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MY RAT WUZZY, PART 5

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MY RAT WUZZY, PART 5

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 1

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 2

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 3

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 4

And finally! (for now)...

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 5

Wuzzy’s surgery went wonderfully, and she woke up smoothly. None of her very small abdominal organs appeared to be diseased except for her very small uterus, which I removed, along with her very small ovaries.

The uterine and ovarian tissues were sent to a veterinary pathologist for review. My big scare was cancer, for two reasons, both of which you know well:

1) Wuzzy is my rat.

2) I am neurotic. 

However, I hope to never let my love for my patients nor my extreme interest in their well being cloud my judgment—I had also written a very extensive rule out list with cancer being the top differential in a senior rat with uterine abnormalities. 

I wanted to put a note on the pathology report that said “DOCTOR’S PET” and maybe include a cute picture of Wuzzy. But I know the pathologists who review our cases are excellent. It’s not as if they would put down their doughnut, dust off their microscope and really focus on this one. So, I just sent in the tissues and paperwork, and waited. 

After surgery, I had Wuzzy wrapped snuggly in a towel, with only her cute little baldy head showing. Her eyes were half closed, but she was as gorgeous as ever. A kind client said, “What is that?” I held her up and replied, “My rat! She just had surgery.” She looked more closely and said, “Oh! They had to shave her, huh?” After I explained that she was hairless from the start, we both laughed. I realized it was the first time I had laughed in a week.

I have sent many rats and other pets, for that matter, home with very detailed postoperative instructions. I could give you the speech in my sleep. I have never seen one so dedicated to disobeying those instructions as Wuzzy was. And rats do not keep protective cones on. They pull them forward and off in one fell swoop of their nimble little hands. So, I made the cutest little belly wrap! Actually I made ten, and Wuzzy hula-danced out of ten. I folded my arms and scowled. Wuzzy climbed the bars of her toy-less, set-up-for-resting kennel and laughed. 

The two of us stayed up most of the night. I answered calls and e-mails about Wuzzy. I am still on an emotional high from all the care I have received from concerned friends and family, and even people I had not met before Wuzzy became sick. Wuzzy got some licks in that night, but her abdominal incision remained intact. So we both won.

Six days later, I received Wuzzy’s two page pathology report, scanned it, and zoned in on the good part: “endometrial hyperplasia with chronic, suppurative and hemorrhagic endometritis,” [i] that is, a uterine infection that can be fatal if not treated. “Ovariohysterectomy should prove clinically beneficial; however, post-surgical monitoring and appropriate antibiotic therapy would be indicated also,” [ii] that is, do what you did. Surgery was diagnostic and curative, another win for both of us.

Fuzzy needs to make sure Wuzzy's watermelon slices are not better than hers.

Fuzzy needs to make sure Wuzzy's watermelon slices are not better than hers.

Fuzzy and Wuzzy’s food came in the mail today, the kind they both love. They are together again in their large habitat with toys and shelves, hiding boxes and snacks. All is back to normal. All is well. Boring, just like I like it.

Fuzzy was happy to have her best friend home!

Fuzzy was happy to have her best friend home!

[i] Antech Diagnostics, Chris A. Schiller, DVM, Diplomate ACVP, Histopathology Report, (Oak Brook, IL.) p.1.

[ii] Ibid.

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Post from one year ago today...

February 5, 2016

DALMATIANTASTIC

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MY RAT WUZZY, PART 4

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MY RAT WUZZY, PART 4

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 1

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 2

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 3

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 4...

Surgery day came. I set up a small kennel for Wuzzy, put her gently into it, and wrapped it with a towel. On the way to the hospital, my oldest daughter’s words echoed in my head, “You haven’t spayed her yet, Mom?” 

My kids went through a, “We’re going to raise puppies when we grow up” phase, and rather than agree with them that puppies are cute and leave it at that, I went into an in-depth explanation about pet overpopulation, health issues of intact pets, and the importance of sterilizing most pets. 

My three point lecture with visual aids was met with eye-rolls from my children.  I was OK with that. I figured I had their entire childhood to both educate them and change the world. My plan (and that of many others) is to move towards a world in which there is a lifelong, loving home for every pet. There will be more room there for excellent breeders, and my daughters will be free to raise their puppies without worrying that their cute fuzzy litters will edge out the rescue pets waiting to be adopted. Apparently, they heard me the first time, and now my own lecture had come back to judge me.

