Please excuse the terrible pun of a title, but...well, they're all like that, and if you're not used to them by now then I'm sorry to tell you that they are unlikely to get any better from here on in.
Some of you may be thinking 'Pun? What pun?' Well, sit still and I'll explain it to you. Still, I said. Don't fidget.
OOH is not a further sign of my rapid descent into campness (campdom? campicity?) but rather an acronym for the dread part of the job known as Out Of Hours. AKA On Call, AKA Duties, AKA stupid bastarding night work.
I am aware that the veterinary profession is not the only job blessed/blighted by out of hours work, but I'm afraid I can't speak for any other profession as I haven't worked in them, but this part of the job, more than any other, really puts the H,A,T and E in my love/hate relationship with my work. Between myself and my wife it has been responsible for one nervous breakdown, several tantrums, two resignations, a near-divorce and a broken remote control (which cost £20 to replace. Scandalous!)
(As to which of us had the nervous breakdown, well, I'll leave that hanging as an intriguing mystery. But ask yourself - which one of us has to write an introspective blog just to cope with the pressures of work, and which one of us just gets on with the job without moaning? (Mind you, it was me who had to pay for the bloody remote control, so we'll call it even))
I am, I like to think, generally cheerful and happy-go-lucky, a fairly relaxed kind of chap (I like to think that. I'm not, but for the purposes of this blog, lets go with it). On call, it's a different story. I turn into a strange Smeagol-esque creature, nervous of human contact, unloved and unlovely. All I want to do, when I'm on call, is sit in a darkened room next to the phone, and wait for it to ring. I can't stand to start doing anything that I couldn't drop at a moment's notice - not really a state of mind conducive to a good night's sleep.
Even more Gollum-like is my relationship with my phone (don't get me wrong, I love my iPhone with a passion that probably should be outlawed in decent, God-fearing countries, but that's because of all the other cool things it does, not because it's a phone. Take away the talky bit and I'd still be very happy with it. I suppose that's why they made an iPod touch, but you really don't want me to digress along these lines or we'll be here all day...) - I loathe loathe loathe talking on the phone even at the best of times. I'm with Stephen Fry on this one (yes, I mentioned Stephen Fry again. No apologies. He's my generation's Yoda. Apart from, y'know, Yoda) - how many other things do you have that will suddenly start shouting at you 'Talk to me! Talk to me! Talk to me!' and then get grumpy if you don't? I suspect I'm not alone in this sentiment, but my wife and mother-in-law seem to consider it a mortal sin if I don't immediately spring to attention and run for the phone. Why? That's what answerphones are for.
It's fair to say that my feelings about phones are mixed, at best. When I'm on call, my phone becomes this weird talisman. Much like our poor hobbits with the One Ring, I hate it, but am unable to part with it, and am constantly getting it out to check that it's working, that there's enough battery, that there's a signal, etc. If only it made me invisible, the analogy would be perfect (there's a suggestion for an iPhone app! I'd probably buy that one). I spend a lot of time on call sitting in my car, looking at my phone and occasionally muttering 'Gollum' to myself.
Why? What it is about OOH work that brings out the ringwraith in me?
It's hard to describe quite what's so horrible about being 'on call', so much so that it inspires in me, even now that I do less of it, a kind of deep, black terror. It's not the busyness - to be honest, I almost always work harder on an average 'normal' day than a day or night on call, and I don't feel the same dread of it (though tell me that on a Monday morning and you may get a different response. Like a punch in the nose).
I think it's a combination of a few things. First is the loneliness. When you're on call, it's you against the world. It's your responsibility, and anything that goes wrong is likely to be your fault. This is especially true of home or farm visits. First of all you've got to find the place - a job in itself before the days of SatNavs, and even then these won't help you too much if you're trying to find a remote paddock or cottage (I'm surprised I haven't heard of some poor young vet driving off a cliff in the middle of the night desperately looking for a farm. I did once nearly drive into the sea in Cornwall, but as that was whilst I was heading for a job interview, not an emergency call, so I don't think that counts. (Yes, somehow I got the job).
You're on someone else's territory, often dealing with a distressed owner and a distressed animal, your heart is racing and you're desperately trying to remember your notes from University. To me, as a new graduate, driving to a call at two in the morning, I felt like the loneliest person in the world (except, maybe, for that guy in the Omega man).
I'm lucky enough to have only ever worked in jobs where someone else took the calls, and then passed them on to me as required. My wife has only worked in jobs where she had the calls from the practice directly forwarded to her phone, so as well as being very annoying (Oh, you're not open at midnight? Well, can I make an appointment for tomorrow?) it adds to the feeling of isolation (and is really not good for the health of any remote controls within easy reach).
Aside from the crushing despair of solitude (I'm not laying this on too thick, am I? No? Good) there's the unpredictability. Always a factor as a vet - you never quite know what you're going to be faced, or when something is going to come through the door that derails your whole day) this effect is compounded out of hours, when there is not routine at all and the whole day is essentially unplanned. I think this part of the job is much tougher on new graduates, for whom every call is a new, unexpected scenario. I'm now old enough and long enough to have seen pretty much everything before (boy, am I going to regret writing that when my next night on call brings me a kangaroo with a lacerated penis) but I still find the fact that either I might make it through a full night's sleep, or I might have the most horrendous evening of my entire life difficult to deal with mentally.
This is especially hard when you are getting one call after another - before you've had a chance to deal with the first one. Nothing to me is more stressful than having emergencies stack up quicker than you can deal with them. The dangerous point to get to is the mental state of thinking 'If that phone rings one more time then my brains will explode!' because, Sod's law being the evil little git that it is, the phone always rings thirty seconds after that thought has passed through your brain.
Early in my career, I was called by the police to attend a horse lorry that had crashed, and fallen into a ditch, complete with horse. The fire brigade has requested the presence of a veterinary surgeon, and I drew the short straw. This call, as I remember, came whilst I was either stitching up a dog, or removing puppies from it. Something surgical, anyway. The terror I experienced upon receiving that call is like nothing I had ever felt before. Although I'm sure it can't compete with the feelings of the soldiers about to go over the top on the Somme, and although the actual call itself turned out to be fine (the horse just needed to be sedated to get it out of the trailer, plus there was a really cool bit where I was waved through a line of flashing police cars and ambulances like some sort of secret agent) an echo of that bowel-destroying fear has stayed with me every night on call I have ever done since.
The third problem with out of hours work is that it's on top of the normal job - you're expected to work a full day, work a night on call, then full day the following day as well. Same for weekends - full day Friday, work 48 hours over the weekend, then back to work Monday morning. Apparently, having a professional job means that things like the working time directive don't apply to vets. Here, at least, I feel I can help out the new graduates. When I was a lad, my rota was such that I worked thirteen days in a row, including four nights on call, for the prize of one day off (during which you slept). Nowadays, we get one day off a week, plus I've fought for giving the new graduates a half-day off in lieu of a night on call (which makes me sound like some Lord-Shaftesbury like crusader, which I'm not, I just didn't want to be one of those vets who said 'Well, I had it tough, so you can too.' Now I'm one of those vets who mutters 'Well, I had it worse, and I didn't bloody complain' whenever the young 'uns complain about anything at all)
It may be that it's just me; that my temperament is not best-suited for out of hours work - I know some vets who are more relaxed, and who will even (gasp!) go out for a meal, or down the pub with friends (not drinking, of course). I'm wound more tightly than a spring caught on a helicopter blade when I'm on call, and I suspect I would probably just shatter if I dared to venture into a public place. Still, I think a lot of vets who have spent much time working out of hours will find at least something to sympathise with in the above.
Well, that's probably enough soul-baring for this month. Please comment if this whole blog has made you rage at my self-indulgent weediness. Just don't do it when I'm on call, I don't think I could cope with it.
Friday, 14 January 2011
Friday, 26 November 2010
Working Relationship
When I was a young slip of a lad (which is rapidly becoming far longer ago than I care to comfortably admit), love seemed a very long way away. This was no bad thing, because at the time I was dreaming of dragons, and swords, and all manner of things generally deemed unhealthy for a young chap to think about, but which never did me any harm. (Quiet! Who's blog is this, anyway?)
The years have passed, and I have achieved many things of which I am proud, some of which I am not proud at all, and some ambitions which have never come to pass (like never managing to get a 20th level magic-user. Bah. I suppose our dreams must surpass our reach, though). But, of all the things that bring me happiness and pleasure in my absurdly forrtunate life, the greatest is the happy series of accidents which allow me to hold a cat's small intestines out of the way so that the woman I love can stitch up its diaphragm.
My wife and I work together, which to some people would sound like a cruel and unusual punishment, or at least fodder for a crappy 'gentle' sitcom, but for me it is a source of pleasure and fun, and more than anything else makes my job an awful lot easier.
