All posts by Sarah McGurk

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About Sarah McGurk

I am a veterinary surgeon and author, living and working in Scotland with my lovely Kooiker Triar.

Go Gentle

Requests

I have been wondering whether I should talk about euthanasia for a little while now. As you can probably tell, working in the clinic is mostly a joyous experience, but there are times when veterinary work can be very sad. It seems to me, after twenty years working as a vet, that death is as much a part of life as birth, but outside the clinic it is more hidden, less talked about. When it is discussed, it is done in a hushed reverential way.

From what I understand from talking to people, I believe that I have something of an unusual view. To me, death seems a peaceful thing, rather than something to be afraid of. Except in exceptional circumstances, most of the animals we put to sleep are old or very ill. There are occasions when, from seeming terribly distressed, breathless, weary or in pain, you can see your patient relax. The strain disappears and it is obvious that they have found peace.

For the owner of course, it’s a sad time: sometimes devastating. Many people feel their pets are members of their family, and so the loss is intense. For me it has always seemed somehow very intimate and it is important not to intrude, but even after all this time, with each ending, I continue to share the sorrow . I have read other vets saying that they try to keep things brisk and professional, but I have never been able to do that. Usually there are tears in my eyes.

For the animal, I try to make sure that the experience is as peaceful as I can make it. Most animals don’t enjoy going to the vets. It’s important  to take my time, to talk to both the owner and their pet. With dogs, I usually try to inject them without lifting them up onto the table. I always feel they are more comfortable on the floor: more secure, though of course smaller dogs can sit on their owner’s knee.

The process is different here in Norway and actually I prefer it. In Britain, it was the norm to give an overdose of anaesthetic directly into the vein. Personal experience has taught me that when being anaesthetised, it is like a light going out. It’s very rapid and I usually explained that before beginning, but sometimes I could see it was a shock to the owner that the whole thing was over so fast. There were difficulties sometimes in finding the vein and in making sure the injection went in correctly, as otherwise the whole experience could cause unnecessary pain.

At Tu, it is the norm to sedate the animal: deep sedation, so that he or she becomes unaware of the surroundings and is profoundly calm. Often we leave the room so the pet can go to sleep in peace alone with the people they know best. Once the animal is sleeping, we return. Generally we encourage the owner to leave the room, though they are welcome to return afterwards if they wish. The final injection is usually given into the heart, which isn’t the most pleasant thing to watch, but I am comforted by the fact that the pet is wholly unaware.

Whichever way it is carried out, I try to make sure that the owner is not too distressed by the procedure itself. Euthanasia is the last and kindest gift that an owner can give to their pet if they are in pain. The last thing I want is for their memory to be of my incompetence or of something frightening happening they did not expect. I try to ensure that I explain everything thoroughly and work as efficiently as possible. Experience has taught me that when things go wrong, it feels desperately traumatic, and if it is that way for me, then it must be even more so for the loving owner.

This week I carried out my first fully solo euthanasia in Norwegian. I was concerned that language might be a barrier. All the things that came so easily in English would be no longer second nature. I was worried I would be unable to properly offer comfort, but in the event it was obvious that body language counted for so much that it was not important that the words were not perfect or sufficiently profound. It was still a sad experience, and yet I find it somehow uplifting. It is such a generous act on the part of the owner. I am glad if I can help them carry that burden, even if only a little.

Guts

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It’s been a week for exploratory laparotomies. For those who don’t know, a laparotomy is a surgical cut into the abdomen, so an exploratory laparotomy is where that surgical cut is carried out to investigate what is going on. Despite the fact that we have many ways to explore inside animals without surgery such as x-rays, ultrasound, or even simple palpation (still a valuable tool) sometimes there is no way to be certain whether there is a serious problem without opening up the abdomen and having a look.

My photograph is of Anette, a seven year old Cavalier King Charles who was thought to have eaten part of a towel. Happily for Anette, the towel had already passed quite a long way through and Magne was able to manoeuvre what remained down towards her rectum. I was the happy person who went in to retrieve it.

It is much more complicated however when it is necessary to cut into the intestine to remove the foreign body. There is a risk of contamination of the abdomen (any leakage from the incision either during or after surgery leads to peritonitis). Hardest for me is when there has been damage to the intestine. It can be a difficult decision whether to open and remove the object or to remove the entire section of gut which has been damaged.

Removing a section is technically more difficult and there is more risk of contamination afterwards, but if the damage to the intestine is severe, it may never recover. For me, those kinds of decisions can be the hardest part of veterinary practice. There is always a tense period after such an operation before you can be sure that the animal is going to recover. I don’t know whether other vets spend so much time agonising over such decisions post-surgically. I suppose though, it is that which drives me to want to be as good as I possibly can.

Jan-Arne assisted me with two of the operations. The final one was on Wednesday and he had asked me on Tuesday whether I could come in specially for an hour or two to help him. I was delighted to do so. He is always so keen to learn new things. I was also happy because for the first time since I have been working at Tu, Charlie had taken a day off work and was able to come and see round the practice and join me in theatre.

