Over the winter I had started my Tales From The Trenches series and then it came to a grinding halt when we started a bad run of euthanasias at work. There were more bad endings than happy endings, and I simply didn't want to talk nor think about work when I wasn't physically at the veterinary hospital, so I stopped writing about it.
There is no doubt in anyone's mind that euthanasia is the hardest part of the veterinary profession. I don't care if you don't agree with the concept: I think it is a wonderful thing and I wish with all my heart that it was a legal option for humans with debilitating and/or terminal illnesses with poor quality of life. Who wants to slowly die of cancer? I sure don't. Why? Why do we have to suffer for months in pain in a hospital bed until our bodies give up? Why??
When a pet is euthanized, they are often given a strong sedative and then the lethal injection itself. In our hospital, we always always place an IV catheter for this purpose, whether the owner chooses to be present or not, as it makes things go so much more smoothly. And what is it like when it goes smoothly? The pet falls asleep and is gone within seconds. Peacefully. Painlessly. Quickly. They literally look like they have fallen asleep, enough so that sometimes owners have a hard time believing that they are gone.
When a pet is euthanized, they are often given a strong sedative and then the lethal injection itself. In our hospital, we always always place an IV catheter for this purpose, whether the owner chooses to be present or not, as it makes things go so much more smoothly. And what is it like when it goes smoothly? The pet falls asleep and is gone within seconds. Peacefully. Painlessly. Quickly. They literally look like they have fallen asleep, enough so that sometimes owners have a hard time believing that they are gone.
I can't think of a better way to go. For man or beast.
It still doesn't make it any easier for the owner that has to make this decision nor for the veterinary staff that work with this scenario day in and day out. One of the major drawbacks of emergency and critical care is that there is SO MUCH death. We see the worst of the worst. It is wonderful when an animal defeats all odds and makes it. But more often than not, the miracle does not occur and they don't survive. Or the owner can't afford the cost of the treatment that might not save the pet anyway. Or the animal is just too far gone with too many issues.
One of the skills the experienced ER tech develops is an uncanny ability for knowing when an animal appears fine but is critical, and when they appear to be very sick but in fact are not.
One time we had an older Golden Retriever walk in the door. I assessed him in the lobby while his owner told me his story. He was 10 years old and had been brought in for suddenly not acting like his usual self at home. He was wagging his tail, but I just got this bad feeling while looking at him. I couldn't pinpoint why. The dog was panting happily and he had pink mucous membranes with a normal capillary refill time of less than 2 seconds. I checked his femoral pulse: it was very fast at 170 beats per minute, and thready. Not nice and steady. Red alert: this dog was in the beginnings of shock and doing a good job of hiding it. His owner needed to fill out paperwork at the front desk so he could get checked in, so I asked for permission to take his dog back to the ER treatment area so the doctor could take a look at him. The owner had no problem with this, so I borrowed the dog. Dr. J was in the ER waiting. "There is something really wrong with this dog. I think he could be a hemoabdomen."
Hemoabdomen literally means "blood in the abdomen". They can be caused by trauma like being hit by a car, but most often they are the result of a bleeding tumor, usually in the spleen or liver. They commonly present with pale gums, bounding pulses and a distended abdomen, none of which this dog had. The inciting factor in having the dog brought to the ER is most often a sudden collapse at home +/- a vomiting episode. It is a death or death situation: take the dog to surgery and remove the spleen or affected liver lobe (unless the cancer has taken over the whole liver, in which case the patient must be euthanized. You can't live without your liver) and prolong their life for a few months whether you put the dog through chemotherapy or not...or don't do surgery and have to euthanize because the dog will bleed to death otherwise. Hemoabdomens can be caused by a slow bleed, where you see a dog with less severe symptoms if the owner catches it early, or they can be caused by a sudden massive bleed where the dog goes downhill rapidly, sometimes in a matter of hours. It is the tumor that decides how fast it will bleed. It is a devastating emergency because most of the time, these dogs are absolutely fine up until the moment their body can't compensate for the bleeding anymore, and it catches their owners completely by surprise.
Now, there are exceptions: every once in a blue moon, you get a hemoabdomen resulting from a benign splenic mass. You remove it and the dog lives a long happy life. In 7 years working in this field, I have sadly only witnessed this twice. :(
Dr. J assessed the dog and thought maybe there was something wrong with his heart. We took chest radiographs and in a corner of the view, you could see a glimpse of the abdomen. It didn't look normal. The dog also was starting to look less and less bright as the minutes ticked on. Some dogs will put up a facade for their owners to hide that they are not feeling well, but once in the ER with us will tell us the truth. This dog was telling us what was going on. Dr. J used our ultrasound machine (sonogram in human medicine) to take a quick peek in the patient's belly.