Wuzzy is not at risk of contributing to pet overpopulation. Her only same-species friend is Fuzzy, and she too is female. I considered spaying Fuzzy and Wuzzy as babies. I would like to say that I decided against it for sound medical reasons. Most hormone-related mammary tumors in rats are benign, and other reproductive system-related illnesses are uncommon in rats. These issues did play into my decision, but truthfully, I was also scared. Their surgeries would have coincided with the end of the chilling crisis we had just been through in which we nearly lost Fuzzy, Wuzzy, and their littermate, Cookie Roo. I knew intellectually that the risks of anesthesia were minimal, especially for young, healthy rats with no respiratory issues, but my fears won out, and they remained intact…until now. 

We arrived at the hospital right on time for Wuzzy’s surgery. I prepared her fluids and pain medication. Angela and Dr. Wittler painstakingly rerouted the tubing of the anesthesia machine to ensure that Wuzzy Rat would inhale as little carbon dioxide as possible, and replaced the rebreathing bag with one made especially for the smallest of patients. The majority of our anesthetic patients are at least several pounds. Wuzzy is 242 grams, just barely over one half of a pound, which is small even for a rat!

All veterinarians I know react in one of two ways to the anesthesia of their own pets. We either go (in our minds) to a quiet place as far away as possible and sip a pretty blue drink while we wait to hear that our pet is waking up smoothly, or we stand an inch over our anesthetized pet with a surgical instrument in each hand, threatening to use the sharp one to poke anyone who gets too close.

We are not more neurotic than you are. In fact, we understand well the physiology and medicine of veterinary anesthesia, and that it can be done as safely as human pediatric anesthesia is done.

We leave or hover because we can. We leave because we know our teams well—we know that we can trust them completely and that they are perfectly capable of doing what needs to be done without us present. We hover because we have access to every part of the hospital and every patient. You would be a neurotic person of extremes in these situations, too, if you could. 

Our veterinary team will not ever rush a surgery or dental procedure. But once your pet is waking up safely, one of us surely will rush to the surgery suite exit. We know that you are neither far away waiting calmly, drink in hand, nor hovering over your anesthetized pet. You are at work or home wondering why we have not yet called. I know how you feel.

For Wuzzy’s abdominal exploratory surgery, I went with the second option, standing an inch over Wuzzy. She’s very small! And I needed the scalpel for surgery! In all seriousness, I am comfortable with complex surgeries and with very (very) small patients. Of course, the hitch for me on this day was that this very small patient undergoing complex surgery was MY Wuzzy. 

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Post  from one year ago today...

February 4, 2016

IT IS ALWAYS IDEAL TO REMEMBER YOUR PATIENT'S NAME

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MY RAT WUZZY, PART 3

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MY RAT WUZZY, PART 3

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 1

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 2

MY RAT WUZZY, PART 3...

I realized that I am as depressed by the necessity to think through every angle of Wuzzy’s illness as I am about her illness itself. My compassion for pet owners has once again grown, and my judgment has quieted a bit more. This is really hard.

Wuzzy loved her treats!

Wuzzy loved her treats!

Russ and I have decided that surgery can be done with minimal pain, could provide a diagnosis, and could possibly treat or manage Wuzzy’s condition. We have decided to pursue diagnosis of Wuzzy’s condition, and if it is possible, treatment. I am telling you this now, because I have not yet heard back on Wuzzy’s estimate, and her surgery is still in the future. I am telling you this now because I think it is important you know I wouldn’t only tell you this story if it had a happy ending.

I know you have waited before at the beginning of a scary medical journey, yours or another’s, and being here is not fun. It’s easy to tell a silly story about a silly rat. It is more difficult to say that I am starting a medical journey with a good little friend and I am scared because I don’t know how it ends.

One of my very favorite rats - Fuzzy - with one of my very favorite people - Kerry Ecklebe of Nebraska Humane Society <3

One of my very favorite rats - Fuzzy - with one of my very favorite people - Kerry Ecklebe of Nebraska Humane Society <3

Working through what we value is important, though I know we will each have a different set of priorities and treasures. Hopefully the different aspects of this strange little tale of my strange little pet will help gently walk you through strange parallels in your own life, much the same way that passing Fuzzy and Wuzzy around the room at a summer camp helped children in ways I couldn’t quite articulate. At the very least, you can say “a hairless rat, well that’s weird.”

And honestly, I have always loved that reaction, too.

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Post from one year ago today...

February 3, 2016

AZIZ ANSARI

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MY RAT WUZZY, PART 2

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MY RAT WUZZY, PART 2

That was a Sunday morning two years before the time this story takes place. I remember it was a Sunday morning because one hour later we had to leave for church, and I was NOT going anywhere without our rats. So all of Westwood Church was honored by the presence of three baby hairless rats, who just earlier that morning, had all been dead. I have rarely been more emotionally exhausted than I was that morning. I didn’t care what anyone thought; I hovered over them and monitored them the entire morning. Turns out, what people thought was that the rats’ survival was cause for tremendous celebration. They were just as relieved as we were that the babies were OK, and kids and adults alike came in a steady stream to check on us and check on our rats. I love our church family.

