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More excitement this weekend than I ever could have wanted (or bargained for). Friday night I had Oscar, a shih tzu that seemed in pretty bad shape: morbidly obese, could barely walk, severe respiratory issues, C. difficile infection, bloody diarrhea. The works.
He wasn't terrible for me other than having very labored breathing, and I felt confident that he'd be gone Saturday night, as most hospitalized cases usually are. I was mistaken. He was there, but seemed pretty much the same. He reacted more violently when I tried to get him outside, seeming not willing to walk at all, and once outside did nothing (strange for being on IV fluids for hours). I asked Tery about him. Normally dogs this sick are owned by little old ladies who can't walk them regularly. This dog, however, was owned by some rich woman who didn't have time to walk him regularly, whose idea of exercise was to get Oscar a puppy that he couldn't stand. Tery said the head doctor knew she had money and would pay anything without question, which is why he was still there Saturday.
Around 3 a.m. I noticed a strange quiet in Recovery. I realized it was due to Oscar having a seizure and no longer breathing. Oh god.
I tried the holistic approach at first (worked with another seizure dog I had once), talking to him, soothing him, trying to calm him down/snap him out of it. No go. I desperately pawed through the box of controlled substances looking for phenobarbital. All I could find was diazepam (Valium). I gave him a shot, no idea what dosage, and waited. No go. I went back and found the pheno on the second pass, gave him a shot of that. No go. (Later going back and reading up on these drugs, the book said they weren't advisable in cases of extreme respiratory illness. But I figured Oscar probably had nothing to lose at this point.)
By this time his tongue was lolling out and he was turning blue. Oh god. This dog was going to die. This dog was going to die and I had to sit here and watch every agonizing second of it.
(I of course tried to call the head doctor (whose case it was) for some assistance. She didn't answer, deep in her untroubled sleep, dreaming of all the money she was making off this dog that was going to die.)
I couldn't just watch this dog die. I'd have nightmares for months. I knew I had to intubate him. I had intubated a dog exactly once, when I came in during the day for some training and had two techs holding the dog plus another behind my shoulder walking me through every step. This was going to be nothing like that, but I couldn't make it much worse. His twitching had stopped but he still wasn't breathing, and growing weaker by the second.
I grabbed an intubation tube (they're all different sizes depending on the size of the dog's airway (the distance between their nostrils). I didn't have the luxury of precision so grabbed what looked best). I hooked it to an AmbuBag (a bag that pumps air when you squeeze it, a preferable alternative to giving canine mouth-to-mouth) and hooked it to the tube. I shoved it in his mouth haphazardly (his jaw was locked in a half-open position), squeezed the bag and prayed. And to my astonishment he started coughing. I kept it up, and he started breathing -- it wasn't pretty, but he was breathing all the same.
I called Becca, a vet tech who absolutely isn't required to answer her phone at 3 a.m. (unlike the doctor, in my opinion). She said she had a feeling he might go downhill. She said all I could do was put him on oxygen and see how he did. She apologized to me profusely, as if it was her fault the dog had flatlined.
I had never set up the oxygen tank before, but it was really child's play after semi-intubating a dog.
Oscar made it to the end of my shift. I left with a feeling of accomplishment and pride, tempered with the certain knowledge that he would probably be euthanized come Monday anyway. But, as Tery pointed out proudly, he didn't die on my watch (turns out I was half right -- first he was brought to a specialist hospital Sunday, where x-rays revealed his lungs and abdomen full of fluid. Soon after he was euthanized).
Tery was proud of me, but just as angry as I was that the doctor didn't answer her phone. Tery figured she'd have some excuse like how it was her night off and I should've called the other doctor. When I'm trying to save an animal's life, I'd rather not have to scurry around figuring out which doctor to call. I think it should be a team effort in an emergency situation, not a childish game of "whose turn is it?"
Meanwhile, Tabby thinks she deserves a raise because she can stamp invoices better than anyone else.
I'm attending a seminar next week on emergency medicine. It's paid training, and hopefully I'll pick up one or two helpful tips. My bigger hope, however, is that critical cases like poor old Oscar are sent off for the appropriate care before I start my shift.
~*~
Enough of that unpleasantness. Now I give you ( ::Parade of Homes 2008: Solterra. Many pictures, thoughtfully resized:: )
~*~
Last but not least: Tery told me about a bumper sticker she saw the other day. It read "Barack Hussein Obama...enough said!"