There was free fluid. He ran out of the ER to talk to the dog's owners to let them know what was going on, and returned to obtain a quick sample of the abdominal fluid we had just seen.
It was blood. Diagnosis confirmed.
I was praised for my wildly accurate instincts in this case but it's not the kind of thing that you want to be right about.
This dog went to surgery and made it, but the tumor in the removed spleen was not a benign one. I don't know what the owners elected after that, nor how much time he had remaining after his surgery. I just know that he walked out of the hospital alive, and sometimes that is enough.
Dr. J is one of our senior staff doctors. He is in his early 30's and is one of the ER favorites both amongst techs and doctors. Everyone loves working with him. His medicine is honest and matter-of-fact, and he has a great sarcastic sense of humor and a mind like a whip. He's one of those people that can positively change the atmosphere in a room just by walking into it. He is one of our most efficient doctors, seeing triple the amount of cases that the other vets will see in the same time frame. Which also means he is the one that euthanizes the most animals. It is just a matter of numbers: a third to half of the patients we see in the ER will die.
He'd been having a particularly bad run when this kitten was brought into our ER. She had all sorts of things wrong with her and was barely a year old. The issues were mostly congenital. It was a wonder she had lived as long as she had.
The owners elected euthanasia. It was the right thing to do given the circumstances. The owners chose to be present for the procedure, which was done in an exam room.
Dr. J brought the kitten's body back into the ER afterwards, bundled up in a towel pressed to his chest. His face was red, and he gently lay the kitty on the table in front of me so I could process her body while he silently stepped out of the room. We didn't see him again for a while.
I took the kitten's body back to the morgue afterwards where, in solitude, I was able to cry myself.
It is so much harder with the young ones. The young patients and the young doctors.
This week we had a gorgeous cat brought in in the evening. His owners were hysterical. The cat was screaming. His hind legs and tail were limp and cold.
A saddle thrombus.
Saddle thrombi are one of the worst feline emergencies. Like hemoabdomens, they don't have happy endings. The saddle is the bifurcation of the aorta, where it branches into each hind leg. Kitties with heart disease will often throw a large clot (thrombus) that will lodge in the saddle, cutting off circulation to the hind legs. It is one of the most painful things that can happen to a cat. You can recognize a saddle thrombus by the wails of the cat as they are being brought into the veterinary hospital. If caught promptly, the cat can recover use of his hind legs with medication to help dissolve the clot. The heart disease that caused the problem will need to be addressed. Often times, the saddle thrombus is the first sign of heart disease, which sucks. Even then, only 50% of cases will survive to leave the hospital. Even then, the average surviving saddle thrombus cat will only live for 2 more months. 1/4 of the cats that survive and receive treatment will have another thromboembolic episode within the next 6 to 12 months. Chances of survival are greater if the clot occurred in a front leg or if only one hind leg was affected. If the cat's rectal body temperature on presentation is lower than 98.9, the chances of survival drop rapidly.
This kitty's rectal temperature was 97.2.
He was vocalizing and I told the doctor we needed pain meds for him STAT. She gave us a dose to give IV via injection. The problem with that is that we only had 2 front legs to work with: you don't want to inject anything IV in hind legs with compromised circulation. And we would need to place an IV catheter whether the owners decided to treat or not, and it would have to go in a front leg. The doctor gave permission for us to just place the catheter and give the injection through it.
Most saddle thrombus cats are in so much pain that they will try to bite anything and everything that attempts to touch them: not even owners are exempt. They don't want to be touched, and it is understandable.
This cat was wiggly and he tried to push our hands away with his paws, but he never once tried to bite. Not once. We were able to quickly place the IV catheter and give him his pain medication. We placed him in a kitty bed so that he would feel safe and let him chill in one of our ER cages. I stayed close by to make sure he didn't have a bad reaction to the pain medication. Some cats don't quite know what to do with themselves and will flail.
The pain relief was instant for him. Once he found himself in the cage, he straightened his shoulders and looked about. He had stopped vocalizing. I opened the cage door to reassure him. He was lucid and now that he had relaxed, there was an almost regal quality about him.