He watched with interest and also chatted quite a lot to Jan-Arne during the process. Jan-Arne, as I have said before, works as a large animal vet sometimes, generally covering out-of-hours work such as nights and weekends. Charlie was impressed, as am I, by his unending enthusiasm. Having spent a number of years in large animal practice ourselves, it is hard to imagine relishing taking on additional out-of-hours work on top of working more full time already, but Jan-Arne genuinely loves these opportunities to work with farm animals.

I haven’t talked too much about his history, but I am genuinely in awe of the way he lives his life, making the most of everything that comes his way. He told me that in school, he always wanted to be a vet, but the careers advisor threw cold water over the idea, and his young self lacked the confidence to tackle the heavy requirements that are necessary for entry into the veterinary world.

He spent, therefore many years working in hotels, administration and marketing of telephones. In his thirties however, he was struck down by horrendous pain from a neck injury following a car-crash he had in his mid-twenties. Faced with life-threatening surgery, he made the decision that if he came through, he wanted to follow his childhood dream to become a healer of animals.

He became the first Norwegian man to qualify as a veterinary surgeon from the University of Veterinary and Pharmaceutical Studies in Brno in the Czech Republic. Continually inspired by his dedication and love for animals, I am very proud to work alongside him and the other vets, nurses and assistants who make such a wonderful team.

 

SuperVet

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I have been at the dentist’s this morning. It struck me as I was lying with my mouth gaping, my gums being probed and scraped, that our animal patients are fortunate to be asleep through most of the dental process.

As I have mentioned before, Wivek is a very skilled veterinary dentist. Todays image is a series of x-rays she took to examine a cat with FORL, (feline odontoclastic resorptive lesions)  a condition where the teeth are eaten away, both above and below the gums. I can recall years ago, long before this condition was commonly recognised, trying to clean cats’ teeth and finding great difficulty. The hardest thing was despite the fact that although the defects are obvious, such teeth are desperately difficult to remove as they fracture so easily, but Wivek works away with them very patiently. Our patients are very lucky to have her.

A little later I was helping Jan-Arne with an x-ray. I have had a cold this week and spent most of Monday sneezing. Happily by the time I had to go to work on Tuesday, things had improved slightly. There are few things worse than having to consult with a streaming nose, although operating while trying not to sneeze is probably one of them. Anyway, I felt uncomfortably overheated as I stood there with the lead gown wrapped around me, trapping the air as well as weighing me down.

‘Is it very warm in here, or is it just me?’ I asked. I knew it probably was hot. It generally is. Really I was just making conversation although I had it in mind I might be a bit under-the-weather and was all ready to elicit some sympathy.

‘How old are you?’ was his unexpected question. I looked at him in confusion.

‘Why?’

‘Well have you reached that age yet?’

‘What age?’ I was struggling to see what possible relevance this could have to my illness.

‘You know, with women when they… oh what would it be in English?’

It dawned on me what he was talking about. ‘You mean the menopause?’ Instead of the quick kick in the shins that this probably deserved, I just laughed. ‘Yes I suppose I probably am. But really, I was just wondering if I was running a fever.’

‘Oh’ I thought he might have had the grace to look embarrassed, but of course he didn’t. ‘In my family it comes very young,’ he said with what I am sure was accidental tact. I asked him what was normal in Norway in terms of coming to work with a cold. In the UK, unless you were on your death-bed or couldn’t leave the toilet, you were generally expected in, but here in Norway I was less sure. Despite that fact that in any small practice, the absence of a member of staff has a huge knock-on effect on those remaining, I am always so aware that going into work spreads germs.

‘Oh, unless I have a fever,’ he said, ‘I usually try to come in.’ I was relieved. The last thing I want to achieve at work is some kind of pariah status.

In the afternoon, Jan-Arne had booked in a bitch-spay for me to do with him assisting. Mostly in the UK, these are performed on slim, young animals, but with the law in Norway requiring a medical reason for neutering, here it is often more complicated. Everything went smoothly however, and with a final check for bleeding, it was time to close up.

As so often happens, the stitching at the end of the operation took about as long as the removal of the uterus. Jan-Arne had to return to his consultations long before I was finished, which left Jacqueline and me alone in theatre.

‘Did you watch this week’s Supervet?’ she asked. I had to confess, I hadn’t. ‘This weeks one was really the most dramatic yet,’ she said, and I could tell from her tone, that this wasn’t necessarily going to be complimentary. I was all ears.

‘Oh yes?’ I prompted.

‘Well he had just finished one of his marathon operations,’ she said, ‘when this other dog arrived which had been in an accident and had this terrible neck injury.’ From the smile in her voice, I could tell she was amused by what she had seen. ‘And they said that this neck injury was so severe that the dog needed surgery immediately. Anyway, he was a bit iffy about whether he could do it. He wanted to do it so badly, he said, but he was so tired.’

‘I know that feeling,’ I said. Even the more moderate surgery I am generally involved in can be fairly draining.

