Speaking on a panel with me, a paediatric anaesthetist says that every time she takes a patient into theatre, she says to the parent, \u201cI will take good care of your child\u201d. Somehow, just imagining this solemn promise makes me tearful although I don\u2019t even know that a variation of these words is headed my way.<\/p>\n
For the past week, our cavoodle Odie has been vomiting. The vet\u2019s diagnosis of \u201cit could be a stomach bug or lymphoma\u201d is not exactly reassuring but, admittedly, the patient is wagging its tail.<\/p>\n
Two days later, our suspicion rises. The receptionist suggests I bring him in \u201cnow\u201d for tests. I guiltily decline, loath to cancel my patients who have waited months to see me. Later, we go for an ultrasound and, as Odie burrows into my arms, his little heart thumps. Noticing his apprehension (and mine), the technician kneels, fusses over him before drawing him away.<\/p>\n
As I swallow the bill shock, I learn that Odie has swallowed something causing gastric obstruction. The waiting room has emptied but the vet does me the courtesy of asking me inside to advise that he will need emergency surgery. After texting the kids, I rush him to the animal hospital. In the rear view, he looks tired and innocent, and I feel remorseful. How did we fail him?<\/p>\n
The receptionist greets me with a fine-tuned amount of care and compassion. She neither indulges me nor fawns over my dog. This is not the time to tell me he is cute. Odie and I are nodding off when the duty vet calls us. Soon, she has me marvelling at her ability to be professional without patronising.<\/p>\n
She explains that I have a choice between attempting to retrieve the foreign body via a gastroscopy or moving straight to open surgery.<\/p>\n
Why not pick the less invasive option first, I ask, instinctively thinking about my patients.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause if it fails, your cost doubles and some people can\u2019t afford it.\u201d<\/p>\n
This one-line informed financial consent hits the mark \u2013 but nauseous at the idea of cutting open Odie\u2019s tiny abdomen, I opt for a gastroscopy and hope for the best.<\/p>\n
I ask the vet if I should wait only to be gently advised that the procedure requires prepping for hydration and sedation. Having sent countless patients for a gastroscopy, I feel stupid.<\/p>\n
A friendly nurse appears. Odie likes her, licks her and follows her to \u201cthe dog ward\u201d, leaving me to pay the hefty deposit. This reminds me of my patients whose pension would foreclose this luxury on behalf of a pet that is often their sole companion.<\/p>\n
\u201cBefore you leave, do you want to see Odie?\u201d the receptionist asks.<\/p>\n
I have decision fatigue \u2013 and say no, unconvincingly explaining that I don\u2019t want to get his hopes up.<\/p>\n
\u201cAs you like,\u201d she says. Recognising the politest of signals to guard against future regret, I stop at the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you think I should see him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n
The nurse brings out a still happy-looking Odie. I stroke his head, telling him (and me) that we are lucky to be in able hands. <\/p>\n
Meanwhile, my own hands feel awfully empty without dog or leash.<\/p>\n
My remedy to ward off the tears is to play loud Bollywood music and, while incongruous, it stops the sadness from invading my heart. At home, after answering my kids\u2019 questions with \u201cwe don\u2019t know\u201d and \u201cwe can\u2019t say\u201d, I fall into an exhausted sleep.<\/p>\n
After midnight, an apologetic, frustrated vet calls to say that the gastroscopy was unsuccessful. She could see a twig-like object but couldn\u2019t budge it. So I consent to an exploratory laparotomy, a term for opening up the abdomen that I have explained to many patients suffering from conditions that don\u2019t involve a swallowed twig.<\/p>\n
The seed pod of a sweetgum tree removed from Odie. Photograph: Ranjana Srivastava<\/p>\n
A kindly surgeon assures me of the routine nature of the procedure. Eyeing the \u201cfor resuscitation\u201d box, I hope so.<\/p>\n
The offender turns out to be the seed pod of a sweetgum tree. Odie comes home, a little dopey and nonplussed as to what the fuss is all about.<\/p>\n
As an oncologist, I am used to being compared (unfavourably) to vets. In the depth of their disappointments, patients and families will lament that they wouldn\u2019t treat an animal \u201clike that\u201d. Of course, the human condition and human expectations are complicated, but I will say that vets and their staff might just be the unsung heroes of healthcare.<\/p>\n
They protect the interests of those who can\u2019t even speak for themselves, comfortable both with curing and, when the suffering gets too much, palliating. All this without fanfare but with compassion and humility.<\/p>\n
What I will remember most is their empathy, which felt natural and unforced. They instinctively understood that they were treating two patients \u2013 me and my dog \u2013 and tailored their touch and talk accordingly. Alas, we don\u2019t do this nearly well enough in medicine. The barrage of bureaucracy no doubt hardens us but, if we let our empathy dissipate, we will be the lesser for it.<\/p>\n
As for Odie, his wound is healing and he is inhaling our love. Considering the drama, I have a good mind to never again let him off leash. But, to be honest, at the first whiff of his eagerness to sniff at every blade of grass and inspect every dog\u2019s behind, I will relent and, before I can exclaim \u201cDon\u2019t eat that!\u201d, we will be back to our normal ways.<\/p>\n