I'm not sure which terrifies me more, a.) the fact that people are this ignorant, b.) the fact that people aren't afraid of advertising how ignorant they are, or c.) the fact that such ignorant people have the right to vote.
He wasn't terrible for me other than having very labored breathing, and I felt confident that he'd be gone Saturday night, as most hospitalized cases usually are. I was mistaken. He was there, but seemed pretty much the same. He reacted more violently when I tried to get him outside, seeming not willing to walk at all, and once outside did nothing (strange for being on IV fluids for hours). I asked Tery about him. Normally dogs this sick are owned by little old ladies who can't walk them regularly. This dog, however, was owned by some rich woman who didn't have time to walk him regularly, whose idea of exercise was to get Oscar a puppy that he couldn't stand. Tery said the head doctor knew she had money and would pay anything without question, which is why he was still there Saturday.
Around 3 a.m. I noticed a strange quiet in Recovery. I realized it was due to Oscar having a seizure and no longer breathing. Oh god.
I tried the holistic approach at first (worked with another seizure dog I had once), talking to him, soothing him, trying to calm him down/snap him out of it. No go. I desperately pawed through the box of controlled substances looking for phenobarbital. All I could find was diazepam (Valium). I gave him a shot, no idea what dosage, and waited. No go. I went back and found the pheno on the second pass, gave him a shot of that. No go. (Later going back and reading up on these drugs, the book said they weren't advisable in cases of extreme respiratory illness. But I figured Oscar probably had nothing to lose at this point.)
By this time his tongue was lolling out and he was turning blue. Oh god. This dog was going to die. This dog was going to die and I had to sit here and watch every agonizing second of it.
(I of course tried to call the head doctor (whose case it was) for some assistance. She didn't answer, deep in her untroubled sleep, dreaming of all the money she was making off this dog that was going to die.)
I couldn't just watch this dog die. I'd have nightmares for months. I knew I had to intubate him. I had intubated a dog exactly once, when I came in during the day for some training and had two techs holding the dog plus another behind my shoulder walking me through every step. This was going to be nothing like that, but I couldn't make it much worse. His twitching had stopped but he still wasn't breathing, and growing weaker by the second.
I grabbed an intubation tube (they're all different sizes depending on the size of the dog's airway (the distance between their nostrils). I didn't have the luxury of precision so grabbed what looked best). I hooked it to an AmbuBag (a bag that pumps air when you squeeze it, a preferable alternative to giving canine mouth-to-mouth) and hooked it to the tube. I shoved it in his mouth haphazardly (his jaw was locked in a half-open position), squeezed the bag and prayed. And to my astonishment he started coughing. I kept it up, and he started breathing -- it wasn't pretty, but he was breathing all the same.
I called Becca, a vet tech who absolutely isn't required to answer her phone at 3 a.m. (unlike the doctor, in my opinion). She said she had a feeling he might go downhill. She said all I could do was put him on oxygen and see how he did. She apologized to me profusely, as if it was her fault the dog had flatlined.
I had never set up the oxygen tank before, but it was really child's play after semi-intubating a dog.
Oscar made it to the end of my shift. I left with a feeling of accomplishment and pride, tempered with the certain knowledge that he would probably be euthanized come Monday anyway. But, as Tery pointed out proudly, he didn't die on my watch (turns out I was half right -- first he was brought to a specialist hospital Sunday, where x-rays revealed his lungs and abdomen full of fluid. Soon after he was euthanized).
Tery was proud of me, but just as angry as I was that the doctor didn't answer her phone. Tery figured she'd have some excuse like how it was her night off and I should've called the other doctor. When I'm trying to save an animal's life, I'd rather not have to scurry around figuring out which doctor to call. I think it should be a team effort in an emergency situation, not a childish game of "whose turn is it?"
Meanwhile, Tabby thinks she deserves a raise because she can stamp invoices better than anyone else.
I'm attending a seminar next week on emergency medicine. It's paid training, and hopefully I'll pick up one or two helpful tips. My bigger hope, however, is that critical cases like poor old Oscar are sent off for the appropriate care before I start my shift.
~*~
Enough of that unpleasantness. Now I give you ( ::Parade of Homes 2008: Solterra. Many pictures, thoughtfully resized:: )
~*~
Last but not least: Tery told me about a bumper sticker she saw the other day. It read "Barack Hussein Obama...enough said!"
I'm not sure which terrifies me more, a.) the fact that people are this ignorant, b.) the fact that people aren't afraid of advertising how ignorant they are, or c.) the fact that such ignorant people have the right to vote.
