I have been working at animal hospitals for 25 years now. The
first for four. The second for nine. Finally, I have been at Roseville for
going on twelve.
In that time, I’ve never once had to “take my pet to the
vet.” It’s a perk of the job. We bring them to work with us and the doctors fit
them in where there is time. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s bad. It is
what it is.
I have gone to a few
specialist appointments. Internal Medicine. Oncology. Etc.
But I have never experienced what you experience.
I have never been on that side of the door.
Walking into an animal hospital with my beloved pet as a client.
Until today.
I have had some sense of what you experience. I watch you. I
deal with you. I try to figuratively hold your hand. I try to be gentle. I am
firm when I have to be. I try to make this process for you as painless and as seamless
as possible.
Today, I experienced it.
I walked into the lobby and looked around, trying to
determine where to go. I was not sure which receptionist I was supposed to talk
to, so I stood and looked back and forth at each one until I was
greeted/acknowledged/welcomed.
I wanted you to know how special my girl is.
I wanted you to know how nervous I was about her procedure.
I wanted you to know that I was afraid of what you were
going to find.
I wanted you to know that I really should have groomed her
before I brought her in, and that I know her nails were kind of long, and that
I’m embarrassed that she is a bit overweight, and that I really am a good pet
owner.
I have never been on that side of the door.
I wanted you to know that she is not just a dog. Not to me.
She is my child.
I wanted you to know all of that. Instead I gave you her
name and my name and why we were there and you handed me the clipboard of
paperwork and I sat down and filled it out. How old is she again? Emergency
contact? What do I put here? I sat and scratched my head and pored over a form
that I have handed to clients 1,000s of times over the years.
Then I was in a room and I was waiting and my girl and I sat
on the floor and I loved her and talked to her and tried to act like I wasn’t
nervous.
I have never been on that side of the door.
It is lonely there. It is scary there.
We talked about risk and we talked about best and worst case
and I wanted to tell you “Hey, she’s super special. She’s beaten cancer twice.
She’s amazing. She’s my good girl.”
I signed the waiver and kissed her head and leash in hand I
walked to my car.
And I waited.
I have never been on that side of the door.
When the phone rang I excused myself from my business
meeting and took the call.
It’s a mass. It’s about 2 centimeters long. It’s filling her
nasal passage. I’m very sorry. She’s waking up. You can pick her up in a couple
of hours.
He was kind. He was gentle. I could hear the compassion in
his voice.
I took a deep slow breath and walked back to my meeting and did
what we have made so many of you do so many times. Process. Grief. Fear. Loss.
Without us and without your pet and without us having any idea of where you are
or what you are doing and what you have to return to immediately following the
phone call from us.
I have never been on that side of the door.
In a hazy daze I drove to the clinic to pick her up. Music was
playing but I couldn’t hear it. Work was piling up but I could not seem to
care.
I walked in and walked up to the counter and I had to fight
back the tears. They were so sorry to hear. Maybe it will come back benign? She
seems like such a sweet girl.
Money? What is money? Processing becomes hard when you’ve
received bad news. I hand you my card and it is declined. I do not know why. Embarrassment
and nervous explanations and tears threaten to escape and I just want to get my
girl and hold her and carry her home and leave this place of bad news and
never, ever come back.
Another form of payment and I am being led back to where she
is sleeping. Lots of information all at once. Lots to hear. Lots to take in.
Lots to remember. Lots of apologies. I am so sorry but now we know. Now we
know.
I have never been on that side of the door.
My poor drunken girl was sleeping soundly. Blood oozing out
her nose and legs wobbling and let me pick her up and carry her and hold her
close to my chest.
The only thing I could think when I was carrying her through
the building was “not yet. Don’t let the tears come yet. Let me hold it together
for a little bit longer.” Somehow I was afraid that you would judge me. You
would think less of me. You would not understand the pain I was feeling at
hearing the news and hearing your apologies and hearing the death sentence in
your voices when I haven’t even sent in the biopsy sample yet.
Trying to maintain my poise and composure as I navigate
through all of you. Those who know and are somber and kind. Those who do not
who smile happily at me and my beautiful blue eyed girl.
I have never been on that side of the door.
I was treated with kindness and compassion and respect. There
is nothing I could have asked any of them to do differently or better to have
made it easier on me and my girl.
It is simply hard. Very hard. To be on that side of the door.
I love you, Cheese.
