The Worst Part of My Career

When you work in medicine, human or animal, laypeople tend to ask, "what's the worst part of your job?"  It's only human to ask - we have this macabre curiosity about the seedy underbelly of the world.  Usually, I laugh it off and say either "my paycheck" or "taking money from people" because I feel as though veterinary staff have a laughable income for what we do, and I truly hate having to charge for services. Frequently I'll be asked if euthanasia is the worst, and that is 99.9% no.  Euthanasia is a chance to relieve suffering when there are no other viable options, be they medically or financially. If you cannot remove or cure the suffering of the pet while they are alive, the most kind and humane thing to do, no matter how difficult the decision, is a gentle death.

I see my fair share of neglect and trauma and human ignorance in my field - and although that is soul crushing, it's not the worst part of my job. These cases are tragic but also rich for client education, to prevent future neglect, trauma, and ignorance. And by teaching one layperson, they may go forth and teach more. It's the planting seeds of knowledge and understanding that make those cases tenuously bearable. 

No, friends. The worst part of my job is incredibly rare for me, thank goodness. I can count the number of times this has happened on one hand, though a few nights ago my heart and soul were rent asunder again and I'm Not Ok and I'm Not Over It. Which is why I am writing this post.  I will be changing the names and signalment of the patient so as not to make it easy for anyone to be blamed or be offended. Understand that the core of the anecdote is genuine and actually occurred. 

Molly is an 8 week old Terrier, and she was purchased from an expensive breeder 2 days prior. A day ago, Molly began to have diarrhea and vomiting, and so she was presented to her primary care vet like any responsible pet owner would do. Molly was diagnosed with Canine Parvovirus (CPV) and her owner approved inpatient treatment, but requested minimal treatment, as her breeder had informed her that CPV had a low survival rate and Molly was probably going to die. 

Within hours, Molly was feeling better!  She was responding to treatment, even minimal, and she was improving. The primary care vet was uncomfortable leaving her in hospital overnight, and she was sent home with instructions to go to the ER if she declined. 

Unfortunately, Molly began to decline  again overnight. So she was brought to my ER. She looked pretty punky, but my Veterinarian was optimistic because CPV is extremely treatable and has an excellent survival rate when treated early and aggressively. Molly was more alert than most CPV pups we see, and so we presented the owner with the cost options for inpatient treatment, and then outpatient treatment. Molly's owner would have none of it. She insisted that Molly be euthanized. 

This is where we became frustrated. This puppy has a treatable disease, and she is not sick enough at this time to euthanize. The owner said they didn't want to spend any more money on her.  So we offered relinquishment. This is when an owner gives up all rights to their pet, in the best interest of their pet. They sign over ownership to a staff member and let the staff member assume financial responsibility for the pet's treatment. This does include euthanasia, if the condition calls for it, and it allows the pet to be rehomed when they are recovered. It's the best option, when there is a staff member willing and able to absorb the costs of ownership. It doesn't happen often, but Molly really seemed to be treatable and she was likely to recover. 

The owner declined relinquishment. Flat out wouldn't even let our doctor or assistant go over the form. When asked why, since Molly had a good prognosis, the owner said that all Molly was sick and the breeder said she should be euthanized..  The owner understood that the financial burden would fall on our assistant, but still insisted on euthanasia. We can only surmise that they paid thousands of dollars for this little ball of life and they didn't want anyone to have her for free, or maybe that the breeder was offering a replacement pup at no charge since Molly was a dud.  So this was a convenience euthanasia. And this, my friends, is the worst part of my job. 

This tiny little 2kg puppy was playing with the IV catheter supplies we had when we were placing her euthanasia catheter. When she'd squeal and pull the catheter, while we were preparing another, she would curl up in the crook of my elbow and heave a heavy, contented sigh. As if I was the safest and most comfortable place she'd ever laid her head. I, the person who was tasked with helping to take her tiny little life, was her Safe Place.  Although I begged them not to, the tears rolled down my face and fell on her short reddish coat. She went to lick my face and I couldn't say no - I would disinfect my face later. This little one needed all the love she could get - she deserved so much love!

I cannot forget the way her chubby little body felt through the isolation gown as she curled up on me. The way her little nose nuzzled my arm, looking for something to taste.  She tried to climb into my isolation gown via the neck hole and I had to laugh through the tears - she just wanted skin to skin contact!  I cannot forget the spark of life she had in her eyes while we played during her last 30 minutes in her body. She was so warm and furry and beautiful and full of life.  How can I cram a lifetime of love and hugs and kisses and kind words into 30 minutes?  I was destined to fail. 

In those moments, I empathized and identified with all those Veterinarians who say they euthanized a pet, but really treated it and rehomed it. I wanted to break the law. I wanted to steal away with this sweet little brown-eyed Terrier that stole my heart and didn't deserve to die. When she squirmed during catheter placement I wished that I wouldn't find a vein and her owner would reconsider.  I wished for a miracle. Molly had already been in our clinic two hours and he hadn't been sick once. Not once!  That's amazing for CPV. 

But the miracle never came. The catheter was placed. This is the real world, after all, and not a fairy tale. I had to say goodbye and know that we killed something - someone - who didn't need to die. We didn't alleviate her suffering, and there were other options both physically and financially. There was no reason to kill this beautiful girl. But we did. The law says we have to, and we did abide by the law.  Oh, to be a vigilante......

And so there you have it. The worst part of being a Licensed Veterinary Technician, in my personal opinion. Please don't hate on the owner, or the breeder. This is not about them. They are just the muse for my story based on real life events.  

My heart is broken this week.  My soul is crushed. My faith in humanity has been obliterated. I have dreamt of Molly twice since this happened. Every time I sit down to relax, I feel her curled up on my arm. Breathing. Living. Loving. Being loved.  But I will go back to work, and I will help to heal things. And I will provide excellent nursing care to my patients and support to my Doctors. And I will continue to educate clients and laypeople, because it's a cause I firmly believe in. I will continue to be a badass vet tech. But I will also hurt and I will always feel this throbbing scar on my heart and soul. I hope I don't have to do this again for a long, long time. Hopefully never.