Brilliant liquid green eyes met mine. The cat half closed his eyes at me, giving me a "kitty kiss." "Thank you for making me feel better," he said. My eyes teared up as I reached over and rubbed my hand against his cheek. He leaned into my touch, his eyes holding mine. "I'm so sorry," I whispered to him. "I will be okay," he said.
Since he was comfortable, I gently closed the cage door and turned away. We had other emergencies that needed treatment and it was a good way to distract myself from the sudden wave of grief I was feeling.
I was relieved when one of my coworkers took care of him after he was gone. They all get to you, but every once in a while there is one that gets to you more. This was one of them.
We fight the battle between life and death every shift that we are in the ER, dancing in the line between the two worlds, trying to hold back death for one more day, one more month, one more year, one more decade. We know that sooner or later, death will ultimately win. It is the only certain thing about life. But we fight the battle anyway.
I went to Catholic school but always had my own opinions on things that I kept mostly to myself outside of our home. My family was a funny mix of Catholic, Buddhist and New Age. We took what we liked of each religion and chose what we wanted to believe in. There are no absolutes in life other than death itself. Why should a belief be absolute? We would later discover that our beliefs pretty much matched the Wiccan beliefs, so nowadays when anyone asks me what religion I am and I want to shock them, I'll just tell them I'm Wiccan. I like the idea of praying to a Mother Goddess either way.
I would not be able to do this job if I didn't believe what I believe. If I believed that life ends at death, I would not be able to cope. I believe that all living things, from the spider in your closet to the tree outside your door to your canine companion to you yourself have souls. That we come back sooner or later, and so do our animals. I believe that most of the people that we know in this life we have met before: they were our sisters, brothers, fathers, significant others, or just very good friends. We fought in wars with them, raised families with them, moved across a continent with them. I don't believe in love at first sight; I believe in love at first memory. That relative with whom you just can't get along, you've had a dispute with over centuries and you will keep having difficulties with that person for centuries more if you don't resolve your disagreements now. (Ha! Believing in that doesn't mean I want to deal with it!) I believe in karma and can tell you that it exists. I believe that the animals that we love and need the most come back to us. Sometimes repeatedly in the same journey if we live long enough.
And I may lose followers for sharing all this, but I need to share it to explain to you that even believing this does not make working with death every day any easier. It only makes it easier to recognize. It is a door I opened to allow me to better do my job, but I am not able to close it at will now. I often refrain from touching friends' animals, especially dogs, especially older dogs, because I don't want to know. I don't want to know how that dog will die.
He'd been having a particularly bad run when this kitten was brought into our ER. She had all sorts of things wrong with her and was barely a year old. The issues were mostly congenital. It was a wonder she had lived as long as she had.
Dr. J brought the kitten's body back into the ER afterwards, bundled up in a towel pressed to his chest. His face was red, and he gently lay the kitty on the table in front of me so I could process her body while he silently stepped out of the room. We didn't see him again for a while.
I took the kitten's body back to the morgue afterwards where, in solitude, I was able to cry myself.
It is so much harder with the young ones. The young patients and the young doctors.
This week we had a gorgeous cat brought in in the evening. His owners were hysterical. The cat was screaming. His hind legs and tail were limp and cold.
A saddle thrombus.
Saddle thrombi are one of the worst feline emergencies. Like hemoabdomens, they don't have happy endings. The saddle is the bifurcation of the aorta, where it branches into each hind leg. Kitties with heart disease will often throw a large clot (thrombus) that will lodge in the saddle, cutting off circulation to the hind legs. It is one of the most painful things that can happen to a cat. You can recognize a saddle thrombus by the wails of the cat as they are being brought into the veterinary hospital. If caught promptly, the cat can recover use of his hind legs with medication to help dissolve the clot. The heart disease that caused the problem will need to be addressed. Often times, the saddle thrombus is the first sign of heart disease, which sucks. Even then, only 50% of cases will survive to leave the hospital. Even then, the average surviving saddle thrombus cat will only live for 2 more months. 1/4 of the cats that survive and receive treatment will have another thromboembolic episode within the next 6 to 12 months. Chances of survival are greater if the clot occurred in a front leg or if only one hind leg was affected. If the cat's rectal body temperature on presentation is lower than 98.9, the chances of survival drop rapidly.
This kitty's rectal temperature was 97.2.
He was vocalizing and I told the doctor we needed pain meds for him STAT. She gave us a dose to give IV via injection. The problem with that is that we only had 2 front legs to work with: you don't want to inject anything IV in hind legs with compromised circulation. And we would need to place an IV catheter whether the owners decided to treat or not, and it would have to go in a front leg. The doctor gave permission for us to just place the catheter and give the injection through it.
