Monday

August 8, 2019

It is 7am and still dark outside as I let myself into the clinic.  The lobby is dark but for the blue-green glow from the saltwater aquarium bubbling softly, while colorful tropical fish drift, oblivious to the world beyond their own. I take one final deep breath before turning on the lights.

Emily, the clinic cat, has been asleep in her basket on the countertop, but now she stretches, yawns widely and slithers out to greet me. The weekend has been too quiet for her and she is needy for her people.

Red lights on the phone blink furiously, demanding attention. Clients are in urgent need of appointments for sick animals and refills on prescriptions.  The fax machine is piled with lab results and ER reports for the patients that couldn’t wait until Monday.  The Outlook box has dozens of emails to be answered.  Ah, Monday….

I begin answering the blinking lights on the phone. Bentley, a 3 year-old Golden Retriever, began vomiting over the weekend, has become increasing weak and now cannot use his back end. The owner pleads for a speedy callback and earliest available appointment.

When I call her back she informs me she is already waiting in the parking lot.  As I open the front door for them, Dr. Fitzgerald happens to be on her way in, as well. She is our CEO and never comes in this early; I breathe a sigh of relief.

Bentley’s owners struggle to carry his 80-pound dead weight into exam room 1.  The strain of worry shows on the husband and wife as they ease him onto the floor.  He is in pain and as a seizure comes over him, he thrashes and cries out.  His owners hold him to comfort him and the wife begins to weep softly.

Dr. Fitzgerald comes in and begins to try to figure out what’s going on.  I leave the top half of the Dutch door open and can keep an eye on them, to anticipate if I am needed.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!

The front door lets me know our first surgery check-in for the day has arrived.  I put them in exam room 2 and call for a technician to admit them.  

Some come for dentals, to clean the good teeth, extract the bad ones.  Some are puppies and kittens coming for spay or neuter.  As the animals age, growths begin to appear that need to be removed. This is routine for the first hour each morning.

Meanwhile, Bentley continues to ride the waves of his illness.

The doctor and his owners sit on the floor companionably, quietly discussing and observing him.  When the next seizure hits they reach for him simultaneously and cradle him to keep him from hurting himself, from hitting his head on the cabinet or floor.

Dr. Fitzgerald decides Bentley should be hospitalized where he can be observed, sedated, and tests run to find out what’s happening.  His owners tearfully bid him good-bye and promise to come back soon.

Something is very wrong with this young, beautiful dog. The first guess is a toxin, some kind of poison.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

The phones have switched over and the calls begin coming through to the front desk.

My co-workers also begin arriving, sleepy and grumbling that the weekend is over, that they did too much, that the weekend was not long enough.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

By 9am the surgery patients have been checked in and we three receptionists are deep into messages, emails, and a constant flood of phone calls. There are more calls than we can handle and sometimes we must let it ring until the exasperated client leaves a message.

We’ve already run out of appointments for the day, so we plead with the staff, cajole, squeeze and manipulate the schedule to work in more.

Patients being arriving for regular appointments.  Dogs routinely pass around diarrhea, eat garbage and have bouts of vomiting.  The cats develop upper respiratory infections and abscesses from needle sharp teeth bites. Annual exams and vaccines, itchy skin, goopy eyes, and toenail trims are all just part of the day.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Click, click, click.

A woman, dressed in her business suit and heels, tapping away on her cell phone, hands me a foul-smelling zip lock bag containing a disgusting blob. “Here, test this and see what’s causing Buster’s diarrhea.”

Ring, ring!  Ring, ring!

Mid-morning I go upstairs where the surgery suite and doctors’ offices are located.  Bentley is in a large metal kennel in the midst of the morning’s busy activity. Despite Valium and fluids, he continues to decline.  Preliminary blood work doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary.

Cindy, a veterinary technician, kneels before his open kennel, stroking his golden fur, speaking soft words of comfort, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so focused he is on his distress. We all shake our heads with looks of concern. Is it a brain tumor?

I gather up paperwork, strike sheets and kennel cards to take back downstairs.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

Monday morning continues to roll on unabated.  Then Dr. Fitzgerald calls down to me.  Bentley is crashing, she has called his owners and they are on their way.  I’m to bring them up as soon as they arrive.

Soon the frantic owners rush in the front door.  We bolt up two flights of stairs and burst in to find Bentley on a surgery table.  Dr. Barrett, the surgery doctor for the day, is pumping frantically on his chest and an oxygen mask is strapped to his muzzle.  But, it is all meaningless now; Bentley has died suddenly and violently, leaving us all in a state of shock.

We stand there with our useless hands at our sides as the owners fall onto the body of their dear friend.  Dr. Fitzgerald suggests a necropsy to try to solve the mystery, but they can’t bear the violation of his body. Despite the outcome, I ‘m so grateful that she was here.