If I go on in this manner of how blessed and happy I am to have such a beautiful, loving and lovely wife I suspect you are likely to vomit all over your computer, so I'll try and explain why before too many electrical goods are wrecked. (Also, as I'm tapping away here it occurs to me that this particular entry seems to have more than a touch of 'luvviness' about it, rather than my usual alcohol-fueled misery. It can't be a coincidence that I've just finished reading Stephen Fry's autobiography, and if this torrent of sugary cheerfulness is too much for you to take, then please send Mr Fry an angry letter of complaint. It's definitely all this fault.)
My wife and I are fortunate to have a similar attitude to work. Fortunate because it prevents blazing rows in the practice, which would be awkward and embarrasing for our nurse and vet colleagues, and distressing for clients and their animals (although I can't help feeling that a blazing row would be closer to the 'family' atmosphere we like to promote at our practice than the more usual good-natured abuse). We like to get on with things - if there's an op on the board, or somone in the waiting room, we'd like to operate on them, or take them into our consulting room (hopefully not getting the two the wrong way round), and get the job done. If there's something outstanding, we find it difficult to sit down, relax, have a coffee, read a textbook, ponder our next move.
This isn't the only way or working, nor is it the best, but it's the way we like to work and so it means we don't get frustrated with each other. It also means that when a cat with its stomach herniated up into its thoracic cavity comes in as an emergency, as happened this week, we know each other well enough to get on with the job at hand with a minimum of panic and stress.
It leads to a more-or-less harmonius working relationship. There are some drawbacks to working closely to a loved one. The principle one that springs to mind is that if another vet does something which we would do differently ourselves, we generally keep quiet about it and don't say anything. There's no right or wrong way to do things, after all, and a lot of approaches to cases work as well as each other (unless you're doing it differently to me. In which case, you're just wrong. Okay?). If I or my wife do something that the other considers to be wrong, however, we'll generally point it out to each other. Forcefully. Often prefaced with the phrase 'You bloody moron! Don't you know that...'
It also makes for very tedious talking-shop evenings at home. If we were more diligent, perhaps we would have a 'no-vet-talk at home' rule, but neither of us can quite muster up the energy to enforce such a thing. Plus, there is then the dreadful danger that either my wife will start talking about horses, or I will start talking about zombies or the imminent rise of the machines, and I think that the veterinary world is a slightly less tedious solution for us in these cases (though I would like to once again pledge my allegience to our metallic masters. Just in case.)
So, a happy working relationship, and blog that is, on the whole, cheerful! The only problem I have with my wife's veterinary abilities is that she seems to believe that surgery is, is some way, clever. Well, I'm sorry to tell you it's not. It's not big, and it's not clever. You could literally train a monkey to do it. It is not brain surgery (unless, y'know, it is). I'm proud to be a medic, and my feelings on this matter in no way reflect my own ability with a scalpel. At all.
Ahem.
The years have passed, and I have achieved many things of which I am proud, some of which I am not proud at all, and some ambitions which have never come to pass (like never managing to get a 20th level magic-user. Bah. I suppose our dreams must surpass our reach, though). But, of all the things that bring me happiness and pleasure in my absurdly forrtunate life, the greatest is the happy series of accidents which allow me to hold a cat's small intestines out of the way so that the woman I love can stitch up its diaphragm.
My wife and I work together, which to some people would sound like a cruel and unusual punishment, or at least fodder for a crappy 'gentle' sitcom, but for me it is a source of pleasure and fun, and more than anything else makes my job an awful lot easier.
If I go on in this manner of how blessed and happy I am to have such a beautiful, loving and lovely wife I suspect you are likely to vomit all over your computer, so I'll try and explain why before too many electrical goods are wrecked. (Also, as I'm tapping away here it occurs to me that this particular entry seems to have more than a touch of 'luvviness' about it, rather than my usual alcohol-fueled misery. It can't be a coincidence that I've just finished reading Stephen Fry's autobiography, and if this torrent of sugary cheerfulness is too much for you to take, then please send Mr Fry an angry letter of complaint. It's definitely all this fault.)
My wife and I are fortunate to have a similar attitude to work. Fortunate because it prevents blazing rows in the practice, which would be awkward and embarrasing for our nurse and vet colleagues, and distressing for clients and their animals (although I can't help feeling that a blazing row would be closer to the 'family' atmosphere we like to promote at our practice than the more usual good-natured abuse). We like to get on with things - if there's an op on the board, or somone in the waiting room, we'd like to operate on them, or take them into our consulting room (hopefully not getting the two the wrong way round), and get the job done. If there's something outstanding, we find it difficult to sit down, relax, have a coffee, read a textbook, ponder our next move.
This isn't the only way or working, nor is it the best, but it's the way we like to work and so it means we don't get frustrated with each other. It also means that when a cat with its stomach herniated up into its thoracic cavity comes in as an emergency, as happened this week, we know each other well enough to get on with the job at hand with a minimum of panic and stress.
It leads to a more-or-less harmonius working relationship. There are some drawbacks to working closely to a loved one. The principle one that springs to mind is that if another vet does something which we would do differently ourselves, we generally keep quiet about it and don't say anything. There's no right or wrong way to do things, after all, and a lot of approaches to cases work as well as each other (unless you're doing it differently to me. In which case, you're just wrong. Okay?). If I or my wife do something that the other considers to be wrong, however, we'll generally point it out to each other. Forcefully. Often prefaced with the phrase 'You bloody moron! Don't you know that...'
It also makes for very tedious talking-shop evenings at home. If we were more diligent, perhaps we would have a 'no-vet-talk at home' rule, but neither of us can quite muster up the energy to enforce such a thing. Plus, there is then the dreadful danger that either my wife will start talking about horses, or I will start talking about zombies or the imminent rise of the machines, and I think that the veterinary world is a slightly less tedious solution for us in these cases (though I would like to once again pledge my allegience to our metallic masters. Just in case.)
So, a happy working relationship, and blog that is, on the whole, cheerful! The only problem I have with my wife's veterinary abilities is that she seems to believe that surgery is, is some way, clever. Well, I'm sorry to tell you it's not. It's not big, and it's not clever. You could literally train a monkey to do it. It is not brain surgery (unless, y'know, it is). I'm proud to be a medic, and my feelings on this matter in no way reflect my own ability with a scalpel. At all.
Ahem.
Sunday, 24 October 2010
Cult of Personality
Towards the end of a busy afternoon surgery last week, I had the following appointment waiting for me -
'New client, elderly dog. Check over.'
Sounds fairly innocuous, eh? Not the kind of consult to lose any sleep over the night before, trying to decide how to approach it? Not the kind of consult to worry a young and ruggedly handsome vet? (Or me, for that matter). Well, that's what I thought as well, dear reader.
Just shows you.
Disposing of my used syringes from the previous consult, and wiping my table with a practised swish (just writing that has made me wonder how many times I've done that in my career so far...a depressingly large amount, I suspect. Hence why it's a practised swish and not an amateurish smear. Anyway...) I walked out to call in the next client. Readers of previous blogs will be aware that this in itself can be a bit of a minefield, and has on occasion led to me being mortally insulted in front of a packed waiting room. Well, this isn't what happened to me this time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Disturbing, but definitely opposite.
As I called the name of the animal, I was met by the sight of a woman, who I had never met before, light up with a broad grin (a broad, gap-toothed grin at that. I wasn't going to mention that as it doesn't seem relevant but there, I've done it anyway, further confirming to the minds of any American readers that we Brits have the worst dental care in the developed world. Oops) and say (well, t was more of a shriek, really)
'Here he is! It's NICK! Nick's come to see you!' (This last was said to her dog, just to clear up any confusion. I was certainly confused by this point)
She jumped up as quickly as her new hips would allow, and rushed into the consulting room as if she was a teenage girl heading for the front row at the latest Twilight movie.
That was just how the consult started. By the end of it she was singing my praises to the heavens. When she made her appointment for the following week, she apparently told my receptionists (in front of my next, somewhat shell-shocked client) that she would 'always have time for Nick', and threatened something to the effect of taking me away on a leash.
And what had I done, this paragon of veterinary medicine, to receive such effusive praise? I expressed her dog's anal glands. Apparently she had taken a shine to me when I called the previous client through. Well, I have this effect on women (elderly, toothless women).
This may seem something of a mean-spirited blog. Why I am complaining that I'm liked? Well, (and I may have touched on this point before from a few other angles, but what the hell, I'm going to make it again) the problem is it was undeserved praise. Nothing I could have done it that situation would have made any difference, she would still have walked out of the room floating on air as if I was James Herriot reincarnated. It had nothing to do with my skills as a vet, or my ability to talk to people. She just liked me from the outset.
And here's the problem - I've been on the other end as well. The sort of consult where the client's face darkens like a thundery sky when you open your mouth to call them in. It just seems unfair that you're arbitrarily judged, when it's nothing to do with your clinical expertise.
Now, I can understand it. A few blogs ago I was talking about how much I hate going to mechanics, because I know less about car repair than Jane Austin, and all I have to go on is how nice they are to me. This is, of course, the same situation that a lot of clients find themselves in when they visit the vets. There's an old saying at vet school - People don't care what you know, they only want to know that you care. The reaction above, extreme though it was, I suspect comes about because it is quite a nerve-wracking thing taking your pet into the surgery, and it comes as such a relief that the man calling you into the room doesn't immediately have the bedside manner of Harold Shipman that some people sort of...over-compensate.