FinchDVM 2035.jpg

Two weeks later, our niece received her birthday rat, but it was several months before we were able to tell her of Cookie Roo’s scary start.

Over fifty of the church’s preschool children and all of their teachers later came to my veterinary hospital in a daylong parade of tours to see Fuzzy and Wuzzy again.

Fuzzy and Wuzzy have spent a morning at a daycare where forty toddlers each gave them one Cheerio and either held or petted them, depending on the comfort level of each child. I believe that was one of the happiest days in the lives of my rats.

They have been to eight sessions of Camp Kindness, the Nebraska Humane Society’s summer kids’ camp, and are scheduled for four more sessions this summer. While I stand in front of the grade-schoolers and middle-schoolers and go on about the importance of doing well in science on the noble path of becoming a vet, the kids are all completely elsewhere, spellbound and enamored of my gorgeous rats as they pass them carefully around the entire room. It is one of the few times I don’t mind being ignored because I know that they will remember these gentle creatures far into adulthood and are learning lessons I could not put into words.

In the summer of 2009, the Nebraska Humane Society named two kitten littermates Fuzzy and Wuzzy in honor of my pets. Truth be told, I love that honor more than any other I have ever received.

Russ, who was in the middle of paying bills for the week, and also feeling pretty crummy because of his rat (and cat) allergies, said “lifespan” and “rat” and “cost” to me.

Let me explain that in context so you understand just how great Russ is.

My youngest daughter had just discovered the source of Wuzzy’s bleeding. The mysterious spots we had been finding were not porphyrin staining from the tears or nasal secretions of Fuzzy or Wuzzy, as we had assumed. If rats are stressed for any reason, physical or otherwise, they often produce tears containing a pigment also found in red blood cells called porphyrin. It is often mistaken for blood, even by experienced veterinarians and rat owners, but is a very different substance. When I see porphyrin, I look for stressors.

So, we had been looking for what could be stressing Fuzzy and Wuzzy. We had been hyper-vigilant about their habitat cleanliness, thinking that ammonia levels may have been an issue. We had discussed “quiet time” with the dogs. We had tweaked their diet, increased their treats, and watched their water bottle levels to make sure they were drinking adequately. It turns out that this time, the redness really was blood, and the source was Wuzzy’s reproductive system.

As I processed the mortality of my little friend, and the seriousness of her condition, Russ let me do so, but also gently steered my processing.

I said, “Hairless rats live eighteen months, and Fuzzy and Wuzzy are twenty-four months old.”

Russ said, “Do not consider their lifespan. Tell me if surgery could give Wuzzy more quality time.”

I don’t know if it will, but it could. And I had fallen into the trap every pet owner of a senior pet falls into. I equated a lifespan with a death sentence. A lifespan (and even an estimate of the time an ailing patient has left to live) is not set in stone. It is a Best Guess of a Fallible Doctor. It is an average. Every average has outliers. Most average lifespans of our pet friends are steadily increasing as husbandry and medical knowledge improve. And Wuzzy is not your average rat. She is not even your average hairless rat. She is Wuzzy.

At that, I said, “Wuzzy is a rat.”

Russ said, “Would you do the surgery if Wuzzy were a dog?”

I was completely indignant and even yelling at this point. “I am not saying Wuzzy is worth less than a dog! I am not saying…”

Russ said, “You know surgery would be warranted for this condition in a dog. Do it for Wuzzy.”

I said, “I need to find out how much this is going to cost.”

Russ said, “Find out how much it will cost, and we will make it work. Let’s decide now if this is the best thing for Wuzzy, before we know what it costs, so we are careful to make the decision apart from finances.

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Post from one year ago today...

February 2, 2016

ARE YOU OKAY WITH NEEDLES?

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JOY'S ROLL

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JOY'S ROLL

We had a very sad euthanasia the other day. Or...you know...we had a euthanasia.

The last of the cadaver bags was used, and I brought the roll - like a paper towel roll, but bigger and thicker - home to Joy.

She loves it so much. She has been chewing on it for three days straight.

It makes me happy to see Joy so happy.

I hope I do not have another roll for Joy for several months.

FinchDVM 3554.jpg
FinchDVM 3555.jpg

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Post from one year ago today...

January 31, 2016

CROSSING ITEMS OFF YOUR TO DO LIST

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DOTS AND CRIMINAL MINDS

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DOTS AND CRIMINAL MINDS

When we were planning this website, my brother Dave showed me a phone game called Dots. I've been playing it ever since.

