![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Thinking Keeps The Ouchies Away
Jan. 17th, 2006 09:42 pmI've learned a lot in the time that I've been doing veterinary relief work. A lot of that has just amounted to figuring out how to think on my feet - I remember when I started working at my last full-time job, my introductory period was an entire month of only working while there were other doctors on, and seeing two appointments an hour at most until I got used to the practice. Now I can walk into a clinic I've never seen before, ask a few significant questions and spend fifteen minutes exploring pertinent areas, and be ready to work there on my own for an indefinite period of time, at a steady pace.
One of the things I've learned that surprised me a bit, though, is just how much most solo practitioners really want to be a part of a team. There are a few exceptions, of course; the clinic I worked at incredibly briefly last year proved that the hard way. But for the most part, doctors want someone to bounce ideas off and brainstorm with. And in a one-doctor practice, I wind up being that partner.
Looking at it now, it seems fairly obvious. When I was working full-time, the teamwork was one of my favorite parts. But I was almost always either working with other recent graduates or, when I met minds with more experienced doctors, I was usually the one asking for advice. I suppose part of me assumed that once I accumulated enough experience, I was supposed to outgrow that need.
I think a lot of more experienced vets buy into that belief, too. They own their own practices, they work more or less alone, and they're supposed to be able to do everything themselves - remember every possible diagnosis, interpret every test, know every potential treatment and complication, and never have a shred of doubt or uncertainty. In the practices I go to on a regular basis, though, I've found that after I've been there more than once or twice, I'll find a stack of charts on my desk with a note asking me if I have any suggestions for treatments. Or the doctor will just happen to stop by to pick up some paperwork, and will ask me, as long as I'm there, to look at some radiographs with him and give my opinion.
It's incredibly flattering, in a lot of ways. I'm honored that they respect my opinion enough to ask me, and that they think of me as a part of their practice, and that people with enough experience to own their own practice think I might know something they don't. It's also amusing; most of them don't seem to realize what they're doing until it's happened a few times, and then they seem utterly surprised to realize that having someone to work with can be so helpful and rewarding.
Mostly, though, it's fun. I thought that doing relief work would mean having to give up on the teamwork I appreciated and enjoyed - instead, it means I get to be part of a whole bunch of teams that appreciate my input. In some ways, this line of work is good enough to feel like I must be cheating somehow...
One of the things I've learned that surprised me a bit, though, is just how much most solo practitioners really want to be a part of a team. There are a few exceptions, of course; the clinic I worked at incredibly briefly last year proved that the hard way. But for the most part, doctors want someone to bounce ideas off and brainstorm with. And in a one-doctor practice, I wind up being that partner.
Looking at it now, it seems fairly obvious. When I was working full-time, the teamwork was one of my favorite parts. But I was almost always either working with other recent graduates or, when I met minds with more experienced doctors, I was usually the one asking for advice. I suppose part of me assumed that once I accumulated enough experience, I was supposed to outgrow that need.
I think a lot of more experienced vets buy into that belief, too. They own their own practices, they work more or less alone, and they're supposed to be able to do everything themselves - remember every possible diagnosis, interpret every test, know every potential treatment and complication, and never have a shred of doubt or uncertainty. In the practices I go to on a regular basis, though, I've found that after I've been there more than once or twice, I'll find a stack of charts on my desk with a note asking me if I have any suggestions for treatments. Or the doctor will just happen to stop by to pick up some paperwork, and will ask me, as long as I'm there, to look at some radiographs with him and give my opinion.
It's incredibly flattering, in a lot of ways. I'm honored that they respect my opinion enough to ask me, and that they think of me as a part of their practice, and that people with enough experience to own their own practice think I might know something they don't. It's also amusing; most of them don't seem to realize what they're doing until it's happened a few times, and then they seem utterly surprised to realize that having someone to work with can be so helpful and rewarding.
Mostly, though, it's fun. I thought that doing relief work would mean having to give up on the teamwork I appreciated and enjoyed - instead, it means I get to be part of a whole bunch of teams that appreciate my input. In some ways, this line of work is good enough to feel like I must be cheating somehow...