(Sorry, there was a brief pause there whilst I went to get my fingerless cycling gloves, because I'm bloody freezing. I'm now tapping away looking like an entrant in an Extreme Typing competition)
I'm not that keen on having personal appointments, myself. I get a little depressed when I see an evening surgery that is full of little 'NM' markers, that means the client will only see me. Partially because I slightly resent the implication to the other vets that they can't do the job, and partially because I feel a bit more pressured not to let people down when I am, shall we say, 'the man' (No? Okay, let's not say that).
(Incidentally, I don't want to give you the impression that this is something unique to me - everyone in the practice has a similar string of personal clients. My boss has at least twice as many as I do. It's true that I get more than my fair share, but that's largely because I've simply stayed in the same practice long enough for people to remember my name. The point I'm trying to make is that it's no reflection whatsoever on how good a vet you are)
Well, there you have it. The cult of personality that grows up around vets in their practices. I understand it from the client's point of view, and I'm all for it if it reduces the stress of going to the vets, but I'll never quite lose my tiny twinge of depression that it's nothing to do with your skill in the job. (I should be careful what I wish for - imagine if it was a true measure of my medical knowledge and skills? Not sure I could face looking at the list of consults every day!)
So it goes. Whatever else I leave you with from this blog, you can take one thing for definite.
There'll be at least one more little 'NM' in the consult lists from now on. She's back next Friday. I think I feel a sickie coming on...
'New client, elderly dog. Check over.'
Sounds fairly innocuous, eh? Not the kind of consult to lose any sleep over the night before, trying to decide how to approach it? Not the kind of consult to worry a young and ruggedly handsome vet? (Or me, for that matter). Well, that's what I thought as well, dear reader.
Just shows you.
Disposing of my used syringes from the previous consult, and wiping my table with a practised swish (just writing that has made me wonder how many times I've done that in my career so far...a depressingly large amount, I suspect. Hence why it's a practised swish and not an amateurish smear. Anyway...) I walked out to call in the next client. Readers of previous blogs will be aware that this in itself can be a bit of a minefield, and has on occasion led to me being mortally insulted in front of a packed waiting room. Well, this isn't what happened to me this time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Disturbing, but definitely opposite.
As I called the name of the animal, I was met by the sight of a woman, who I had never met before, light up with a broad grin (a broad, gap-toothed grin at that. I wasn't going to mention that as it doesn't seem relevant but there, I've done it anyway, further confirming to the minds of any American readers that we Brits have the worst dental care in the developed world. Oops) and say (well, t was more of a shriek, really)
'Here he is! It's NICK! Nick's come to see you!' (This last was said to her dog, just to clear up any confusion. I was certainly confused by this point)
She jumped up as quickly as her new hips would allow, and rushed into the consulting room as if she was a teenage girl heading for the front row at the latest Twilight movie.
That was just how the consult started. By the end of it she was singing my praises to the heavens. When she made her appointment for the following week, she apparently told my receptionists (in front of my next, somewhat shell-shocked client) that she would 'always have time for Nick', and threatened something to the effect of taking me away on a leash.
And what had I done, this paragon of veterinary medicine, to receive such effusive praise? I expressed her dog's anal glands. Apparently she had taken a shine to me when I called the previous client through. Well, I have this effect on women (elderly, toothless women).
This may seem something of a mean-spirited blog. Why I am complaining that I'm liked? Well, (and I may have touched on this point before from a few other angles, but what the hell, I'm going to make it again) the problem is it was undeserved praise. Nothing I could have done it that situation would have made any difference, she would still have walked out of the room floating on air as if I was James Herriot reincarnated. It had nothing to do with my skills as a vet, or my ability to talk to people. She just liked me from the outset.
And here's the problem - I've been on the other end as well. The sort of consult where the client's face darkens like a thundery sky when you open your mouth to call them in. It just seems unfair that you're arbitrarily judged, when it's nothing to do with your clinical expertise.
Now, I can understand it. A few blogs ago I was talking about how much I hate going to mechanics, because I know less about car repair than Jane Austin, and all I have to go on is how nice they are to me. This is, of course, the same situation that a lot of clients find themselves in when they visit the vets. There's an old saying at vet school - People don't care what you know, they only want to know that you care. The reaction above, extreme though it was, I suspect comes about because it is quite a nerve-wracking thing taking your pet into the surgery, and it comes as such a relief that the man calling you into the room doesn't immediately have the bedside manner of Harold Shipman that some people sort of...over-compensate.
(Sorry, there was a brief pause there whilst I went to get my fingerless cycling gloves, because I'm bloody freezing. I'm now tapping away looking like an entrant in an Extreme Typing competition)
I'm not that keen on having personal appointments, myself. I get a little depressed when I see an evening surgery that is full of little 'NM' markers, that means the client will only see me. Partially because I slightly resent the implication to the other vets that they can't do the job, and partially because I feel a bit more pressured not to let people down when I am, shall we say, 'the man' (No? Okay, let's not say that).
(Incidentally, I don't want to give you the impression that this is something unique to me - everyone in the practice has a similar string of personal clients. My boss has at least twice as many as I do. It's true that I get more than my fair share, but that's largely because I've simply stayed in the same practice long enough for people to remember my name. The point I'm trying to make is that it's no reflection whatsoever on how good a vet you are)
Well, there you have it. The cult of personality that grows up around vets in their practices. I understand it from the client's point of view, and I'm all for it if it reduces the stress of going to the vets, but I'll never quite lose my tiny twinge of depression that it's nothing to do with your skill in the job. (I should be careful what I wish for - imagine if it was a true measure of my medical knowledge and skills? Not sure I could face looking at the list of consults every day!)
So it goes. Whatever else I leave you with from this blog, you can take one thing for definite.
There'll be at least one more little 'NM' in the consult lists from now on. She's back next Friday. I think I feel a sickie coming on...
Monday, 18 October 2010
Battle of the sexes
It's just possible that, because of my profession, I have a slightly skewed view of humanity. In fact, I'm certain of it - and reason I'm certain of it is because of my answer to the question 'What is the main difference between men and women?'
My answer would be 'Women seems to like pus a lot more than men do.'
This is perhaps a surprising answer. AFter all, aren't the fairer sex made of sugar and spice and all things nice?
(Incidentally, what a horrible, sexist poem that is - so all boys are made of slugs and snails, eh? Might as well say that they're made of dog turd and have done with it. Imagine if the lines of that poem were reversed?)
Anyway, if that is true, then it must also be true that opposites attract because I have yet to work with a woman who didn't look upon the prospect of bursting a ripe cat bite abscess with a glee that would more normally be associated with a minor lottery windfall.
What is it about pus that is so exciting and endlessly fascinating to girls? To me it's a foul-smelling mix of white blood cells and bacteria that is better removed by necessity from an animal. To the ladies in my life it's like wine produced from God's own vineyard. They actually battle over who will get to lance the abscess when a particularily unfrotunate specimen comes in.
It seems to be quite specific to abscesses, too - I've yet to work with a female that will jump up and down with excitement at the prospect of picking maggots out of a rabbit's backside, or providing relief to an obstipated cat (obstipation is like constipation only much, much worse. Think of a cement mixer and you'll be in the right ball park). But thrust a juicy cat bite abscess towards them and they'll be charging for the scalpels quicker than you can say 'purulent'.
(I'm mostly talking about cats here for a few reasons. Dogs are less likely to get into a fight than cats - there's a reason for all that rolling on the back, submissive behaviour. Cats don't do that so much. If they don't get on, they'll generally settle it with physical violence - they're a bit like rednecks in that respect. Rabbits, on the other hand, simply have a problem with their pus. It's more like cottage cheese than anything else, and doesn't squirt satisfactorily out of a hole like lovely cat pus. You generally have to scrape it out with a curette. Apologies if you're eating, by the way.)
This may or may not be a surprise to you - I bet you are either a perpentrator or a victim of the lesser phenomenon, though - humans seem to be another source of endless fascination for daughters of Eve. Anyone who has ever sat through an evening having their spots squeezed (or squeezing the spots of) their siginificant other knows what I'm talking about here. In any case, I'm more than happy to hand the victims of feline violence to my female colleagues for rapid and gleeful lancing. Hey, it saves me a job.
Well, there you have it. The lesson for tonight - there's something in the feminine psyche which takes great delight in seeing nice fresh pus oozing from a gaping wound. Whether this lesson is of any use to anyone is another matter entirely. Hey, I don't make this stuff up, I just report it.
And please, next time your cat has a suspicious sweling on it's head two days after getting into a fight, ask for a female vet. They, and I, will be very grateful.
My answer would be 'Women seems to like pus a lot more than men do.'
This is perhaps a surprising answer. AFter all, aren't the fairer sex made of sugar and spice and all things nice?