‘So he decided that he was going to do it, but instead of going into theatre to get on with it, he went up to his office and started to cry. He wanted to do it so badly, he sobbed, but he was so exhausted that he couldn’t help himself.’

By this time, the cynicism was dripping from Jacqueline’s voice, and when I looked up from my suturing, she was grinning broadly at the memory. I found myself smiling too, trying to picture the scene, but somehow it was impossible.

Jan-Arne reappeared just then. ‘The dog we operated on last week. The one that had eaten the wood. It’s in to get its stitches out. Would you like to see it?’

I confess this filled me with happiness. That was the exploratory operation last week which lost me some sleep. I looked down at my gowned and gloved person. I couldn’t really go out trogging around the clinic.

‘Can he come and do a walk-by?’ I asked. Jan-Arne disappeared and I carefully set a swab over the wound to obscure the view. Big handsome dog that my previous patient was, I couldn’t have been more delighted to see him and his owner, both grinning happily.

‘That’s fantastic,’ I said, and thanked both the owner and Jan-Arne before removing the gauze to continue.

I had almost finished up, and Jacqueline looked pleased as I inserted the last stitch. It was already an hour after my shift should have finished. Like Mr Supervet Fitzpatrick, I was feeling drained at the end of what had been a long day. Irene poked her head around the door. Her face was apologetic and yet there was a suspiciously wheedling tone in her voice as she greeted us. I could tell she needed something.

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘Well… is there any chance you could see a rabbit for me after this? I’m sorry to ask you, but I don’t have anyone else.’

‘What’s wrong with the rabbit?’ I asked. It turned out it had a head-tilt. Neurological problems can be complex, but equally it wasn’t fair to leave the poor bunny.

‘I’ll see it,’ I said, and peeled off the sweaty gloves and face-mask. Suddenly recalling Jacqueline’s Supervet story, I stood for a moment, dredging for my inner-drama queen. After all, I was near to exhaustion.  Maybe a few tears would be appropriate here. But with a heavy heart I was forced to accept that I was never made for those flights of fancy. My feet are grounded firmly in the Jaeren mud, which as those of you who live in Jaeren will know, is regularly doused in pig slurry.

I fear this will mean that it is unlikely anyone will ever make a television programme about me. But as with most other things in my life… I can probably live with it.

Inside Out

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My week began (as it often seems to) with me assisting with a cruciate operation. I was quite pleased with myself and felt quite organised, and even remembered that I had to apply a bandage to the dog’s lower leg so as to keep the hair under wraps, so to speak. Dagny was on good form as she was heading off for some CPD in Svalbard. She hoped to see a polar bear, she told me, but when she saw my bandage she narrowed her eyes.

‘You do know you’ve put that bandage on inside out?’ she said.

I looked down at my handywork. The bandages we use are the flexible bandages that stick to themselves, and I invariably unroll them with the outer surface of the roll to the dog’s leg. Anyone who bandages often will be aware that it’s much easier to do that.

‘It’s not my bandage that’s inside out,’ I remarked. ‘They’ve just printed the pattern on the wrong side.’

‘I suppose they’re the other way out in Scotland,’ she said with a grin. The odd thing is that I seem to remember that for a while, we did have bandages with patterns on, and that the patterned side was inside the roll. I wonder whether now they sell these things online to the general public, whether they feel the need to put the pattern on the outside as a gimmick. Or whether my memory is just hopelessly faulty. Maybe there are some dino-vets in the UK who can set my mind at rest. Either way, I will continue to put the bandages on inside out. I don’t suppose the dogs will really mind. At least I’m no longer in the Glasgow PDSA, where you had to work out whether the owner was a Rangers or Celtic supporter so you could put on the wrong coloured bandage just to annoy them. Or better still, a bright pink bandage on their illegal male Pit-Bull. I wonder whether I could start a craze for blue, white and red bandages for Norway’s 17th May celebrations.

Thursday was much quieter. I confess I was really looking forward to lunchtime. Often, when Dagny isn’t coming in, Jan-Arne is asked to buy lunch for everyone on his way in at eleven o’clock. As well as the usual meats, bread and salad, he frequently brings pre-cooked burgers and I was so hungry I really fancied one. So it was with sadness that I discovered that everyone had been informed yesterday that there would be no lunch provided. Luckily, the ever-generous Wivek came to my assistance with some fibre-rich knekkebrød, (like Ryvita, only nicer for those in the UK) some smoked salmon spread and various salad items. Although there was no Thursday meeting, we still all had our lunch break at the same time and I was amused to look round and see what everyone was eating.