Most saddle thrombus cats are in so much pain that they will try to bite anything and everything that attempts to touch them: not even owners are exempt. They don't want to be touched, and it is understandable.
This cat was wiggly and he tried to push our hands away with his paws, but he never once tried to bite. Not once. We were able to quickly place the IV catheter and give him his pain medication. We placed him in a kitty bed so that he would feel safe and let him chill in one of our ER cages. I stayed close by to make sure he didn't have a bad reaction to the pain medication. Some cats don't quite know what to do with themselves and will flail.
The pain relief was instant for him. Once he found himself in the cage, he straightened his shoulders and looked about. He had stopped vocalizing. I opened the cage door to reassure him. He was lucid and now that he had relaxed, there was an almost regal quality about him.
Brilliant liquid green eyes met mine. The cat half closed his eyes at me, giving me a "kitty kiss." "Thank you for making me feel better," he said. My eyes teared up as I reached over and rubbed my hand against his cheek. He leaned into my touch, his eyes holding mine. "I'm so sorry," I whispered to him. "I will be okay," he said.
Since he was comfortable, I gently closed the cage door and turned away. We had other emergencies that needed treatment and it was a good way to distract myself from the sudden wave of grief I was feeling.
I was relieved when one of my coworkers took care of him after he was gone. They all get to you, but every once in a while there is one that gets to you more. This was one of them.
We fight the battle between life and death every shift that we are in the ER, dancing in the line between the two worlds, trying to hold back death for one more day, one more month, one more year, one more decade. We know that sooner or later, death will ultimately win. It is the only certain thing about life. But we fight the battle anyway.
I went to Catholic school but always had my own opinions on things that I kept mostly to myself outside of our home. My family was a funny mix of Catholic, Buddhist and New Age. We took what we liked of each religion and chose what we wanted to believe in. There are no absolutes in life other than death itself. Why should a belief be absolute? We would later discover that our beliefs pretty much matched the Wiccan beliefs, so nowadays when anyone asks me what religion I am and I want to shock them, I'll just tell them I'm Wiccan. I like the idea of praying to a Mother Goddess either way.
I would not be able to do this job if I didn't believe what I believe. If I believed that life ends at death, I would not be able to cope. I believe that all living things, from the spider in your closet to the tree outside your door to your canine companion to you yourself have souls. That we come back sooner or later, and so do our animals. I believe that most of the people that we know in this life we have met before: they were our sisters, brothers, fathers, significant others, or just very good friends. We fought in wars with them, raised families with them, moved across a continent with them. I don't believe in love at first sight; I believe in love at first memory. That relative with whom you just can't get along, you've had a dispute with over centuries and you will keep having difficulties with that person for centuries more if you don't resolve your disagreements now. (Ha! Believing in that doesn't mean I want to deal with it!) I believe in karma and can tell you that it exists. I believe that the animals that we love and need the most come back to us. Sometimes repeatedly in the same journey if we live long enough.
And I may lose followers for sharing all this, but I need to share it to explain to you that even believing this does not make working with death every day any easier. It only makes it easier to recognize. It is a door I opened to allow me to better do my job, but I am not able to close it at will now. I often refrain from touching friends' animals, especially dogs, especially older dogs, because I don't want to know. I don't want to know how that dog will die.
We had just euthanized yet another last night. An advanced heart failure case. If the owners had not elected euthanasia, the little one would have drowned in the excess fluid produced by his failing heart: a slow and horrific death. It is a hospital policy that we make paw prints of the pets that have died; they are mailed to the clients afterwards as a last remembrance. I was working intently on the final details of this paw print: choosing the stamp font and wondering, as I always do, if it would be appreciated by the owner. Grief is an unpredictable thing, unique to each person that goes through it. Most people love the paw prints and cherish them forever, but some people don't, and I can understand that. And as I smoothed out the clay around the paw print, I thought about writing this post. And then Dr. J, who had been leaning silently against the counter next to me and apparently watching my efforts, suddenly said, "We do good things here."
I glanced up in surprise. He had a sad half smile that I returned. I couldn't say anything. I finished stamping the pet's name on the paw print as Dr. J looked straight ahead, lost in his own thoughts. I asked him about the case that he was working on. He was waiting for the owners to make a decision. It would be another case that would end in death during our watch.



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