(Incidentally, what a horrible, sexist poem that is - so all boys are made of slugs and snails, eh? Might as well say that they're made of dog turd and have done with it. Imagine if the lines of that poem were reversed?)
Anyway, if that is true, then it must also be true that opposites attract because I have yet to work with a woman who didn't look upon the prospect of bursting a ripe cat bite abscess with a glee that would more normally be associated with a minor lottery windfall.
What is it about pus that is so exciting and endlessly fascinating to girls? To me it's a foul-smelling mix of white blood cells and bacteria that is better removed by necessity from an animal. To the ladies in my life it's like wine produced from God's own vineyard. They actually battle over who will get to lance the abscess when a particularily unfrotunate specimen comes in.
It seems to be quite specific to abscesses, too - I've yet to work with a female that will jump up and down with excitement at the prospect of picking maggots out of a rabbit's backside, or providing relief to an obstipated cat (obstipation is like constipation only much, much worse. Think of a cement mixer and you'll be in the right ball park). But thrust a juicy cat bite abscess towards them and they'll be charging for the scalpels quicker than you can say 'purulent'.
(I'm mostly talking about cats here for a few reasons. Dogs are less likely to get into a fight than cats - there's a reason for all that rolling on the back, submissive behaviour. Cats don't do that so much. If they don't get on, they'll generally settle it with physical violence - they're a bit like rednecks in that respect. Rabbits, on the other hand, simply have a problem with their pus. It's more like cottage cheese than anything else, and doesn't squirt satisfactorily out of a hole like lovely cat pus. You generally have to scrape it out with a curette. Apologies if you're eating, by the way.)
This may or may not be a surprise to you - I bet you are either a perpentrator or a victim of the lesser phenomenon, though - humans seem to be another source of endless fascination for daughters of Eve. Anyone who has ever sat through an evening having their spots squeezed (or squeezing the spots of) their siginificant other knows what I'm talking about here. In any case, I'm more than happy to hand the victims of feline violence to my female colleagues for rapid and gleeful lancing. Hey, it saves me a job.
Well, there you have it. The lesson for tonight - there's something in the feminine psyche which takes great delight in seeing nice fresh pus oozing from a gaping wound. Whether this lesson is of any use to anyone is another matter entirely. Hey, I don't make this stuff up, I just report it.
And please, next time your cat has a suspicious sweling on it's head two days after getting into a fight, ask for a female vet. They, and I, will be very grateful.
Thursday, 23 September 2010
The Youth in Asia - part three mark 2. Once more, with feeling!
Okay, here's the thing.
Kerry and I went out for a nice evening's gaming with a a friend last night, and also checked over his jack russell, Max. I've known Max for years. Lovely little dog, he sits under my legs when I'm playing games, and I absently tickle his ear when I'm rolling dice (Yes, yes, I know I'm a nerd! I'm fine with it, so there)
Anyway, Max has been ill for a while, and last night was also a 'check up'. It had been on the cards that he might be needing to be put to sleep, by friend had phoned me last night and told me that Max was doing much better, so Kerry and I took some wine, a nice board game, and looked forward to an evening's gaming.
When we got there, we checked Max over, and sadly, he was much worse. He needed to be put to sleep. And so that's what we did.
Then I came home and wrote the blog below. I was in a funny frame of mind - mentally, I'd been set up for relaxing, fun, gaming, and then suddenly had to shift the gears round in my head and turn into caring vet mode. I was sad, and upset that I'd in some way betrayed Max - all those times I'd been tickling his ear, or his belly, then one night I came round and killed him. Unfortunately, this seemed to warp my fragile little mind, and I'm sorry to say that the blog post that came out of it wasn't very good at all. I deleted it after I'd written it, for a number of reasons.
Firstly, it was intended to be an exploration of how performing euthanasia affects the person performing it. I wanted to explore the idea of what it might mean for human euthanasia, and how doctors may cope with it. Instead, it turned into a self-pitying 'poor me' polemic on how I don't like putting animals to sleep - fair enough, you might say, but it wasn't really what I was trying to say.
Secondly, it didn't feel very respectful to Max to be whinging about how unhappy -I- was.
Thirdly, I'm a bit of a drama queen. Anyone who follows me on twitter or facebook may be familiar with the intermittent angst-ridden 'waah! this happened' type of post that I like to squeeze in between puns just to throw everyone off track. What can I say? I wear my heart on my sleeve. If I'm miserable, I want everyone in the world to know! Thanks to the magic of the Internet, that is now possible. Ahh, technology :) This behaviour is not something I'm proud of, but it's part of me and there it is.
Fourthly, it made me sounds like a suicidal nut-job. This is not the case, honestly! I was just having a 'black dog' moment, if you'll pardon the pun (there I go again!)
So, I've decided this morning to reinstate the blog, in a slightly more rational, and hopefully light-hearted, frame of mind. I've chosen to do this for several reasons...
(Oh for God's sake! Get on with it!)
Firstly - well, the blog was at least partially successful in that it gives you an insight into the mind who has just put a well-loved dog to sleep. Well, my mind, anyway. Morbid chap that I am, I always find it slightly awkward meeting a friend's pet, because there's a little voice inside me that wonders if I will ultimately be the person who puts them to sleep. Yes, I'm a lot of fun at parties.
Secondly, I thought it might help to comment on some of the things I said in it. I'll add in some further thoughts in italics as we go - the great benefit of arguing with a past self is that they can't answer back. Take that, Nick from last night! Ha ha!
Thirdly, did I mention that I'm a bit of a drama queen? The blog from last night, poorly written and rambling though I feel it was, does reflect a piece of my personality that is, in it's own way, just as valid as the normal, handsome, well-adjusted fella that I am this this morning.
As you read the blog, especially the self-indulgent 'pity me!' parts of it, bear in mind that the guy below has got a pretty good life - a nice house, a lovely wife, great friends. How many people in this world have as much as him? Don't feel too sorry for him, he thrives on that sort of nonsense. Anyway, on with the show!
I'm not a cowboy. I've never held a gun, and I haven't really got the swaggering gait required. We do seem to have collected a number of horses here, but neither my wife nor myself use them to round up cattle, or escape from Red Indians (or Native Americans if you prefer...calling them that doesn't change what we did to them though...). I have never been part of a posse. But there's a part of my life that resonates with the gravelly-voiced Clint quote above. I've never taken the life of another human being, but by any definition, I am a killer.
This is a selfish post. It's selfish because it's about me - or, at least, about vets. I've talked about the act of putting an animal to sleep several times in this blog, but tonight I'm not thinking about them, for a change. I say for a change because during the process itself, it's all about them. The animal comes first, and rightly so. I feel guilty even writing this, because I am aware that I am alive, and all those many that I have seen, have killed, no longer have a voice for anything.
The more perceptive amongst you may have realised by now that this one isn't going to have many jokes in it. Sorry about that. Scroll down a few, I'm sure you'll find one. If you've all tuned out by now and I'm just talking to myself, well that's just fine too.
Most of these blogs are precipitated by an event in real life. Tonight, my wife and I went round to my friends house to play a board game, and check over his poorly dog, Max. Instead of playing the game, I put Max to sleep.
So tonight, I want to consider the effect this has upon me, upon the vet. Upon the instrument of the animal's destruction. I'm aware that to some of you - those of you who, mistakenly in my opinion, believe that humanity is something special, something quite apart from the rest of the natural world - may feel I am being melodramatic. They're only animals. All I can tell you is that this is how it makes me feel, and that, to me, the difference between humans and animals is not as great as is commonly regarded.
Except, young Nick from last night, it's not quite as simple as that, is it? I stand by my assertion that humans are animals, but, much as it pains me to admit it, a human leaves a much bigger hole behind them than an animal. This is probably because we're humans (well, most of us). What I'm trying to say is - human euthanasia, though I wholeheartedly agree with the idea in principle, would be much...well, messier, than animal. No-one's ever going to conspire to murder a dog in order to gain their inheritance, for instance. Humans leave a lot more clutter behind from their lives, which would makes things much more complicated that I suggest above.
Still, personally, and as an aside, I would be happier having the occasional person bumped off deliberately before their time than the current situation, where every single one of us is dragged on and on until our bodies litter ally stop working. Ugh. Anyway...
Early on in our career, vets learn (much as in many other professions with unpleasant tasks, I suspect) to suppress it, not to think about it, to joke about it, and to reassure ourselves that we are doing the right thing, that we are relieving suffering. Most of the time we are. Some of the time we aren't. We do it regardless, because we know the alternatives are not good.
Here is how the act of killing another animal makes me feel - a little sad. That's it. If it made me feel any worse, I wouldn't be able to function on a day to day basis. So, I feel sad, and usually professionally proud that it went well, that no more suffering was caused than was necessary.