As you can probably tell from my list, Wivek’s lunch was very healthy. It suited her personality: conscientious and rather serious (though to be fair, she also confided in me afterwards that she had chocolate for breakfast, which just goes to show she has an underlying wicked streak). Marita had something not to dissimilar from Wivek: practical and organised. Irene wasn’t eating with us. She’s a woman of mystery.  Jacqueline like me, had no lunch, but rather than steal from Wivek, she extracted an ice-lolly from the freezer. Of course she’s incredibly cool at all times, and just a little bit quirky and so that too was very suitable. And what about Jan-Arne? Well he had brought a couple of bread rolls, which he smothered in ketchup and mustard, filled with ham and cheese, then sprinkled liberally with Piffi, a spicy mix of salt, chilli, onion powder and other tasty stuff. He then proceeded to put this in the microwave and heated it up. So does this reflect his personality? Well it was warm and frivolous, cheesy and spicy and more than a little bit crazy. But somehow together it just works. Comfort food, comfort friend. I’ll take it. In fact, I’ll take them all.

 

Today’s photo is Pernille, who is having her blood pressure checked before an operation.

 

 

The Return of the Triumphant Polar Explorer

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And so, the Scary Boss Lady returned triumphant from her travels in the cold, cold North. She had seen a polar bear, she told me. I presume she learned some stuff about eyes as well. I forgot to ask if the polar bear had healthy corneas, but I’m sure she would have mentioned it if it had needed treatment. She did bring back some pictures. This is my favourite.

polar 3

The hand belongs to Dagny’s husband Sondre, so that is a pretty big paw-print. The actual photos of the bear are very distant, but the place looks stunningly beautiful.

polar 2

And they did see some Svalbard reindeer.

polar 5

Meanwhile, back in the real world, the weather has been quite warm some days this week. So much so, that the first of this year’s flies appeared in the clinic. I couldn’t find the fly swat, so when the evil menace entered the operating theatre, I had to create a cunning fly opening by propping the doors outwards to encourage it to remove itself. Happily I didn’t make the same mistake I made last year when I announced to Dagny and Magne that there was ‘et fly’ in the room. They managed to keep straight faces, despite the fact that I had just told them there was an aeroplane buzzing around their heads. A fly in Norwegian is ‘en flue’. It’s an easy mistake to make.

Tuesday was a good day to forget my lunch. As sometimes happens, I remembered about five minutes into my journey that I had left it lying on the side in the kitchen at home, and as I never set out with more than five minutes to spare, there was no time to retrieve it. Fortunately there was a rep in from Bayer, who brought the usual inducements to buy their products in the shape of a few sandwiches and a bowl of chocolates. It’s good that big pharma likes to spend so much in bribes. Actually I had to laugh the other day when I realised the pen I had in my pocket was actually a Vets Now pen, presumably purloined from some conference or other. Those things get everywhere. It was a nice reminder of a happy past.

Thursday saw Wivek carrying out some major dental work on a dog. As we don’t have gaseous anaesthesia in the dental room, we often rely mostly on deep sedation for doing dental work, but as she was potentially going to be working on the animal for up to three hours, she wanted something that would remain reliably stable for much longer. She therefore used the new infusion and syringe driver to give a complex mixture of anaesthetic and pain-relieving drugs and we used the new oxygen pump for breathing. It all worked like a dream. I monitored the breathing and pulse for her and she achieved wonderful stability. I have always been a big fan of gas anaesthesia, but I could definitely be converted.

I had a slightly bizarre experience on Thursday. The washing machine and tumble drier are in the changing room area of the clinic, as is the toilet. As I stood unloading the machine and folding up the clean washing, Jan-Arne rushed in.

‘I have to go to the toilet,’ he said with obvious urgency. I took some of the uniforms through to fold them up in the next room as I had no great desire to listen, but the next moment, I heard the skirl of bagpipes emanating from behind the door. For a mind-blowing moment, I wondered whether Jan-Arne was actually Scottish. After all, only a true Scot could possibly blow that kind of noise from his bottom. But then it dawned on me.

‘Are you using your iPhone in there?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, obviously perfectly happy that I was there. Men are strange creatures.

Towards the end of the day, I was chatting to Dagny and she was trying to send me her is-bjørn photographs. It was taking ages (maybe Jan-Arne was on the toilet again). Marita walked in.

‘I just had a telephone call from a boy, wanting to know how long it would take for a rabbit to get pregnant if the boy rabbit and the girl rabbit got in together. I told him about five seconds,’ she said with a grin.

Dagny put her head on her side. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I don’t think that’s right.’ She paused for a long moment for effect. ‘Not SO long as that,’ and we all laughed. It was the perfect end to a very pleasant day.

 

This week’s picture is of Jan-Arne’s dog Susii Because he chats to his clients enthusiastically about his own pets, those who have similar dogs tend to want to see him again. It always amazes me how many cute little brown dogs make their way onto his patient list.

 

The Need to Feed

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I attended my first ever Webinar last night on the subject of nutrition in acute gastrointestinal disease. An interesting experience, not least because the lecturer, Ava Firth, is a friend and someone I used to work with in the UK at Vets Now. Wivek also linked up to listen. It was announced that 300 people round the world had signed up, which I thought was pretty impressive. Ava is very practical and always relevant so it was a worthwhile use of my CPD time.

