Entry tags:
What Really Matters?
In my entire career as a vet student and a veterinarian, I have had the ill fortune to have a patient die during my examination of them three times. None of these events were unexpected; all three animals were critically ill, and in at least one instance the clients and I were discussing euthanasia when the patient took the decision out of our hands.
What I realized last night, though, was that two of the three clients sent me thank-you cards after the fact. And while I'm flattered, and I adore the thought and the appreciation, all I can think is... really? What for? I didn't help these animals - not only didn't I save their lives, I didn't even ease their passage - they died without my assistance. I just happened to be present at the time, and know the right words to say to make it hurt less. And while I'm not discounting the significance of that, it's not something that requires a medical professional to do.
In a lot of arts and performance skills, there are the things that you do to impress the people who don't know what you're doing and the things that you do to impress the people who do know what you're doing. And usually the former things are showier but ultimately simpler and easier, while the latter things tend to be harder but subtler - less flashy and obviously impressive. And while I've always known that veterinary medicine is an art as well as a science, I never realized until now that that rule of thumb applies here too.
Clients don't usually get impressed or send me cards and candy when I pick up on a tiny, subtle abnormality during an exam, and pick the right tests, and diagnose their pet with a condition that could have become life-threatening if I hadn't caught it then and there, and figure out the right treatment to keep it from becoming a problem. That's just my job; it's what I'm supposed to do. Other vets may high-five me and boggle at my remembering that hepatocutaneous syndrome even exists, or for thinking to keep Obscure Infection X on my list of differentials, but for the most part, to the clients, that's just what they pay me to do.
On the other hand, holding someone's hand while they cry, or telling them that it's okay to hurt, or reassuring them that they did the right thing and tried everything they could, doesn't require a medical degree. It's not a challenge to my knowledge, and while I know it's a skill of mine I don't think of it so much as a professional skill. And vets don't usually call each other at the end of the day and say, 'Dude, I have to tell you about the outrageous grief counseling I did today' like we occasionally will with exciting or freaky cases.
And yet that's what people remember most, and why I won't get rhapsodies of delight for diagnosing a dog with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever or multiple-drug-resistant osteomyelitis, but I will for being in the room when their bunny has a heart attack.
I'm not quite sure what to do with this realization, or where to take it from here, but it's an interesting epiphany, and one that I need to think about....
What I realized last night, though, was that two of the three clients sent me thank-you cards after the fact. And while I'm flattered, and I adore the thought and the appreciation, all I can think is... really? What for? I didn't help these animals - not only didn't I save their lives, I didn't even ease their passage - they died without my assistance. I just happened to be present at the time, and know the right words to say to make it hurt less. And while I'm not discounting the significance of that, it's not something that requires a medical professional to do.
In a lot of arts and performance skills, there are the things that you do to impress the people who don't know what you're doing and the things that you do to impress the people who do know what you're doing. And usually the former things are showier but ultimately simpler and easier, while the latter things tend to be harder but subtler - less flashy and obviously impressive. And while I've always known that veterinary medicine is an art as well as a science, I never realized until now that that rule of thumb applies here too.
Clients don't usually get impressed or send me cards and candy when I pick up on a tiny, subtle abnormality during an exam, and pick the right tests, and diagnose their pet with a condition that could have become life-threatening if I hadn't caught it then and there, and figure out the right treatment to keep it from becoming a problem. That's just my job; it's what I'm supposed to do. Other vets may high-five me and boggle at my remembering that hepatocutaneous syndrome even exists, or for thinking to keep Obscure Infection X on my list of differentials, but for the most part, to the clients, that's just what they pay me to do.
On the other hand, holding someone's hand while they cry, or telling them that it's okay to hurt, or reassuring them that they did the right thing and tried everything they could, doesn't require a medical degree. It's not a challenge to my knowledge, and while I know it's a skill of mine I don't think of it so much as a professional skill. And vets don't usually call each other at the end of the day and say, 'Dude, I have to tell you about the outrageous grief counseling I did today' like we occasionally will with exciting or freaky cases.
And yet that's what people remember most, and why I won't get rhapsodies of delight for diagnosing a dog with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever or multiple-drug-resistant osteomyelitis, but I will for being in the room when their bunny has a heart attack.
I'm not quite sure what to do with this realization, or where to take it from here, but it's an interesting epiphany, and one that I need to think about....