At least, that's how it makes me feel most of the time. In my darker moments - moments like now, for instance, it makes me feel...well, it's a hell of a thing, to kill an animal. Taking away all those moments, for ever. In my very dark moments my mind conjures up a special hell for people who killed, who are confronted with all the lives that they have taken, and all the person can say is that they were doing their job, that they were relieving suffering. It's crazy, I know, because I'm pretty sure that there is nothing after death just as there was nothing before birth. Pretty sure. I think of the times when I haven't been entirely sure of the decision, and I have allowed the owner to influence the outcome. I think about the times when I knew it was the wrong thing, and I did it anyway, because there was 'no choice'. (Here I'm skirting around the issue that I sometimes do it because it is the easiest, and not the right, thing to do.) I think about the times when it was the right thing.
This may sound like I don't believe in euthanasia, but that's not true. I passionately believe that quantity of life is nothing if there is no quality. What is the point of continued existence, if all of that existence is pain? My wife once was peripherally involved with the case of a dog, rushed into emergency surgery, that was found to have a bleeding inoperable tumour on its liver. The vet in charge informed the owner, and sadly recommended euthanasia. The owner absolutely refused, and made the vet stitch the dog back up. He came and collected his dog, and took it home. It died overnight. That single case tells you all I rationally believe about the continuation of life. It is a concern to me that most of the patients I treat will have better deaths than my own.
No, this post is nothing more than a single, selfish lament. A long drawn out 'why me?', railing against the choices which have lead me to be the one responsible for the deaths of so many. I want to say that it isn't good for the soul, but I don't believe that such a thing exists so I'm stuck with simply saying that it doesn't feel good.
I'm running out of steam, (I think I mean 'wine' - I certainly found an empty bottle next to the laptop when I came down this morning!) and I think I'm glad for it. Other concepts flit through my mind - the idea of death as simply a loss of time. The process of dying. The culpability of the killer. But I find myself unwilling or unable to explore them as I thought I would.
I'm not sure I'll even publish this post - it seems very out of my normal writing style. Perhaps I'll re-read it in the morning. If I do, and if you're reading it, then rest assured, normal service will be restored soon.
I -did- mention that I was a drama queen, didn't I?
In the meantime, I can think of no better way to end this morose rambling than with the save words of Mr Eastwood, who says more with six words than I can manage with this whole blog. After the opening quote, his sidekick, the Schofield kid says 'Yeah, well, I guess they had it coming.
Clint looks into the middle distance.
Kerry and I went out for a nice evening's gaming with a a friend last night, and also checked over his jack russell, Max. I've known Max for years. Lovely little dog, he sits under my legs when I'm playing games, and I absently tickle his ear when I'm rolling dice (Yes, yes, I know I'm a nerd! I'm fine with it, so there)
Anyway, Max has been ill for a while, and last night was also a 'check up'. It had been on the cards that he might be needing to be put to sleep, by friend had phoned me last night and told me that Max was doing much better, so Kerry and I took some wine, a nice board game, and looked forward to an evening's gaming.
When we got there, we checked Max over, and sadly, he was much worse. He needed to be put to sleep. And so that's what we did.
Then I came home and wrote the blog below. I was in a funny frame of mind - mentally, I'd been set up for relaxing, fun, gaming, and then suddenly had to shift the gears round in my head and turn into caring vet mode. I was sad, and upset that I'd in some way betrayed Max - all those times I'd been tickling his ear, or his belly, then one night I came round and killed him. Unfortunately, this seemed to warp my fragile little mind, and I'm sorry to say that the blog post that came out of it wasn't very good at all. I deleted it after I'd written it, for a number of reasons.
Firstly, it was intended to be an exploration of how performing euthanasia affects the person performing it. I wanted to explore the idea of what it might mean for human euthanasia, and how doctors may cope with it. Instead, it turned into a self-pitying 'poor me' polemic on how I don't like putting animals to sleep - fair enough, you might say, but it wasn't really what I was trying to say.
Secondly, it didn't feel very respectful to Max to be whinging about how unhappy -I- was.
Thirdly, I'm a bit of a drama queen. Anyone who follows me on twitter or facebook may be familiar with the intermittent angst-ridden 'waah! this happened' type of post that I like to squeeze in between puns just to throw everyone off track. What can I say? I wear my heart on my sleeve. If I'm miserable, I want everyone in the world to know! Thanks to the magic of the Internet, that is now possible. Ahh, technology :) This behaviour is not something I'm proud of, but it's part of me and there it is.
Fourthly, it made me sounds like a suicidal nut-job. This is not the case, honestly! I was just having a 'black dog' moment, if you'll pardon the pun (there I go again!)
So, I've decided this morning to reinstate the blog, in a slightly more rational, and hopefully light-hearted, frame of mind. I've chosen to do this for several reasons...
(Oh for God's sake! Get on with it!)
Firstly - well, the blog was at least partially successful in that it gives you an insight into the mind who has just put a well-loved dog to sleep. Well, my mind, anyway. Morbid chap that I am, I always find it slightly awkward meeting a friend's pet, because there's a little voice inside me that wonders if I will ultimately be the person who puts them to sleep. Yes, I'm a lot of fun at parties.
Secondly, I thought it might help to comment on some of the things I said in it. I'll add in some further thoughts in italics as we go - the great benefit of arguing with a past self is that they can't answer back. Take that, Nick from last night! Ha ha!
Thirdly, did I mention that I'm a bit of a drama queen? The blog from last night, poorly written and rambling though I feel it was, does reflect a piece of my personality that is, in it's own way, just as valid as the normal, handsome, well-adjusted fella that I am this this morning.
As you read the blog, especially the self-indulgent 'pity me!' parts of it, bear in mind that the guy below has got a pretty good life - a nice house, a lovely wife, great friends. How many people in this world have as much as him? Don't feel too sorry for him, he thrives on that sort of nonsense. Anyway, on with the show!
It's a hell of a thing, killing a man. Take away all he's got, and all he's gonna have. - Will Munny, Unforgiven
I'm not a cowboy. I've never held a gun, and I haven't really got the swaggering gait required. We do seem to have collected a number of horses here, but neither my wife nor myself use them to round up cattle, or escape from Red Indians (or Native Americans if you prefer...calling them that doesn't change what we did to them though...). I have never been part of a posse. But there's a part of my life that resonates with the gravelly-voiced Clint quote above. I've never taken the life of another human being, but by any definition, I am a killer.
This is a selfish post. It's selfish because it's about me - or, at least, about vets. I've talked about the act of putting an animal to sleep several times in this blog, but tonight I'm not thinking about them, for a change. I say for a change because during the process itself, it's all about them. The animal comes first, and rightly so. I feel guilty even writing this, because I am aware that I am alive, and all those many that I have seen, have killed, no longer have a voice for anything.
The more perceptive amongst you may have realised by now that this one isn't going to have many jokes in it. Sorry about that. Scroll down a few, I'm sure you'll find one. If you've all tuned out by now and I'm just talking to myself, well that's just fine too.
Most of these blogs are precipitated by an event in real life. Tonight, my wife and I went round to my friends house to play a board game, and check over his poorly dog, Max. Instead of playing the game, I put Max to sleep.
So tonight, I want to consider the effect this has upon me, upon the vet. Upon the instrument of the animal's destruction. I'm aware that to some of you - those of you who, mistakenly in my opinion, believe that humanity is something special, something quite apart from the rest of the natural world - may feel I am being melodramatic. They're only animals. All I can tell you is that this is how it makes me feel, and that, to me, the difference between humans and animals is not as great as is commonly regarded.
Except, young Nick from last night, it's not quite as simple as that, is it? I stand by my assertion that humans are animals, but, much as it pains me to admit it, a human leaves a much bigger hole behind them than an animal. This is probably because we're humans (well, most of us). What I'm trying to say is - human euthanasia, though I wholeheartedly agree with the idea in principle, would be much...well, messier, than animal. No-one's ever going to conspire to murder a dog in order to gain their inheritance, for instance. Humans leave a lot more clutter behind from their lives, which would makes things much more complicated that I suggest above.
Still, personally, and as an aside, I would be happier having the occasional person bumped off deliberately before their time than the current situation, where every single one of us is dragged on and on until our bodies litter ally stop working. Ugh. Anyway...
Early on in our career, vets learn (much as in many other professions with unpleasant tasks, I suspect) to suppress it, not to think about it, to joke about it, and to reassure ourselves that we are doing the right thing, that we are relieving suffering. Most of the time we are. Some of the time we aren't. We do it regardless, because we know the alternatives are not good.
Here is how the act of killing another animal makes me feel - a little sad. That's it. If it made me feel any worse, I wouldn't be able to function on a day to day basis. So, I feel sad, and usually professionally proud that it went well, that no more suffering was caused than was necessary.
At least, that's how it makes me feel most of the time. In my darker moments - moments like now, for instance, it makes me feel...well, it's a hell of a thing, to kill an animal. Taking away all those moments, for ever. In my very dark moments my mind conjures up a special hell for people who killed, who are confronted with all the lives that they have taken, and all the person can say is that they were doing their job, that they were relieving suffering. It's crazy, I know, because I'm pretty sure that there is nothing after death just as there was nothing before birth. Pretty sure. I think of the times when I haven't been entirely sure of the decision, and I have allowed the owner to influence the outcome. I think about the times when I knew it was the wrong thing, and I did it anyway, because there was 'no choice'. (Here I'm skirting around the issue that I sometimes do it because it is the easiest, and not the right, thing to do.) I think about the times when it was the right thing.
