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mad_andyThree down.
Arrived last night to find the practice doing its impression of a bomb site and the boss just opening up a dog in theatre. I almost turned around and went straight home again...
So. The dog being unzipped had been operated on for a pyo earlier in the day and had then had a nasty abdominal bleed; so as you can imagine, when she was opened up again it was blood up the walls time. And on the op lights, all over the table, etc etc etc. She was fine in the end - it's amazing what animals can get through, honest. We must have made a right pair in theatre - the boss in his scrubs, me in my saggy black trousers, sleeveless Maiden shirt and big boots...
So because evening surgery had been manic the consulting rooms needed cleaning as did the waiting room. And X ray. And theatre. And prep. And several kennels.
And a very dirty kit, and the suction machine/bottle/various tubes, and I had one waking up critical patient, a very sick spaniel, one cat needing syringe feeding every hour and another one trying to die. Fucking marvellous, wot?
Anyway. The boss managed to escape by nine, leaving my good self to rush about like a maniac trying to do everything at once. And at 11pm, one of my feline patients did die. I was with her when it happened. I'd stopped to give her a stroke, and she stretched out a paw to me; I held it and stroked that, talking to her quietly. Some cats are like that - when they're really afraid, in pain, or want comfort they reach out in just the same way we do. But rarely at other times...
The paw went slack, her eyes rolled up, she had the most tremendous convulsion, vomited almost a pint of blackish-brown fluid, and died.
Nothing should die alone, but I loathe having to deal with the fact of death and then clear up as though it's normal. I hate it. Clear up, clean the kennel, ring the vet, on to the next job...
Two in the morning, the practice is clean. The other cat isn't doing so well, so I've throttled back the amount of food I'm syringing down the poor bastard's throat. I do wish the vets would think on sometimes - it's all very well glibly telling you to syringe feed a very sick animal but at gone midnight, when said beastie is spitting the food out and crying pitifully, struggling to escape from you when it sees the syringe -
It's not much fun for either party.
The little pyo dog has eaten something. The sick spaniel is peeing all over the place, which is at least keeping the washing machine busy and is an improvement on not peeing at all, which is A Bad Thing. Especially when your kidneys are packing up and you're on fluids... *sigh*
So come three, and I figure I can sneak off for an hour or two's kip. The practice is sparkling. Theatre gleams. I poke my head rather cautiously into the cat's kennel - he's... comfortable. Which means he's still as sick as fuck, and miserable, but he's clean and dry and that's all I can do for him right now.
I just settle into the chair and the spaniel's drip alarm goes off. I'm halfway down the stairs before my forebrain has twigged what's happening. Drip flushed, back to the flat.
Ah. Nice. An hour and a half later, I'm in the kitchen making a cup of tea and wondering - not for the first time and not, undoubtedly, for the last - why I'm doing this. I go and check the cat first.
He's Cheyne-Stoking. Cheyne-Stokes breathing; the last gasp made by the body when the brain has gone on and random electrical signals are still doing their thang in the hindbrain. I can't fucking believe it.
I sit with him and via a stethoscope I listen to his heart stutter to a halt. No, I don't try resuscitation - his liver is shot, he's got all sorts of stuff going on and not only would it be a lot of fucking hard work on my own but it wouldn't do him any favours.
I ring the boss, and clean another kennel.
The pyo dog should go home today. The spaniel is not looking good - prognosis is, at best, poor.
Does it make me a bad person if I hope the poor little sod dies on somebody else's shift...?
Three down. Four to go.
Arrived last night to find the practice doing its impression of a bomb site and the boss just opening up a dog in theatre. I almost turned around and went straight home again...
So. The dog being unzipped had been operated on for a pyo earlier in the day and had then had a nasty abdominal bleed; so as you can imagine, when she was opened up again it was blood up the walls time. And on the op lights, all over the table, etc etc etc. She was fine in the end - it's amazing what animals can get through, honest. We must have made a right pair in theatre - the boss in his scrubs, me in my saggy black trousers, sleeveless Maiden shirt and big boots...
So because evening surgery had been manic the consulting rooms needed cleaning as did the waiting room. And X ray. And theatre. And prep. And several kennels.
And a very dirty kit, and the suction machine/bottle/various tubes, and I had one waking up critical patient, a very sick spaniel, one cat needing syringe feeding every hour and another one trying to die. Fucking marvellous, wot?
Anyway. The boss managed to escape by nine, leaving my good self to rush about like a maniac trying to do everything at once. And at 11pm, one of my feline patients did die. I was with her when it happened. I'd stopped to give her a stroke, and she stretched out a paw to me; I held it and stroked that, talking to her quietly. Some cats are like that - when they're really afraid, in pain, or want comfort they reach out in just the same way we do. But rarely at other times...
The paw went slack, her eyes rolled up, she had the most tremendous convulsion, vomited almost a pint of blackish-brown fluid, and died.
Nothing should die alone, but I loathe having to deal with the fact of death and then clear up as though it's normal. I hate it. Clear up, clean the kennel, ring the vet, on to the next job...
Two in the morning, the practice is clean. The other cat isn't doing so well, so I've throttled back the amount of food I'm syringing down the poor bastard's throat. I do wish the vets would think on sometimes - it's all very well glibly telling you to syringe feed a very sick animal but at gone midnight, when said beastie is spitting the food out and crying pitifully, struggling to escape from you when it sees the syringe -
It's not much fun for either party.
The little pyo dog has eaten something. The sick spaniel is peeing all over the place, which is at least keeping the washing machine busy and is an improvement on not peeing at all, which is A Bad Thing. Especially when your kidneys are packing up and you're on fluids... *sigh*
So come three, and I figure I can sneak off for an hour or two's kip. The practice is sparkling. Theatre gleams. I poke my head rather cautiously into the cat's kennel - he's... comfortable. Which means he's still as sick as fuck, and miserable, but he's clean and dry and that's all I can do for him right now.
I just settle into the chair and the spaniel's drip alarm goes off. I'm halfway down the stairs before my forebrain has twigged what's happening. Drip flushed, back to the flat.
Ah. Nice. An hour and a half later, I'm in the kitchen making a cup of tea and wondering - not for the first time and not, undoubtedly, for the last - why I'm doing this. I go and check the cat first.
He's Cheyne-Stoking. Cheyne-Stokes breathing; the last gasp made by the body when the brain has gone on and random electrical signals are still doing their thang in the hindbrain. I can't fucking believe it.
I sit with him and via a stethoscope I listen to his heart stutter to a halt. No, I don't try resuscitation - his liver is shot, he's got all sorts of stuff going on and not only would it be a lot of fucking hard work on my own but it wouldn't do him any favours.
I ring the boss, and clean another kennel.
The pyo dog should go home today. The spaniel is not looking good - prognosis is, at best, poor.
Does it make me a bad person if I hope the poor little sod dies on somebody else's shift...?
Three down. Four to go.
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no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 09:07 am (UTC)Sleep well, and I hope it gets better from here!
no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 09:07 am (UTC)No babe, it does not make you a horrible person. There is nothing in you that could ever make you one.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 09:29 am (UTC)*hugs* four to go.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 10:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 10:05 am (UTC)All I can do for now is give you these: {{{HUGE HUGS}}}
You are the best.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 12:47 pm (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 01:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 02:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 04:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-13 07:39 pm (UTC)You're awesome. Wish I could do more than send hugs and good vibes...