She was talking about gastro-enteritis, amongst other things and it struck me that I haven’t seen a single case of Parvo since I have been working here. This scourge, which is an ongoing cause of distress in every area of Britain (and I believe, the US) has never gained a foothold here, though I believe there have been a couple of sporadic outbreaks. As Ava commented, Parvo often affects puppies and is therefore intensely traumatic, both for the owner and the vets and nurses who have to carry out their care when (as they often do) they require hospitalisation. I wondered when I began consulting here, why they had no oral rehydration treatments available (up until now, most cases I have seen have been treated with anti-emetics and pro-biotics).  Ava definitely managed to remind and (re)-convert me though. I will be asking Gerd if we can buy some Oralade, even if only for the many dogs we seem to have in with foreign bodies. It’ll certainly be a more up-to-date solution than the current recommendation of giving fishballs to sick pets. I confess that is a nutritional suggestion I have never come across outside Norway.

Speaking of foreign bodies, I saw a competition somewhere last week for radiographs of “most amusing things swallowed by a dog”. I think the oddest thing I ever found inside a dog was half a pair of knickers. Since coming here, there has been the odd natural product such as pieces of wood and pine cones. There has also been a teat from a baby’s dummy, which I believe is quite common. But the latest feeding frenzy seems to be… tampons. Wivek removed two from a dog’s stomach only last week. There was even one a few months back where the string had caught around the dog’s tongue and it had to be retrieved under sedation. Sadly none of these things show up on radiographs, so we won’t be winning any competition, but this special canine enthusiasm is just one of the more interesting international differences I have noticed.

It hasn’t been the best week for me. Two weeks ago, I saw an ear, nose and throat doctor. I have had tonsil stones for years and although it has gradually been getting worse, I’ve lived with it so long that I didn’t think much about it until I thought I saw a black speck on my left tonsil. With a long history of melanomata, I had to get it checked out. By the time the ENT actually got round to seeing me, the fleck had disappeared (perhaps it was a blood blister), but to my shock, he said I had to have my tonsils out. I was relieved however when he said there was a six to nine month waiting list: plenty of time to get used to the idea. My shock was much greater when an appointment arrived on Wednesday for the 13th May.

Fortunately, Wivek was there to listen to my wailings. One thing that interests me is that from comments I have seen on the internet, the most up-to date recommendation is to eat rough crunchy food afterwards(think toast and cornflakes). I was disappointed that the old fashioned jelly and ice-cream was no longer on the table. Happily  it seems Norway is behind the times in these matters, and so the recommendations here are still for soft non-warmed foods. Wivek did point out that it was fortunate that we had a nutritional webinar coming up, which would obviously answer all my questions. Sadly tonsillectomy wasn’t one of the topics covered. I expect though, that fish-balls will not be on my eating list. That would be a step too far.

 

 

 

Miss Direction

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It seems that last week in the clinic, I missed out on the exciting moment when one of our feline patients did the wall of death around consulting room A. Most of the cats here seem very reasonable, but apparently this one was half wild. It’s amazing how  much damage can be done by one cat on a dedicated shelf bombing mission. Fortunately Dagny’s arm was long enough to reach in to its hiding place behind the fridge and inject it with enough anaesthetic to calm it down.

Hair raising anaesthesia was also the order of the day earlier this week when one of the patients I was monitoring stopped breathing near the beginning of its operation. Of course with gas anaesthesia, it is straightforward enough to carry out assisted breathing, indeed on our anaesthesia course, the lecturer quite casually mentioned that it didn’t really matter whether the animal breathed itself or not as it was easy to respirate. I guess it happens often enough that it must eventually become almost routine. It has happened a few times and every single time it has been fine, but I still find myself checking and rechecking the equipment and assessing the animal in every way possible, whilst trying to look perfectly calm. Having been the surgeon in that situation, I know how disconcerting it is trying to operate and wondering all the time whether the animal is okay, and whether you should be doing something  to help. Trust is very important in those circumstances. Jacqueline has been incredibly calm before in that situation. Indeed when I asked her if everything was okay, she looked at me as if there was nothing untoward going on at all. My nerves are not as steely as hers though and I was profoundly happy when the dog woke up perfectly normally at the end of the operation.

On Wednesday I went in for my own hospital appointment. It seems that with tonsillectomy, there is a risk of post-operative bleeding and as I am attending a wedding in Scotland on the 24th May, I won’t be able to have my operation next week. They have rebooked it for Wednesday 27th May, just two days after I return. As I live an hour away from the hospital, they will be keeping me in overnight. Just as well as Charlie will be in Spain at the time. I’m glad now that I don’t have to wait any longer.

I was reminded the other night by a conversation with Wivek just how difficult it can be to get an accurate picture over the telephone and how confusing it can be when the owner has already made a diagnosis. It was Marita who was on call and Wivek was helping when they had a call from a client who told them that her bitch had a prolapsed uterus. In twenty or so years of veterinary practice, I have never seen such a thing in a dog. Plenty of cows, a couple of sheep and a very occasional pig, but never in a dog. Of course, such a conversation usually causes that lightning strike in your brain. How on earth will I deal with that? In that frozen state, it can be difficult to rationalise. So busy working out what you are going to have to do that alternative thought is banished. The reality is often that the owner hasn’t got things quite right, (in this case it turned out that the bitch had a polyp in her vagina) but I am sure I have a few extra grey hairs from this phenomenon.

