When Odie the cavoodle needed emergency surgery, the veterinary staff showed why they are the unsung heroes of healthcare
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Version 0 of 2. The vet’s diagnosis of ‘it could be a stomach bug or lymphoma’ was not exactly reassuring but, admittedly, the patient was wagging his tail Speaking on a panel with me, a paediatric anaesthetist says that every time she takes a patient into theatre, she says to the parent, “I will take good care of your child”. Somehow, just imagining this solemn promise makes me tearful although I don’t even know that a variation of these words is headed my way. For the past week, our cavoodle Odie has been vomiting. The vet’s diagnosis of “it could be a stomach bug or lymphoma” is not exactly reassuring but, admittedly, the patient is wagging its tail. Two days later, our suspicion rises. The receptionist suggests I bring him in “now” for tests. I guiltily decline, loath to cancel my patients who have waited months to see me. Later, we go for an ultrasound and, as Odie burrows into my arms, his little heart thumps. Noticing his apprehension (and mine), the technician kneels, fusses over him before drawing him away. As I swallow the bill shock, I learn that Odie has swallowed something causing gastric obstruction. The waiting room has emptied but the vet does me the courtesy of asking me inside to advise that he will need emergency surgery. After texting the kids, I rush him to the animal hospital. In the rear view, he looks tired and innocent, and I feel remorseful. How did we fail him? The receptionist greets me with a fine-tuned amount of care and compassion. She neither indulges me nor fawns over my dog. This is not the time to tell me he is cute. Odie and I are nodding off when the duty vet calls us. Soon, she has me marvelling at her ability to be professional without patronising. She explains that I have a choice between attempting to retrieve the foreign body via a gastroscopy or moving straight to open surgery. Why not pick the less invasive option first, I ask, instinctively thinking about my patients. “Because if it fails, your cost doubles and some people can’t afford it.” This one-line informed financial consent hits the mark – but nauseous at the idea of cutting open Odie’s tiny abdomen, I opt for a gastroscopy and hope for the best. I ask the vet if I should wait only to be gently advised that the procedure requires prepping for hydration and sedation. Having sent countless patients for a gastroscopy, I feel stupid. A friendly nurse appears. Odie likes her, licks her and follows her to “the dog ward”, leaving me to pay the hefty deposit. This reminds me of my patients whose pension would foreclose this luxury on behalf of a pet that is often their sole companion. “Before you leave, do you want to see Odie?” the receptionist asks. I have decision fatigue – and say no, unconvincingly explaining that I don’t want to get his hopes up. “As you like,” she says. Recognising the politest of signals to guard against future regret, I stop at the door. “Do you think I should see him?” “Yeah.” The nurse brings out a still happy-looking Odie. I stroke his head, telling him (and me) that we are lucky to be in able hands. Meanwhile, my own hands feel awfully empty without dog or leash. My remedy to ward off the tears is to play loud Bollywood music and, while incongruous, it stops the sadness from invading my heart. At home, after answering my kids’ questions with “we don’t know” and “we can’t say”, I fall into an exhausted sleep. After midnight, an apologetic, frustrated vet calls to say that the gastroscopy was unsuccessful. She could see a twig-like object but couldn’t budge it. So I consent to an exploratory laparotomy, a term for opening up the abdomen that I have explained to many patients suffering from conditions that don’t involve a swallowed twig. A kindly surgeon assures me of the routine nature of the procedure. Eyeing the “for resuscitation” box, I hope so. The offender turns out to be the seed pod of a sweetgum tree. Odie comes home, a little dopey and nonplussed as to what the fuss is all about. As an oncologist, I am used to being compared (unfavourably) to vets. In the depth of their disappointments, patients and families will lament that they wouldn’t treat an animal “like that”. Of course, the human condition and human expectations are complicated, but I will say that vets and their staff might just be the unsung heroes of healthcare. They protect the interests of those who can’t even speak for themselves, comfortable both with curing and, when the suffering gets too much, palliating. All this without fanfare but with compassion and humility. What I will remember most is their empathy, which felt natural and unforced. They instinctively understood that they were treating two patients – me and my dog – and tailored their touch and talk accordingly. Alas, we don’t do this nearly well enough in medicine. The barrage of bureaucracy no doubt hardens us but, if we let our empathy dissipate, we will be the lesser for it. As for Odie, his wound is healing and he is inhaling our love. Considering the drama, I have a good mind to never again let him off leash. But, to be honest, at the first whiff of his eagerness to sniff at every blade of grass and inspect every dog’s behind, I will relent and, before I can exclaim “Don’t eat that!”, we will be back to our normal ways. Ranjana Srivastava is an Australian oncologist, award-winning author and Fulbright scholar. Her latest book is Every Word Matters: Writing to Engage the Public |