That is my cue to step in and take care of business, like some awful ambulance chaser, like some greedy mortician, I intrude on their grief, “What would you like to do with his body?”

We live in the middle of a city so practicality dictates against home burial of an 80-pound body in the back yard.  I offer cremation services.  “Would you like the ashes back? If so, would you like the cherry wood box or the grey metal urn?”

Who knows or cares at a time like this?  I quote prices and estimate how much time a private cremation will take. 

The rest of Bentley’s pack is two school-aged children. The parents plan to bring them in later in the afternoon to say good-bye.  We’ll deal with that when the time comes.

My work is done here and I slip away back downstairs, dry-eyed. I replace my mask of calm friendliness.  I smile and greet and shine good health to all.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

By noon I am five hours into Monday and famished.  I could eat in the staff lounge upstairs but I have to get away from the sights, sounds, and smells of the clinic.

In the surgery suite the dental drill whirs shrilly.  A post-op dog has developed stress diarrhea; another is waking up from anesthesia and, like a sloppy drunk, is baying mournfully. A cat that hates us all cowers in the rear of its kennel and hisses at each passerby.

I opt to eat alone in my car.  It is quiet as I eat and read and send my mind on a mental vacation. 

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

It’s early afternoon and shifts change.  Some employees work half days so there is a changing of the guard.  This proves to be a good thing for those of us who work a full day; fresh troops to bolster sagging spirits and energy.

The afternoon grinds on with patient appointments for two doctors, arriving every 10 minutes.  We greet and treat each one as our very special friend.  The cranky, yowling cat, the old and graying dog, and occasionally, a happy, healthy furry friend!  Some come in just to be weighed and receive treats.  We’re making deposits in that animal’s bank of good cheer; it will come in handy someday later.

Bentley’s owners call to say they are on their way with the kids.  He is brought down to exam room 3 and laid out on blankets; his golden curls combed, his countenance peaceful, at last.

As they arrive, I whisk them through the lobby and into the room. Pandora was playing softly but we turn it up now.  A sign is placed on the door that says Quiet Please.  The receptionists nervously chat with the clients who continue to come in, all in an effort to conceal the sound of grieving children in room 3. 

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

I answer the call of a breathless man.  A car has hit his dog and he’s coming right down.  I alert everyone in the clinic of the impending emergency.

Ten minutes later, Josh arrives with Heidi, a limp, soiled little white Shih Tzu.  Jamie, another receptionist, grabs Heidi and rushes her upstairs for urgent care.  

Josh is in tears as I try to gather information, to sort out the story.  He was mowing the lawn and unlocked the back gate where Heidi and their black lab were playing.  As he opened the gate, the lab forced his way out and Heidi followed.  She knew the neighbor across the street and, in her eagerness to greet her friend, bounded out into an oncoming car, in spite of the frantic commands by Josh and the neighbor to STOP!

Josh can’t bear the confines of the clinic and goes out to the parking lot to walk off the stress and adrenaline.

Heidi’s care has fallen on Dr. Barrett.  Too soon, she comes out to the lobby, then to the parking lot to speak to Josh.  He sinks down onto the curb as Dr. Barrett kneels beside him to break the news he already knew.

He needs some time with his little buddy.  I place them in room 5, the room with the couch.  He sits and holds her, stroking her little white curls, mindless of the dried blood on her mouth, nostrils and ears, and tells me about their daily rituals, how long she has been his special girl.

And I, in turn, must go through my gravedigger’s routine again. “What would you like to do with her body?” 

For over an hour, Josh sits and holds his girl for the last time. Eventually, he calls me back into the room to take her from his arms; he doesn’t want to leave her alone in this room, all alone.  

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

It’s late afternoon now and people are getting off work. Professionals stop by in business attire, carpenters in paint clothes, nurses in scrubs, moms who have picked up the kids from school.

The day and the traffic have tried everyone’s last nerve and they come in with a no-nonsense attitude.  They need their pets’ medication and food and they need it now. We receptionists smile and try to look relaxed, in spite of our battle fatigue.

The noon to 8pm shift is now in the middle of their day, while mine is thankfully ending. 

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

Monday continues with no sign of letting up.

I’m spent and walk out of the clinic.  Driving home, I am a zombie, numb, tired and hungry; I think about crying but don’t have the energy. A hug and a hot meal waiting for me at home would be so nice, but it is Monday.  The garbage goes out to the curb, the house is empty and it’s up to me to rustle up dinner.  Instead of a hug, I settle for a blanket over my lap and sit mute in front of the TV.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

I hear them still in the silence of my home.  Bone tired, I drag myself to bed and, lying there before turning out the light, I try to pray.

I want only to pray for myself, but then I remember Bentley’s pack and Josh.  

“Lord, bless them with peace and comfort in their time of grief. Lift them up and hold them close.”  

Tomorrow is Tuesday and it begins again.