Very occasionally the owner turns out to be correct. The one day old puppy I once saw with its liver hanging out really was just that. A proud moment for me when that dog reached six months of age. But more often, with hindsight, it is possible to look back and laugh, though obviously not in front of the client. Great tact was called for on the day when the owner rushed her dog into the clinic on an autumn day in Glasgow with a wound on the back leg which the lady thought had become infected.

‘It’s the wound on her leg. It’s gone all yellow.’ Dramatic hand to forehead. ‘Oh I can’t bear to look.’ Bending over the dog to inspect its leg, I was initially surprised by just how yellow it was until I realised that actually the dog must have sat down on a fallen leaf which had stuck to the slightly sticky wound. Another occasion, another panicky phone call.

‘My dog’s broken its leg. There’s a piece of bone hanging out,’ and then once again those portentous words, ‘Oh I can’t bear to look.’ On that occasion it was part of a stick of rock that was stuck to the leg. Quite how the owner had missed the fact that her dog was using its broken limb without even limping still passes me by.

My favourite story however is the apocryphal tale of the PDSA client who came into the clinic very angry. They had bought an expensive Rottweiler puppy and it wasn’t growing. It was left to the rather bemused vet to explain that the reason that the puppy was not making much progress was because it was actually a guinea pig. Somehow I have never been able to convince myself that story was true, even though I have been assured that it did really happen. Still it’s a great story, and there is just enough possibility in there to make it wonderfully tantalising. You really do need a great deal of tact to be a vet.

Today’s picture is Tiger who is in for a vaccination and is looking very fine at the great age of 16 years and 9 months.

 

 

 

Party Animals

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“It’s a tough job being a vet, but you can never ruin our appetites.”

Wivek came up with this statement last week. I went in to join my colleagues for lunch on one of my days off and as I had arrived a bit early, Wivek collared me and dragged me off to her consulting room to show me a particularly unappealing case. We do get all sorts of unpleasant things in to deal with, from stinking abscesses to rabbits that are infested with maggots. Yet as soon as someone says “It’s time for lunch,” we can be immediately ready to eat. Of course, we would never leave an ongoing case that needed treatment. Sometimes, if it’s just too busy, we miss out on lunch completely. But there is almost nothing that occurs with animals that would put me off washing my hands and going off to devour whatever delight I have with me.

I do seem to have done more socialising this week than actual work. Tuesday was very quiet and Thursday was a day off for ascension day and on Wednesday night, Irene had a party. Not just any party, I might add. This was a Singstar party. If (like me about two weeks ago) you have no idea what Singstar is, it’s a PlayStation video game where two (or more) people compete by singing along to a music track. I confess that I found this concept almost as appealing as being poo’d on by an elephant with diarrhoea, but with promises of Jan-Arne’s sweet potato fries and Marita’s wonderful focaccia, I was finally convinced that there might be enough positives to make up for the potential trauma of making an absolute ass of myself.

I needn’t have worried. Having arrived unfashionably early (like about an hour before anyone else) to Jan-Arne’s party a few months back, I checked carefully with Irene what time things would be getting under way. Having been told I could get there from about seven (and help set things up) I finally managed to get out of my own front door at about eight-fifteen. Obviously I have a talent for arriving at the wrong time, whenever that might be. Still, there was much food preparation still taking place. Jan-Arne was rushing around dressed in shorts (and at one point a pair of blue light-up cats ears) trying to get three enormous trayfuls of sweet-potatoes to turn crispy. Wivek arrived with her dog Ida (pictured at the top of the page) clutching an enormous meringue base and a punnet of strawberries. Meanwhile Marita and Per Egil were bashing into the wine, presumably in a (very sensible) attempt to ensure their vocal cords were suitably lubricated to allow them to sing beautifully.

In the event, the food was wonderful. And I only managed to stay for three songs (none of them sung by me) as I had to dash off and collect Charlie from the airport. Despite my best efforts to convince him to return to the party with me, he politely declined. Obviously when it comes to being a party-animal, he’s more of a Scottish wildcat than a friendly lion.

Anyway, enough of the words. Time for some photos.

Not sure the screen was quite big enough.
Not sure the screen was quite big enough.
Mesmerising Marita. Focaccia queen.
Mesmerising Marita. Focaccia queen.
The nursing team: Kari-Anna and Jacqueline
The nursing team: Kari-Anna and Jacqueline
The Pussy Cat Doll (and Wivek)
The Pussy Cat Doll (and Wivek)
Ooooohhh... Young Maaaaan!
Ooooohhh… Young Maaaaan!
Turtally gorgeous
Turtally gorgeous
Jenny and her Australian friend (sorry, I can't remember your name)
Jenny and her Australian friend (sorry, I can’t remember your name)
Per Egil: Singing Legend
Per Egil: Singing Legend
Beautiful Ena wants to dance with somebody
Beautiful Ena wants to dance with somebody

 

The real stars of the show
The real stars of the show

 

 

 

Waltzing along

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This week’s blog is going to be brief. Not only are we off to Scotland tomorrow for a wedding (Charlie has spent the last three hours on the computer writing his best-man speech) but also due to the impendingness of next week’s surgery, my brain has become as flaky as a West Highland White terrier with atopy.