This may sound like I don't believe in euthanasia, but that's not true. I passionately believe that quantity of life is nothing if there is no quality. What is the point of continued existence, if all of that existence is pain? My wife once was peripherally involved with the case of a dog, rushed into emergency surgery, that was found to have a bleeding inoperable tumour on its liver. The vet in charge informed the owner, and sadly recommended euthanasia. The owner absolutely refused, and made the vet stitch the dog back up. He came and collected his dog, and took it home. It died overnight. That single case tells you all I rationally believe about the continuation of life. It is a concern to me that most of the patients I treat will have better deaths than my own.
No, this post is nothing more than a single, selfish lament. A long drawn out 'why me?', railing against the choices which have lead me to be the one responsible for the deaths of so many. I want to say that it isn't good for the soul, but I don't believe that such a thing exists so I'm stuck with simply saying that it doesn't feel good.
I'm running out of steam, (I think I mean 'wine' - I certainly found an empty bottle next to the laptop when I came down this morning!) and I think I'm glad for it. Other concepts flit through my mind - the idea of death as simply a loss of time. The process of dying. The culpability of the killer. But I find myself unwilling or unable to explore them as I thought I would.
I'm not sure I'll even publish this post - it seems very out of my normal writing style. Perhaps I'll re-read it in the morning. If I do, and if you're reading it, then rest assured, normal service will be restored soon.
I -did- mention that I was a drama queen, didn't I?
In the meantime, I can think of no better way to end this morose rambling than with the save words of Mr Eastwood, who says more with six words than I can manage with this whole blog. After the opening quote, his sidekick, the Schofield kid says 'Yeah, well, I guess they had it coming.
Clint looks into the middle distance.
We've all got it coming, kid.
Saturday, 24 July 2010
The other side of the table
I don't like mechanics.
Okay, that's not entirely true. I'm sure there are lots of mechanics who I'd really like if I met them socially. (Well, okay, even this is stretching the truth - being a socially-inept geek I don't really have a lot in common with the average grease monkey) What I'm trying to say is - I don't like taking my car to mechanics.
Part of the problem is that I'm a man (please don't take that quote out of context) and so it seems to be assumed that I was born with some deep underlying insight into how a carburettor works (or even what it does) and so the fact that I don't have the slightest clue already marks me out as a failure the second I step out of my car.
But how do they know you don't really understand the secrets of the internal combustion engine, I hear you cry? Don't try that with me. They know all right. They know the second they lay eyes on me, that I'm not the kind of man who takes pleasure in reading What Car magazine. They can tell just by looking that I used to get picked last in PE lessons. The bastards.
Once, taking my car in for a routine service, the guy behind the counter (with deep, ingrained oil around his fingernails - the kind that looks like it could never wash off even if he had his hands flayed0 asked me the mileage of my car. I had no idea. He looked quizzically at me like the cop in the Terminator when Kyle Reese grabs him by the lapels and demands to know what year it is. How could anyone not know what their mileage on their car is? I felt such a deep sense of masculine failure, I wanted to jump up on the desk and cry out 'I changed a tyre! I changed a tyre once, and it was raining, so there!'.
I didn't, of course. I was too humiliated, because his first question was 'What is your registration?' and I hadn't known that one, either. I had to go outside and check. Once, I was standing in a queue to pay for my fuel at a petrol station, and a woman in the shop was looking for oil for her car. She wasn't sure which one it needed, so she glanced around. It suddenly dawned on me that I was the only man in the whole building. The fact did not escape her either, for rather than ask at the counter she approached me, waving a tub of Castrol something-or-other, and asked me 'Is this the right one for my Peugeot?'
Everyone in the shop turned to look at me. I was so caught between umbrage at her sexist assumption and embarrassment that I didn't know the answer (of course!) that I just mumbled 'Don't know.' I couldn't leave the shop then, which would have been my preferred option, because I still had a car full of unpaid-for petrol, so I had to slowly wend my way up the queue of shame to pay, everyone there knowing that I had failed at some unwritten man-test.
You may get the impression from the above that I have something of a man-chip on my shoulder when it comes to mechanics, and you may well be right. You may also be wondering by now what the hell this has got to do with being a vet. Well, be patient (heh. Little medical joke there, see. Patient? No? Please yourselves.) Here is the tenuous link...
What I really don't like about going to the mechanics is that, basically, if something is wrong with my car, I don't have a clue what to do about it. I'm going to have to take it to someone else, who is going to look at it, tell me what's wrong with it, and then, hopefully, fix it. I will wait anxiously for the bill, really not having the slightest idea what it will be, and hoping that I haven't picked some cowboy who instead of fixing my car has just hastily Sellotaped in back together. I have no way of telling a good mechanic from a bad one, and all I can do is pick someone who seems vaguely nice and hope for the best - though whether being vaguely nice has anything to do with some one's skills in engine repair, I have no idea.
Sound familiar?
What I'm saying is - it is very easy to forget, as a Veterinary surgeon, what a depressing, stressful, expensive and scary experience it can be to take what is essential a family member, and leave them with a stranger for a day whilst they do unpleasant things to them, and charge you for the privilege. Now (and I cringe at saying this because I'm a thoroughly middle-class English person, and any hint of self-praise is usually enough to send me almost into a coma of embarrassment) I am, as it happens, fairly popular with clients, and they seem to quite like me. Part of the reason for this is that I'm a dreadful toady, and am almost unbearably nice to people because I don't like to cause a scene, but a lot of it is because that I do understand that it's not fun to take your animal to see a man in a green coat, and the more you can relax people, and explain as clearly as you can what you think, why you think things happening, and why you would like to stick sharp things into their beloved friend, the more they will trust you.
I do keep that in mind, but even so, a number of things have rather reminded me what it is like to be on the other side of the consulting room table. The first is that my own dog is not very well herself. Being vets, we thought that anything that happened to her we would probably sort out ourselves, but being the stubborn little so-and-so that she is, she decided to develop a condition that needs surgery, the success of which greatly depends on the experience of the surgeon with that particular op. And the experience we have with the op is zero, so we have had to refer her.
Which basically means we have had to ring round vets, getting appointments, getting (dare I say it) quotes for the operation, and generally worrying. Then we've had to sit in vets waiting rooms, trying to make small talk with other people whilst worrying about leaving our dog, and the bill, and whether the anaesthetic would go okay, and whether the vet would be nice to us, and so on. Karmically, it was probably some form of cosmic payback for the stress and misery I have unwittingly caused to other clients in a similar situation. Doctors, apparently, make the worst patients, but it's a fair bet that vets make the worst pet owners, because I was a blubbering mess the night before she went it.
(By the way, the operation has been delayed for the moment, because the condition - laryngeal paralysis - isn't quite bad enough for the surgery (a laryngeal tie-back) yet - some more stress ahead! Yay!)
The second thing that reminded me was talking to some friends a few weeks ago - they had taken their cats to see their local vet to get them vaccinated prior to a house move - and ended up feeling cheated and a little annoyed because the vet responsible gave a vaccine that they didn't feel was necessary without telling them, and generally not really explaining what they were doing. To use my mechanic analogy - it's like me being told that my flange nuts needed tightening, and it would cost me eighty quid. I've no idea whether they do or not, but if the mechanic doesn't take the time to tell me what a flange nut is, why its come loose and why it needs tightening again, I'm going to feel a bit ripped off even if my car would have exploded in a shower of oil and surprised vet had he not done so. It's not so much what they did, as how they did it, and this kind of thing contributes to the feeling amongst people that vets are money-grabbing bastards. We really don't do ourselves any favours on this front.
The third thing is the elephant in the room. Not literally (at least I don't think so - I'll go and check, Hang on....nope, no elephants) - but this week a programme was shown on BBC called 'It shouldn't happen -in- a vets' (very clever, see what they did there? I would never stoop so low to use a pun of a James Herriot title for my blog). Now, I have my fair share of issues with this programme, and I don't want them to turn into a rant, but I'll mention a few here. Panorama (which I think the program was - it wasn't clear from the opening credits. I do wonder if it was supposed to be a Panorama but was extended into it's own show? Anyhoo...), which used to be a paragon of impartial reporting, seems to have stooped to the lowest brand of journalistic mischief making. It always starts with the worry-maker-in-chief, Jeremy Vine, standing outside (see! This is an important issue, far too important to sit around behind a desk and tell you about), suddenly telling you that something you previously had no worries about at all may actually kill you/spend all your money/give you cancer. The programme then goes on to tell you, in no uncertain terms, exactly what you should think about this particular issue (which is always WORRY WORRY WORRY WHY AREN'T YOU WORRIED THIS PERSON/THESE PEOPLE IS/ARE OUT TO KILL YOU/STEAL YOUR MONEY/WORRY YOUR LIVESTOCK) - and the vet episode was no exception, right down to the freeze-framing the bad vets in black and white vaguely mugshot poses whilst apparently throttling cats, whereas depicting the nice vets in their living rooms, or in a lovely green field surrounded by nice cows.
