So, I've come to the conclusion that vet tech school was a load of bull-shit. They don't prepare you AT ALL for how the real world works in a clinic. They tell you nothing of how bone-weary tired you are from fourteen days of 12-14 hour shifts. They don't tell you shit about how absolutely livid you get when you see a THREE MONTH OLD PUPPY come in that has had it's ears literally cut off it's head. There's nothing in any book about how devastated you are when a patient you've known for years dies suddenly, in your arms during a "routine" teeth cleaning, or how gut wrenching it is to watch the euthanasia of your first patient. There's nothing mentioned about clients that continue to cling to their pets, watching them suffer in pain, insisting that you could-should-can do more, or the people who come in with a pet that they don't bother to vaccinate because they don't want to part with the twenty bucks it would cost at the SPCA and then claim to love the pet and despair over "what she could have been" when it dies of distemper (one of the most horrible ways to die, IMHO).
I guess, on the flip side of that though, they also don't tell you about getting to see a patient come in, mostly dead (ie: a dust mop) and within a few days be back to his usual happy self. They don't tell you about the people who stop you at a fast food place and thank you for saving their dog.
I've seen all of this in just the few years I've been in this field, and for all it's faults, I could not picture myself doing anything else. I think the perfect example is one of my own cats, Lefty. My clinic does all the medical stuff for the Animal Control of DeSoto. They brought in a box-live trap that had two very, very (about two pound) kittens in it. One (the female) was fine. The other, her brother, was not. His right leg had been shredded. Our theory (being that this occured during the first cold snap of the year) was that the two of them were sleeping in a car motor and a belt caught his leg when the car was started. I asked the doctor who was looking at them what would happen to him. She said all she could do was send pain meds and anti-biotics with him to the shelter. I then asked if he would survive. She said probably not. Sticking my neck out, I asked what would happen if one of us (the nurses) would volunteer to take him. She said that an amputation would be the best thing. I struggled with myself (I already had way too many cats at this point) and asked what it would cost me. Without thinking about it, she said if I would take him, she would do the surgery for free. I caved and agreed. Normally, I can let go...distance myself, if you will. Something about this kitten got to me. He was so calm and loving. He just wanted to be held. We scheduled the surgery for the following Wednesday.
He came through the actual procedure fine, but while he was recovering, he stopped breathing and his heart stopped. I now became frantic and hysterical. After about ten or fifteen minutes, we got him going again, but he was blind. This is common in cats that arrest like that. Two days later, his eye sight started to return and he hasn't looked back since. The missing leg doesn't seem to slow him down and he keeps up with everyone else just as well as if he'd had four legs. When I have a shitty day at work, I come home and cuddle with him. He reminds me that without me, he wouldn't be here. Although I would never have known him, I believe the world would be an uglier place without him.
In other, lighter, news....the Kristin concert was amazing. Except for the chellist falling asleep on stage. I managed to sneek into the green room and the road trip itself was a blast. Where else but on a road trip with Karen through deepest darkest Oklahoma could you find a gas station named "Mama's Get-n-Scram" that proudly proclaimed "WE NOW HAVE WORMS!". Or, and I kid you not here, a billboard advertising a scratch off Jesus lotto ticket. We actually found a resturant named "The Pie Hole" and I discovered that 15th street is like a Wicked fan-girl's dream. Oz (a head-shop, not relavent), The Emerald City (don't know what kind of store it is) and The Yellow Brick Road Pub are all right next to each other.
I've also decided the next time I go to Oklahoma with Karen, I'm not telling anyone at work about it. Last time, my grandpa died the week before. This time, one of my friends and co-workers was placed in ICU b/c of blood clots in her lungs (she's doing fine now, thank you).
That has led me to a new topic, slightly connected. I was ruminating on this entry earlier when I drove by a church with a billboard proclaiming "Prayer Brings Peace". Without any prompting that I can remember, I suddenly thought, 'Prayer brings peace because you refuse to take responsibility for something and lay it on someone else.' I felt slightly blasphemous, but the thought continued to make sense (to me anyway, so don't put much faith in that). This is what all prayers are, basically: "Dear God, there's a bunch of shit going on. I don't want to worry about it too much, so I'm dumping it on you and if something awful happens, then it's not my fault. Oh yeah, you rock, by the way". Feel free to correct me if I'm out of line here, but it seems to make sense. I'm spiritiual. Do I believe in God? Without a doubt. Do I consider myself a Christian? Not in the traditional sense, but yes, I do. I just don't see how laying your problems at someone else's feet for any other reason than venting is just passive-aggressive. "I don't wanna fuck with it; you do it."
Anyway, I'm off topic and it's late and I have another 12 hour day starting at five am...Wish me luck guys....
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