Dagny’s neighbour Matilde has been in doing work experience this week. She has amazed me with the way she mucks in and helps with clearing up and holding things. I confess that when I was 14 or 15, I would probably have been too scared to touch anything without being specifically asked. She has also been with Dagny and me in the operating theatre watching some quite gory stuff. Again she impressed me by looking on with interest as Magne wielded his bone drill, rather than horror or faintness.

Of course, even my initial interaction with her showed signs of my erratic brain. I asked her on Tuesday morning what her name was, and completely forgot to tell her mine. Fortunately Dagny was there to remind me. I was trying to remember though, how introductions tended to occur back in Scotland. Here in Norway, it is a very set thing that when you meet someone new, you shake their hand and introduce yourself. Whilst this is probably very practical for most people, my available memory is now smaller than that of a fifteen year old laptop so within three seconds I have forgotten. Still, I suspect in Scotland that there might have been occasions when I could get through a whole week of work-experience student visits without them ever knowing what I was called. If they were lucky, the receptionist probably told them. Despite the readiness of the words “Sorry,” and “Thank you” on my lips, I fear that the reality is that I am just terribly rude sometimes.

Still I have been pleased to go into work this week. The (probably unwarranted) adrenaline flow over next week’s tonsillectomy has made me jumpy and there’s something reassuring about arriving in the morning and going through the consulting rooms to check the drawers whilst automatically assessing how many surgical kits are awaiting assembly and whether there is enough distilled water. Routine is my friend. As are Irene, who noticed I was quiet and gave me a hug, Wivek who is driving me to hospital next week, Marita who helped me with a dental this afternoon, Dagny, who told me to take the rest of Tuesday off after I have been for pre-op blood test and check-up, Jaqueline, who volunteered to speak to the owner of the dental so I could go home and Jan-Arne who made me laugh when I walked into the changing room and found a cuddly man there dressed only in a pair of stars-and-stripes boxer shorts. How lucky I am.

So I’m not sure whether there will be a blog next week. I will be in hospital overnight from Wednesday, hopefully home Thursday. Who knows, maybe something will happen on my ward that is so ridiculous that I can’t wait to share it with you. Au revoir mes amis. See you all soon.

 

This week’s photo is of Mika, who had been managing to lick his stitches. Hopefully his new, larger buster collar will discourage him. He is just as cute as he looks!

Touched (in the Head)

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It seems like an age since I have written here. In my last post I was about to head off to Scotland. That weekend already feels like a distant memory. It was a wonderful wedding. I won’t share all the details, but just as a random sample of how great it was, here are some photos of the venue and the  wedding cake.

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The day after I returned was a whirlwind of hospital appointments and seeing Charlie off to the airport and then suddenly it was Wednesday and time for my operation. Wivek very kindly drove me to the hospital, and to my surprise (and relief) rather than dropping me in the car park, she accompanied me up to the ward, helped me find where I had to go and then waited with me until the nurse arrived. I was bundled into a bed and given some pain relief. I don’t know what it was, but somehow I managed to fall asleep and they had to wake me up to take me into theatre.

I came round a while later to be presented with some ice-cubes to suck. These were oddly soothing, but there was a horrible taste in my mouth and I remember a strange moment of overwhelming gratitude when the nurse came over to me proffering a lurid pink and yellow ice lolly.

At some point I was reunited with my mobile phone and it struck me that it might be a good idea to let my nearest and dearest know that I had survived. Having sent a boringly factual message to Charlie, I then concluded that I should also let Wivek know. I’m not sure what kind of madness seized my brain at this point. Rather than repeating the factual tone, my fingers sketched in the abstract statement ‘Ice-cubes are my friends.’ At least I think it was something like that. Having typed this gibberish, my clouded brain then decided it would be a good plan to include Dagny and Jan-Arne. To their credit, Dagny and Wivek just wrote back saying they were glad.

Jan-Arne however was obviously confused. Unlike the other two, I suspect that he didn’t have my number programmed into his phone, and faced with some random babble about ice-cubery, he rapidly texted back ‘Que?’ Followed by another message saying ‘Who is this?’ When I let him know it was me, he decided to call me. Goodness knows what I sounded like with a swollen throat and a brain filled with opiates, but it was lovely to hear his friendly voice.

At some point, the surgeon also very kindly visited to let me know that although they wouldn’t have the definitive pathology back for a week or so, there had been no sign of anything severely wrong with my tonsils. As the reason I skipped the waiting-list was that there was some concern over my history of melanoma, this was an enormous relief.

