When the Veterinarian Becomes the Pet Owner

Time is a peculiar thing.

When I look at my children and see photo memories pop up from their toddler years and infancy, it feels like it was only moments ago. And yet, I remember being in the throes of early motherhood and exhaustion, when some days felt like they might never end.

Today, time felt different again.

For a few moments, everything seemed to slow down so completely that I could hear my own heartbeat and my own breathing.

Time has a strange way of doing that when you receive devastating news.

And sometimes it is even harder when you feel helpless—and very far away.

I am, by nature, a very private person. I don’t generally share much of my personal life publicly. But I also have the incredible privilege of sitting in the living rooms of families every day and being invited into some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives.

Families share their fears with me. They tell me their favorite memories. They tell me about the puppy or kitten they brought home years ago, the moves and marriages and babies their pet witnessed, the illnesses they survived together, and all of the ordinary moments that somehow became extraordinary because their pet was there.

They share their heartache.

So perhaps it is only fitting that every once in a while, I share a little of mine.

The last few months have been tumultuous, to say the least. I have been splitting my time between Hampton Roads and Northern Virginia, trying to help as many families as possible while we continue growing our practice in Northern Virginia. That means leaving my own family and my Hampton Roads practice—both in very capable hands—but leaving them nonetheless.

Anyone with school-aged children knows that the beginning of a new school year is its own special kind of chaos. I was running around getting everyone situated at home while simultaneously preparing to spend several days in Northern Virginia, living out of my car and hotels and seeing appointments throughout the day.

And then, one morning before I left, my very sweet golden retriever refused her food.

It is one of those little signs that so many pet owners recognize. It makes you pause.

You wonder. You watch. You tell yourself not to jump to conclusions.

She ate later that day, but she was quieter and more lethargic than usual. I examined her and didn’t find anything that made me change my plans, so I left for Northern Virginia.

The following morning, I received a phone call.

She needed help getting down the stairs.

And her neck looked swollen.

My heart sank.

Older golden retriever. Lethargy. Suddenly enlarged lymph nodes.

There are moments when being a veterinarian is not particularly helpful, because you know exactly what the possibilities are.

My mind immediately went to lymphoma.

I arranged for her to be evaluated urgently, and within hours, the fear I had tried not to entertain was confirmed.

The next 24 hours were a whirlwind.

I went into automatic mode. I still had families and patients depending on me while, between appointments, I was coordinating an oncology consultation and trying to understand what options we might have.

And I still had hope.

Just a few days earlier, her neck had not felt like this. Maybe we had caught it early. Maybe this was something we could treat. Maybe we would have more time than I feared.

Then, while I was sitting in the living room of a truly wonderful family, my phone alerted me that the oncologist was calling.

I broke one of my own rules.

I knew my patient was comfortable and resting and that we were at a safe point in the appointment, so I excused myself for a moment and answered the phone.

And that is when time slowed down.

The oncologist confirmed something I have explained to countless families over the years: bloodwork can look remarkably normal even when cancer is advanced.

The disease was not confined to her lymph nodes.

There was involvement of her liver a her spleen and enlarged nodes in abdomen, and concern about lymph nodes within her chest as well.

Suddenly, the prognosis was very different.

The journey I had imagined only hours earlier was different.

The hope I had been holding onto was slipping away.

And I was more than 250 miles from home.

I wanted nothing more than to be there.

Years of veterinary medicine have taught me how to compartmentalize when I need to. I thanked the oncologist for his time and for calling me. I gathered myself. And then I walked back into that family’s living room.

Because another family needed me.

Their beloved pet needed me.

And in that moment, I needed to be their veterinarian—not the frightened pet owner whose own dog was sick hundreds of miles away.

So I returned my focus completely to the patient in front of me. I helped that pet pass peacefully. I stayed present with the family and made sure they had the support and time they needed.

Only after I had seen them through their goodbye could I allow myself to shift gears, call my own family, share what I had learned, and figure out how to get home as quickly as possible.

I’ve been thinking about why I wanted to write this.

Maybe it is because I want families to know that when we tell you we understand, sometimes we really do understand.

We know what it feels like to receive bad news.

We know what it is like to feel helpless.

We know the mental gymnastics of trying to decide what to do next. To have hope and then feel that hope disappear. To anticipate a goodbye before you’re ready. To worry about how your children will handle the news.

We know what it feels like to be too close to the situation to trust your own objectivity, while simultaneously knowing that eventually a decision may need to be made.

And we know the complicated reality of wanting desperately to be there for our own families while also carrying a profound commitment to the families who have trusted us with theirs.

Less than a month ago, one of my incredible colleagues experienced her own version of this.

She was in a family’s home helping a longtime patient pass peacefully when her husband called in a panic. Their own beloved cat was at home in cardiac collapse.

She was helping another family through one of their worst moments while her own family was in crisis.

There is something about that image that has stayed with me even more strongly now.

Maybe that is what this post is really about.

A small glimpse behind the curtain into the life of a veterinarian.

We spend our careers learning medicine. We learn how to interpret tests and recognize disease. We learn how to talk about prognosis and quality of life. In my particular corner of veterinary medicine, we become very comfortable talking about death and helping families navigate goodbye.

But none of that makes us immune to loving our own animals.

It doesn’t make bad news hurt less.

It doesn’t make us certain when it is our own pet.

It doesn’t make saying goodbye easier.

We are veterinarians, but we are also spouses and parents and daughters and sons and pet owners. We have sick animals waiting for us at home. We have children who need us. We have fears, heartbreaks, unanswered questions and days when we are simply trying to put one foot in front of the other.

And still, we show up.

Not because we are unaffected by any of it, but because we know what it means to love an animal this much.

Maybe that is part of what allows us to sit beside you in your living room when your own world seems to have slowed down.

We may not always have the answers.

Sometimes there simply aren’t any good answers.

But when we tell you that we understand how hard this is, please know that those aren’t just words.

Sometimes, we’ve been in the trenches too.

And sometimes, we are right there with you.

Dr Mel 💔