I could write a whole blog on the show (which seemed to suggest you'd be far better taking your animal to a vet who has worked on his own for twenty years, than a large, well-supported practice with state of the art facilities. I don't work for one of the large franchise practices that seemed to be taking the brunt of the flak from this programme, but take it from me, I would rather have my own dog operated in one of them than in a single-vet practice.) but that isn't really what I want to waffle about. The thing that upset most of my clients, watching the show, was a brief image of the EVIL vet swinging a cat around the room holding it by the scruff of it's neck. Well, it may be a surprise, but this is a recognised restraint technique for cats if you're on your own - watch the video again and you may well notice that the cat itself doesn't look stressed or upset, and neither vet or cat were at risk from harm during the procedure. It's a technique I have used myself on many occasions (including on my own cat!) and in front of clients too - the point being, I have explained to the clients first what I am about to do, and why. Everything looks bad taken out of context (like my comment above, about it being a problem that I'm a man)
(Incidentally, don't get me wrong - there were a several rather upsetting things shown, like the dog which had it's leg amputated being -very forcibly- restrained post operatively, and a senior vet squeezing used blood back into a bag so it could be re-used on another dog, as well as a pretty depressing laissez-faire attitude amongst student nurses towards animals)
The point, for the purposes of this blog, was that scenes of animal restraint that look fairly routine to me, can be extremely shocking for people unused to such a thing - especially in the animal being restrained is their beloved pet. I'm sure those clients, with horrified looks on their faces, would understand a lot more if they weren't shown the footage of such by the pantomime Jeremy Vine, which accompanying operatic music, but were talked through the procedure by someone who actually knew what they were talking about.
Well, the torrent of words is slowly so I feel I need to creep towards a conclusion, which I suppose is this. If you're a vet, try and remember how horrible it is taking your pet in when you've been worrying about that cough he had all week. If you're not a vet (and really, why would you want to be?) - shop around! Find a vet that explains things to the level you want them explained. If they don't, you'll feel ripped-off whatever the bill, and it's a recipe for misunderstanding and all manner of Royal-college nastiness.
We're all human, you know. Well, except for mechanics, that is.
Okay, that's not entirely true. I'm sure there are lots of mechanics who I'd really like if I met them socially. (Well, okay, even this is stretching the truth - being a socially-inept geek I don't really have a lot in common with the average grease monkey) What I'm trying to say is - I don't like taking my car to mechanics.
Part of the problem is that I'm a man (please don't take that quote out of context) and so it seems to be assumed that I was born with some deep underlying insight into how a carburettor works (or even what it does) and so the fact that I don't have the slightest clue already marks me out as a failure the second I step out of my car.
But how do they know you don't really understand the secrets of the internal combustion engine, I hear you cry? Don't try that with me. They know all right. They know the second they lay eyes on me, that I'm not the kind of man who takes pleasure in reading What Car magazine. They can tell just by looking that I used to get picked last in PE lessons. The bastards.
Once, taking my car in for a routine service, the guy behind the counter (with deep, ingrained oil around his fingernails - the kind that looks like it could never wash off even if he had his hands flayed0 asked me the mileage of my car. I had no idea. He looked quizzically at me like the cop in the Terminator when Kyle Reese grabs him by the lapels and demands to know what year it is. How could anyone not know what their mileage on their car is? I felt such a deep sense of masculine failure, I wanted to jump up on the desk and cry out 'I changed a tyre! I changed a tyre once, and it was raining, so there!'.
I didn't, of course. I was too humiliated, because his first question was 'What is your registration?' and I hadn't known that one, either. I had to go outside and check. Once, I was standing in a queue to pay for my fuel at a petrol station, and a woman in the shop was looking for oil for her car. She wasn't sure which one it needed, so she glanced around. It suddenly dawned on me that I was the only man in the whole building. The fact did not escape her either, for rather than ask at the counter she approached me, waving a tub of Castrol something-or-other, and asked me 'Is this the right one for my Peugeot?'
Everyone in the shop turned to look at me. I was so caught between umbrage at her sexist assumption and embarrassment that I didn't know the answer (of course!) that I just mumbled 'Don't know.' I couldn't leave the shop then, which would have been my preferred option, because I still had a car full of unpaid-for petrol, so I had to slowly wend my way up the queue of shame to pay, everyone there knowing that I had failed at some unwritten man-test.
You may get the impression from the above that I have something of a man-chip on my shoulder when it comes to mechanics, and you may well be right. You may also be wondering by now what the hell this has got to do with being a vet. Well, be patient (heh. Little medical joke there, see. Patient? No? Please yourselves.) Here is the tenuous link...
What I really don't like about going to the mechanics is that, basically, if something is wrong with my car, I don't have a clue what to do about it. I'm going to have to take it to someone else, who is going to look at it, tell me what's wrong with it, and then, hopefully, fix it. I will wait anxiously for the bill, really not having the slightest idea what it will be, and hoping that I haven't picked some cowboy who instead of fixing my car has just hastily Sellotaped in back together. I have no way of telling a good mechanic from a bad one, and all I can do is pick someone who seems vaguely nice and hope for the best - though whether being vaguely nice has anything to do with some one's skills in engine repair, I have no idea.
Sound familiar?
What I'm saying is - it is very easy to forget, as a Veterinary surgeon, what a depressing, stressful, expensive and scary experience it can be to take what is essential a family member, and leave them with a stranger for a day whilst they do unpleasant things to them, and charge you for the privilege. Now (and I cringe at saying this because I'm a thoroughly middle-class English person, and any hint of self-praise is usually enough to send me almost into a coma of embarrassment) I am, as it happens, fairly popular with clients, and they seem to quite like me. Part of the reason for this is that I'm a dreadful toady, and am almost unbearably nice to people because I don't like to cause a scene, but a lot of it is because that I do understand that it's not fun to take your animal to see a man in a green coat, and the more you can relax people, and explain as clearly as you can what you think, why you think things happening, and why you would like to stick sharp things into their beloved friend, the more they will trust you.
I do keep that in mind, but even so, a number of things have rather reminded me what it is like to be on the other side of the consulting room table. The first is that my own dog is not very well herself. Being vets, we thought that anything that happened to her we would probably sort out ourselves, but being the stubborn little so-and-so that she is, she decided to develop a condition that needs surgery, the success of which greatly depends on the experience of the surgeon with that particular op. And the experience we have with the op is zero, so we have had to refer her.
Which basically means we have had to ring round vets, getting appointments, getting (dare I say it) quotes for the operation, and generally worrying. Then we've had to sit in vets waiting rooms, trying to make small talk with other people whilst worrying about leaving our dog, and the bill, and whether the anaesthetic would go okay, and whether the vet would be nice to us, and so on. Karmically, it was probably some form of cosmic payback for the stress and misery I have unwittingly caused to other clients in a similar situation. Doctors, apparently, make the worst patients, but it's a fair bet that vets make the worst pet owners, because I was a blubbering mess the night before she went it.
(By the way, the operation has been delayed for the moment, because the condition - laryngeal paralysis - isn't quite bad enough for the surgery (a laryngeal tie-back) yet - some more stress ahead! Yay!)
The second thing that reminded me was talking to some friends a few weeks ago - they had taken their cats to see their local vet to get them vaccinated prior to a house move - and ended up feeling cheated and a little annoyed because the vet responsible gave a vaccine that they didn't feel was necessary without telling them, and generally not really explaining what they were doing. To use my mechanic analogy - it's like me being told that my flange nuts needed tightening, and it would cost me eighty quid. I've no idea whether they do or not, but if the mechanic doesn't take the time to tell me what a flange nut is, why its come loose and why it needs tightening again, I'm going to feel a bit ripped off even if my car would have exploded in a shower of oil and surprised vet had he not done so. It's not so much what they did, as how they did it, and this kind of thing contributes to the feeling amongst people that vets are money-grabbing bastards. We really don't do ourselves any favours on this front.
The third thing is the elephant in the room. Not literally (at least I don't think so - I'll go and check, Hang on....nope, no elephants) - but this week a programme was shown on BBC called 'It shouldn't happen -in- a vets' (very clever, see what they did there? I would never stoop so low to use a pun of a James Herriot title for my blog). Now, I have my fair share of issues with this programme, and I don't want them to turn into a rant, but I'll mention a few here. Panorama (which I think the program was - it wasn't clear from the opening credits. I do wonder if it was supposed to be a Panorama but was extended into it's own show? Anyhoo...), which used to be a paragon of impartial reporting, seems to have stooped to the lowest brand of journalistic mischief making. It always starts with the worry-maker-in-chief, Jeremy Vine, standing outside (see! This is an important issue, far too important to sit around behind a desk and tell you about), suddenly telling you that something you previously had no worries about at all may actually kill you/spend all your money/give you cancer. The programme then goes on to tell you, in no uncertain terms, exactly what you should think about this particular issue (which is always WORRY WORRY WORRY WHY AREN'T YOU WORRIED THIS PERSON/THESE PEOPLE IS/ARE OUT TO KILL YOU/STEAL YOUR MONEY/WORRY YOUR LIVESTOCK) - and the vet episode was no exception, right down to the freeze-framing the bad vets in black and white vaguely mugshot poses whilst apparently throttling cats, whereas depicting the nice vets in their living rooms, or in a lovely green field surrounded by nice cows.