Anyway, my two weeks off raced past in a blur of writing (trying to get Ready. Vet, Go edited in time for a summer onslaught of literary agents) and Come Dine With Me on the TV. In defence of my (appalling) taste in TV programmes, I must say that I only watch such drivel when my brain and body are drained.

And so yesterday, I returned to work. I had been there less than an hour when I began to feel shaky and exhausted. Somehow, everyone but me was swamped with work and this was doubly frustrating as a vomiting cat had been booked in for me and left by the client, and despite having time to spare, without another pair of hands, I was unable to examine it. In between flurries of washing, topping up and resetting the haematology machine, I spent quite a while sitting in the lunch room feeling utterly drained, mentally and physically. I struggled most of the day, both with my veterinary work (thanks are due to Wivek and Marita, who very patiently helped me with each and every case) and with my Norwegian. At one point, I saw a very stressed owner whose dog had been hit by a car. Whilst my emergency-clinic primed brain was still ticking over well enough to asses the dog,  I struggled so much with explaining the concept of keeping an eye on the dog’s breathing that I was worried that I wasn’t managing to reassure the owner well enough that she could cope with monitoring the dog for the rest of the day.

I was also still horribly aware of the poor cat which was awaiting a full assessment. I had checked him out and put him in a comfortable kennel with some water so I knew his condition wasn’t critical, but as soon as Jacqueline had arrived, Magne had rushed her in to help him in theatre and I was beginning to wonder whether I was ever going to get a chance to examine and blood test him. I think the emotional roller coaster of the past few weeks was taking its toll, because there were moments when without logical reason, I found my eyes were suddenly threatening to overflow. It’s a long time since I have felt so oddly helpless.

Still there were a few lighter moments which kept me from being overwhelmed. Marita had two cats booked in for clipping and grooming under sedation. She appeared in the prep room clutching the wrong end of one of those evil plastic aprons that come in a roll and from the quizzical way she was examining one of the side tapes, I could tell that she had no idea which part of the thing she was gripping. It became apparent to me at this moment, that despite the fact that most of the logical and language sections of my brain were running on empty, spatial awareness was still fizzing away in a miasma of over-efficiency. I took it from her, tore away the throwaway sections and handed it back to her the correct way up.

‘What kind of IQ do you need to sort out one of those things?’ she asked, rolling her eyes.

‘Not very high,’ I responded. ‘After all I managed it.’

I think this probably demonstrates just how disconnected my brain was. Fortunately, instead of thumping me as I deserved, she just laughed and fixed me with a fake glare.

‘So are you saying my IQ is really low then?’ she demanded. In response, I just grinned rather weakly.

After the road-traffic-accident dog, I managed to snaffle Jacqueline to help me with the vomiting cat. Having tried unsuccessfully earlier to take his temperature on my own, I finally managed it with her there to help. Logic however, had deserted. Somehow I had forgotten  it might be better to blood test him first before winding him up by inserting an object up his bottom, however fortunately for me, despite turning into a wildcat with the thermometer, he reverted to sweet pussy cat while I wielded the syringe to take blood from his jugular.

Time was going on, and we were broaching the Thursday communal lunch hour. There was no meeting as Dagny was absent, but people kept urging me to come and get my lunch. Thinking that this was mainly out of concern for my health, I stubbornly sat and waited for the cat’s blood test results, and when they came through, I burrowed my head in a laboratory book to check the significance. I think I had been once or twice into the lunch room. I had started to prepare my lunch and was frankly oblivious to what was going on around me. Suddenly someone started to sing ‘Happy birthday’ and I finally looked up from my book.

‘Whose birthday is it?’ I asked.

‘We’re singing it for you,’ they replied.

I confess that, at this point, I was a million miles away, utterly disconnected from the clinic and wishing I could go home.

‘It’s not my birthday.’ I said in grumpy confusion. There was a rather long silence, filled with suppressed giggles and when I finally managed to reconnect my brain, I realised they were all  glancing between me and some stunning flowers rather obviously placed right in the middle of the table.

‘They’re for you,’ they said. The message on the card welcomed me back and said they had missed me and it was signed by Irene, Wivek, Jan-Arne, Jacqueline and Marita. Suddenly my eyes were filled with tears again, but happy ones this time. This was a gift from my friends, not an official token from the clinic and that meant a lot.

Finally, as I was leaving, Jan-Arne came up and gave me a huge hug.

‘I really missed you,’ he said. ‘It just isn’t the same when you’re not here.’

Magne appeared in the passage behind him and said something, at which point Jan-Arne went over and offered to give him a hug as well, but he was humorously rebuffed. For a moment, I considered giving Magne a hug as well as I suspected that might have been more to his taste, but somehow at the last minute, we both lost our nerve. Instead he patted me rather awkwardly on the shoulder and told me how glad he was to see me back. Despite the fact that yesterday was my worst day at work for a very long time, I am  very grateful to all my colleagues for their obstinate insistence (despite all the evidence) that I am lovely.