When our family had finished watching the first season of Stranger Things on Netflix, I started watching Criminal Minds from the beginning...by myself...It is too dark for Russ, and we won't let the girls watch it.

During downtime I play Dots or watch Criminal Minds, sometimes almost obsessively.

Dots is super light. Criminal Minds is very dark.

I figured out why they both help me decompress.

Decisions are made, and they have no consequences.

I love that so much.

In the Dots game, you connect dots to clear a board. No matter what move you make, the worst that can happen is losing that round. Against yourself. You don't even lose a quarter.

In Criminal Minds, I can explore the decisions the characters make (the good guys you guys, I'm not a psycho...) and how they deal with the fall out. The results are incredibly rewarding (the bad guys get caught and no one else gets hurt) or heartbreaking (the bad guys get away, loved ones or main characters are harmed or killed.) It is intriguing to watch the main characters deal with and overcome burn out in a career that is so much more stressful than my own. Even so, Criminal Minds, with all its drama and violence and sadness is all make believe.

So is Dots.

I need time in between Real Life events where every decision I make, every decision I see made, blows things up or doesn't or makes or breaks everything that is at stake...but is so inconsequential that it has no bearing on Real Life.

I love Real Life, but sometimes I need to step back. We all do.

What is your decompression strategy?

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Post from one year ago today...

January 9, 2016

I WAS LISTENING MR. BIGA

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SOCK EATER

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SOCK EATER

I should know how long a dog's small intestine is. I don't. I mean I do now, 3-4 meters, which is about 9-12 feet. So if I open an abdomen of a sock-eating dog and find quite a length of necrotic intestine, next time maybe I will not panic.

I had another horrible cold. I had only three dogs coming in, including my cousin Bella. "Pete, can I go home when I am done?" I begged. He directed me to go right home and recover. "Just two patients to go and I will," I promised.

My very next patient was Sock Eater. X-rays confirmed an obstruction. We could fit our hands around the offender in her very thin abdomen.

We saw our last patient, and Kelly and I prepared for surgery.

We cheered when we found the area of concern. We grimaced when we saw the extensive length of dark red bowel loops. Nothing dead could stay. I made a tiny incision and removed a very long sock. We watched for the intestines to pink up. They did not. 

Kelly scrubbed in. We got to work. When we were done, we had a stitched together dog, a (smelly) sock and a length of intestine waiting to be measured.

"How long is a dog's intestine?" Kelly asked.

"I think four feet," I answered.

"I hope I am wrong...this is four feet and one inch! 124 centimeters!"

Fortunately, I was wrong. VIN (Veterinary Information Network) corrected me, and reassured me that dogs could do well with a shortened small intestine, but they did best with at least 50% of what God gave them. I had removed an estimated one third of Sock Eater's small intestine, a dramatic first for me.

I had planned to go home and sleep off my cold while Sock Eater recovered and come back to check her, but I found I could not leave her. She and I slept on the treatment room floor as her anesthesia wore off.

I hugged Sock Eater's family as they left to transfer her. Apparently, it is not emotional enough to have a mournful dog beg you for help with her beautiful brown eyes. This is also a family we love dearly.

Sock Eater spent the night in the capable hands of the emergency clinic team. I called in the morning to check on her. "The team is in rounds. They will call you back." I could read nothing in the receptionist's voice.

One and a half hours later I called back and begged, "I just need to know if she's alive or dead!" The team member laughed and quickly told me Sock Eater was finishing breakfast.

I vowed to be as happy as I was stressed, to celebrate as long as I would have mourned.

It was an excellent weekend.

I am so happy Sock Eater is doing well.

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Post from one year ago today...

January 3, 2016

I LIKE YOU! I MEAN, NICE TO MEET YOU.

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YESTERDAY WAS ROUGH

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YESTERDAY WAS ROUGH

A sweet patient passed away yesterday after surgery.

This case is monumental enough to send me into an Obie-esque depression spiral.

Just this past year I have finally completed my own forgiveness for accidentally killing our own dog Obie sixteen years ago during anesthetic induction for dental work. At least, I think I have. We will see how the aftermath of losing this patient goes. I feel as though some scars could be ripped open.

To this day, I do not keep conversations kid-appropriate in the car. I asked Russ how I avoid a spiral. How to keep from letting the process of dealing with the grief of losing this patient be all consuming.

From the back seat, Amanda said,

Let it happen Mom.

But don't let it destroy you.

Thank you Kelly...Kristen...Hannah...Laura, Nicole and Renee. Thank you Dr. Bashara, and thank you family.

We love you kiddo. You sure have a great family - and a vet team - who all loved you deeply. You will be dearly missed.

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Post from one year ago today...

December 28, 2015

SINGLE TASKING SHOULD BE A WORD

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