I could write a whole blog on the show (which seemed to suggest you'd be far better taking your animal to a vet who has worked on his own for twenty years, than a large, well-supported practice with state of the art facilities. I don't work for one of the large franchise practices that seemed to be taking the brunt of the flak from this programme, but take it from me, I would rather have my own dog operated in one of them than in a single-vet practice.) but that isn't really what I want to waffle about. The thing that upset most of my clients, watching the show, was a brief image of the EVIL vet swinging a cat around the room holding it by the scruff of it's neck. Well, it may be a surprise, but this is a recognised restraint technique for cats if you're on your own - watch the video again and you may well notice that the cat itself doesn't look stressed or upset, and neither vet or cat were at risk from harm during the procedure. It's a technique I have used myself on many occasions (including on my own cat!) and in front of clients too - the point being, I have explained to the clients first what I am about to do, and why. Everything looks bad taken out of context (like my comment above, about it being a problem that I'm a man)
(Incidentally, don't get me wrong - there were a several rather upsetting things shown, like the dog which had it's leg amputated being -very forcibly- restrained post operatively, and a senior vet squeezing used blood back into a bag so it could be re-used on another dog, as well as a pretty depressing laissez-faire attitude amongst student nurses towards animals)
The point, for the purposes of this blog, was that scenes of animal restraint that look fairly routine to me, can be extremely shocking for people unused to such a thing - especially in the animal being restrained is their beloved pet. I'm sure those clients, with horrified looks on their faces, would understand a lot more if they weren't shown the footage of such by the pantomime Jeremy Vine, which accompanying operatic music, but were talked through the procedure by someone who actually knew what they were talking about.
Well, the torrent of words is slowly so I feel I need to creep towards a conclusion, which I suppose is this. If you're a vet, try and remember how horrible it is taking your pet in when you've been worrying about that cough he had all week. If you're not a vet (and really, why would you want to be?) - shop around! Find a vet that explains things to the level you want them explained. If they don't, you'll feel ripped-off whatever the bill, and it's a recipe for misunderstanding and all manner of Royal-college nastiness.
We're all human, you know. Well, except for mechanics, that is.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Seen and not heard...
This will be a brief one, but it's a neat little illustration of...well, I've not really got the faintest clue what it illustrates, or why, but I'm pretty sure it illustrates something. When I work out what it is, I'll probably make some money out of it.
It wasn't the busiest surgery this evening - the waiting room wasn't packed, which in light of what was about to follow is probably a good thing. I walked out into the waiting room to call the name of the cat I was about to see (see my previous post for client-calling in strategies through the ages). I saw the woman sitting with a cat box, and standing next to her were her children, a little boy and a little girl. They were...oh, I don't know, I'm not good at estimating child ages. Puppies, kittens, I'm fine with, but kids...well, they were about yea high. Old enough to walk without dribbling, just about. They both looked cute to my untrained eye, anyway - the boy looked a little like a smaller version of Phil Mitchell's sprog in Eastenders.
So, I stood in the waiting room, patented vet-smile (TM) on my face, and called out the cat's name.
'Marny?'
The boy looked at me, caught my gaze, smiled, and shouted out 'You sound gay!'
Now, I've had a number of unusual responses in waiting rooms, but I'll be honest, this was a new one on me. I believe I might have lost control of my jaw for a moment, but years of practice left the smile on my face, so that my mouth lolled open like a sedated guppy's.
Okay, any of you who know me, it may have crossed your mind by now that our young Satan had a point. I have not been blessed with the deepest voice in the civilised world. I have, on occasion, been known to mince, and it's true that most practices I've worked at have been surprised to discover I had a girlfriend (or, as is now the case, wife). It's not the worst disability in the world, having a rather effeminate manner without actually being gay, and I genuinely don't mind it, but it can get a bit wearing at times. Still, old ladies seem to like it, and if works for the clients it works for me.
The lady uttered not one word of remonstration to my new arch-nemesis, but picked up the cat box and headed towards my consulting room. As I closed the door to the waiting room I could see the receptionists leaping to my defence by doubling up with laughter at the front desk.
The rest of the consult was, if possible, even less fun. The cat was fine, it was only a second vaccination, but Tiny Terror had decided that the next torment to inflict was to loudly repeat everything that I said, in a rather unflattering tone of voice. Whilst I longingly looked at the needles in my cupboard and wondered if it acutally might be worth doing some prison time, the mother decided to very quietly say to the monstrous spawn that she had produced 'Now, be quiet, the man's trying to work'.
Well, at least she said 'man'. Sigh. I managed to complete the consult without strangling anyone to death, or bursting into tears. As the woman left, she let her offspirng out before her, then turned to me and said in a conspiratorial tone 'He's autistic.'
Great, so not only had I been bullied by a child for my entire consultation, and ridiculed for it, I was now also a complete bastard for wishing various sharp unpleasant things to happen to the kid because he was disabled, rather than, say, an undisciplined little turd.
I was hoping to come to some great insight for having jotted this down, but thus far none has come to me. I'm no expert on autism, or children, or anything to be honest that doesn't involve animals (or science fiction), but it strikes me that children can get away with any behaviour they like so long as you put a label on it.
The label I have chosen for this paticular behaviour is 'bastard'. (I probably would have felt much better about the whole incident if the woman had turned to me at the end and said conspiratorialy 'He's a bastard.')
Anyway, if anyone wants me I'll be in the x-ray room, repeatedly radiographing my testicles until they couldn't produce a sperm if their life depended on it. Thankyou, and good night.
It wasn't the busiest surgery this evening - the waiting room wasn't packed, which in light of what was about to follow is probably a good thing. I walked out into the waiting room to call the name of the cat I was about to see (see my previous post for client-calling in strategies through the ages). I saw the woman sitting with a cat box, and standing next to her were her children, a little boy and a little girl. They were...oh, I don't know, I'm not good at estimating child ages. Puppies, kittens, I'm fine with, but kids...well, they were about yea high. Old enough to walk without dribbling, just about. They both looked cute to my untrained eye, anyway - the boy looked a little like a smaller version of Phil Mitchell's sprog in Eastenders.
So, I stood in the waiting room, patented vet-smile (TM) on my face, and called out the cat's name.
'Marny?'
The boy looked at me, caught my gaze, smiled, and shouted out 'You sound gay!'
Now, I've had a number of unusual responses in waiting rooms, but I'll be honest, this was a new one on me. I believe I might have lost control of my jaw for a moment, but years of practice left the smile on my face, so that my mouth lolled open like a sedated guppy's.
Okay, any of you who know me, it may have crossed your mind by now that our young Satan had a point. I have not been blessed with the deepest voice in the civilised world. I have, on occasion, been known to mince, and it's true that most practices I've worked at have been surprised to discover I had a girlfriend (or, as is now the case, wife). It's not the worst disability in the world, having a rather effeminate manner without actually being gay, and I genuinely don't mind it, but it can get a bit wearing at times. Still, old ladies seem to like it, and if works for the clients it works for me.
The lady uttered not one word of remonstration to my new arch-nemesis, but picked up the cat box and headed towards my consulting room. As I closed the door to the waiting room I could see the receptionists leaping to my defence by doubling up with laughter at the front desk.
The rest of the consult was, if possible, even less fun. The cat was fine, it was only a second vaccination, but Tiny Terror had decided that the next torment to inflict was to loudly repeat everything that I said, in a rather unflattering tone of voice. Whilst I longingly looked at the needles in my cupboard and wondered if it acutally might be worth doing some prison time, the mother decided to very quietly say to the monstrous spawn that she had produced 'Now, be quiet, the man's trying to work'.
Well, at least she said 'man'. Sigh. I managed to complete the consult without strangling anyone to death, or bursting into tears. As the woman left, she let her offspirng out before her, then turned to me and said in a conspiratorial tone 'He's autistic.'
Great, so not only had I been bullied by a child for my entire consultation, and ridiculed for it, I was now also a complete bastard for wishing various sharp unpleasant things to happen to the kid because he was disabled, rather than, say, an undisciplined little turd.
I was hoping to come to some great insight for having jotted this down, but thus far none has come to me. I'm no expert on autism, or children, or anything to be honest that doesn't involve animals (or science fiction), but it strikes me that children can get away with any behaviour they like so long as you put a label on it.
The label I have chosen for this paticular behaviour is 'bastard'. (I probably would have felt much better about the whole incident if the woman had turned to me at the end and said conspiratorialy 'He's a bastard.')
Anyway, if anyone wants me I'll be in the x-ray room, repeatedly radiographing my testicles until they couldn't produce a sperm if their life depended on it. Thankyou, and good night.
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