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*Yawn*
Goddamn but I'm tired. Not surprising really.
Sunday I did the thirteen hour night shift from HELL.
I had to nurse a dalmation with a brain tumour. With lots of tumours, actually - nobody is sure where the primary is, but there's a fuck of a lot of very large secondaries, including one the size of both my fists next to his heart - and he's deaf because both middle and/or inner ears have been destroyed by cancer. Which means he has a head tilt. Oh, and the fact that his pupils are permanently different sizes means that there may well be some optic nerve involvement.
Regardless, T__ the vet told the owners cheerfully that said dog had a good chance of a complete recovery with chemo which is, IMHO, utter bollocks. Still, what do I know.
Dog started chemo last thursday. Sunday morning it starts having what are described calmly on the computer as 'neurological symptoms'. What does that mean in layman's terms?
The dog (and it's a dalmation, not the sanest breed to begin with) is fly catching, snapping its jaws at nothing. Then biting at its body. Then pacing and panting, snapping at nothing, biting at its legs until they bleed, twitching and shaking, running up and down, and so on and so forth. It wasn't even aware of its owners.
Verdict?
Breakdown of tumour causing some inflammation. Sedate, give twenty four hours or so and see how it is.
The dog had 10% anaesthetic agent in its drip bag. Valium. Barbiturates. ACP (a dog sedative, acepromazine). Morphine.
And was still not only conscious, but screaming.
Wasn't urinating, because he couldn't tell when his bladder was full. Bleeding into his gut, because the slow leak of faeces was black and tarry.
Twitching, screaming, banging his head on the bars. He'd look at you, and where you can normally glimpse personality, fear, anger, whatever there was nothing. Just... blank.
Brain damaged to all fucking get out, and the verdict? Give him twenty four hours - he'll never be the same but he might be OK. Anyway, the owners don't want him put down because their child would be upset....
Fuck the child, quite frankly.
This is a dog whose brain is being eaten away and I hope like fuck he doesn't realise what's happening to him because it is the most shameful, degrading, evil thing I've ever seen inflicted on an animal. I have never been ashamed of my work before, but by monday morning I felt dirty in a way I have never felt before.
I don't know what happened - I'll find out tomorrow. But the 22nd of September (my last day as a nurse) can't fucking come fast enough for me.
Monday I slept.
Today? Well, I woke up with my rook piercing giving me severe gyp, swollen and red - must have banged it suring the night, and it's complaining bitterly about it. Still, I can live with it, because I have been at the studio and have done my first tattoo on someone else!
And of course, my dear (!) husband was my first victim. I say victim; it turns out that I must have learned a fuck of a lot from doing myself, because I didn't cut him up nearly as badly as I did myself.
In fact, I did rather a good job, though I say so myself. And Jon reckons it was not bad, even if he did line it for me. I was a bit disappointed by that, but it made sense; I lined the tail of the lizard, and he zipped round the rest - keeping Slay from getting too sore, allowing me the maximum amount of time to putz about putting the colour and shading in.
Even I was amazed - the colour went where I wanted it to, the shading worked, and I managed not to slice him up too badly at all. A couple of rough spots with the black, but overall - well, I've seen worse walk through the door to be covered up, so not bad for a first time on someone else.
Now I need to do a few more and I'll be off!
But this seven days a week crap is a nightmare. It's the vet stuff that makes me so tired; the studio is a breeze, because I'm loving it. And let's face it, it isn't the hard physical, mental and emotional slog that the vets is...
*Groan* Ten hour shift tomorrow. Not looking forward to it!
Sunday I did the thirteen hour night shift from HELL.
I had to nurse a dalmation with a brain tumour. With lots of tumours, actually - nobody is sure where the primary is, but there's a fuck of a lot of very large secondaries, including one the size of both my fists next to his heart - and he's deaf because both middle and/or inner ears have been destroyed by cancer. Which means he has a head tilt. Oh, and the fact that his pupils are permanently different sizes means that there may well be some optic nerve involvement.
Regardless, T__ the vet told the owners cheerfully that said dog had a good chance of a complete recovery with chemo which is, IMHO, utter bollocks. Still, what do I know.
Dog started chemo last thursday. Sunday morning it starts having what are described calmly on the computer as 'neurological symptoms'. What does that mean in layman's terms?
The dog (and it's a dalmation, not the sanest breed to begin with) is fly catching, snapping its jaws at nothing. Then biting at its body. Then pacing and panting, snapping at nothing, biting at its legs until they bleed, twitching and shaking, running up and down, and so on and so forth. It wasn't even aware of its owners.
Verdict?
Breakdown of tumour causing some inflammation. Sedate, give twenty four hours or so and see how it is.
The dog had 10% anaesthetic agent in its drip bag. Valium. Barbiturates. ACP (a dog sedative, acepromazine). Morphine.
And was still not only conscious, but screaming.
Wasn't urinating, because he couldn't tell when his bladder was full. Bleeding into his gut, because the slow leak of faeces was black and tarry.
Twitching, screaming, banging his head on the bars. He'd look at you, and where you can normally glimpse personality, fear, anger, whatever there was nothing. Just... blank.
Brain damaged to all fucking get out, and the verdict? Give him twenty four hours - he'll never be the same but he might be OK. Anyway, the owners don't want him put down because their child would be upset....
Fuck the child, quite frankly.
This is a dog whose brain is being eaten away and I hope like fuck he doesn't realise what's happening to him because it is the most shameful, degrading, evil thing I've ever seen inflicted on an animal. I have never been ashamed of my work before, but by monday morning I felt dirty in a way I have never felt before.
I don't know what happened - I'll find out tomorrow. But the 22nd of September (my last day as a nurse) can't fucking come fast enough for me.
Monday I slept.
Today? Well, I woke up with my rook piercing giving me severe gyp, swollen and red - must have banged it suring the night, and it's complaining bitterly about it. Still, I can live with it, because I have been at the studio and have done my first tattoo on someone else!
And of course, my dear (!) husband was my first victim. I say victim; it turns out that I must have learned a fuck of a lot from doing myself, because I didn't cut him up nearly as badly as I did myself.
In fact, I did rather a good job, though I say so myself. And Jon reckons it was not bad, even if he did line it for me. I was a bit disappointed by that, but it made sense; I lined the tail of the lizard, and he zipped round the rest - keeping Slay from getting too sore, allowing me the maximum amount of time to putz about putting the colour and shading in.
Even I was amazed - the colour went where I wanted it to, the shading worked, and I managed not to slice him up too badly at all. A couple of rough spots with the black, but overall - well, I've seen worse walk through the door to be covered up, so not bad for a first time on someone else.
Now I need to do a few more and I'll be off!
But this seven days a week crap is a nightmare. It's the vet stuff that makes me so tired; the studio is a breeze, because I'm loving it. And let's face it, it isn't the hard physical, mental and emotional slog that the vets is...
*Groan* Ten hour shift tomorrow. Not looking forward to it!