looks at the open door. In the same split second the owner and I realise that he’s going to make a dash for it. I leap into the van and the owner slams the door shut behind me. I can hear the owner sobbing, becoming fainter as he is obviously walking away.
Alone in the dark now. It’s the weekend and I have no nurse to help me catch the poor frightened animal. I look at the euthanasia solution in my hand, at the needles in my pocket. This animal is in pain - and an animal in pain will bite. It’s dark. I have no way of catching it, and restraining it while holding up the leg vein, and injecting the solution into that vein... It will probably try to kill me if I touch where it’s sore. I don’t even have sedation on me, and I’m reluctant to open that door lest the cat make a run for it. My policy is to never do euthanasias in cars, because you just don't have control. But I don't have a choice here. What on earth do I do? Some days I have trouble euthanasing an animal that’s on its last legs and can’t even lift its head - and those are pretty much the only animals I would volunteer to do on my own without a nurse, someone to hold and comfort the animal, and to raise the vein so I can see where I'm injecting.
I move into the square of light from the tiny window. The cat has stopped crying for a moment, but I can hear it gasping. “Puss puss,” I whisper. How on earth can I help this poor animal?
A flicker of whiskers appear in the light. The cat is crawling to me, panting heavily. His paw touches my foot.
I reach out and pat him. He doesn’t move.
I reach out and take his leg. He doesn’t move.
I hold up the leg vein with one hand. With the other I insert the needle into his leg, a blind shot, I can't see what I'm doing. In the dim light a rush of blood into the syringe confirms that I’m in the vein.
The cat mews, soft little mews between laboured gasps.
I inject the solution. His panting softens, slows, and fades away.
23.7.10
Sometimes, you get these startling moments of clarity. Just moments, most often in an average, mundane sort of setting, and then everything is different.
Today I had a 3 year old cavalier King Charles spaniel limp into my consult room. And as I explained to the owner the mechanisms, grades and treatment of patellar luxation, I could suddenly hear myself. Really clearly. As if I was sitting back watching this scene, even while I was talking. I heard the inflections in my voice, the tone, the pitch; I could hear my own accent, and strangest of all I heard the easy confidence and five years of training. And suddenly the Me who was watching thought: Hey, I sound exactly like a real vet! Wow! The Me who was Talking was a bit surprised by this thought from the Me who was Watching; but the former kept talking even while being aware that all this was going on and the latter was somewhat amused by this whole thing. It lasted just moments, but my entire world had shifted. The moment passed, and the owner nodded, listening to my explanation, unaware that any of this was going on. I kept talking.
Today I had a 3 year old cavalier King Charles spaniel limp into my consult room. And as I explained to the owner the mechanisms, grades and treatment of patellar luxation, I could suddenly hear myself. Really clearly. As if I was sitting back watching this scene, even while I was talking. I heard the inflections in my voice, the tone, the pitch; I could hear my own accent, and strangest of all I heard the easy confidence and five years of training. And suddenly the Me who was watching thought: Hey, I sound exactly like a real vet! Wow! The Me who was Talking was a bit surprised by this thought from the Me who was Watching; but the former kept talking even while being aware that all this was going on and the latter was somewhat amused by this whole thing. It lasted just moments, but my entire world had shifted. The moment passed, and the owner nodded, listening to my explanation, unaware that any of this was going on. I kept talking.
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