Perspectives

My daughter, Abigail, turned nine on Monday. Somewhere between being an infant in arms and now, she grew, became big and courageous and has learned to fight her own battles. In another nine years she will legally be an an adult.
Yikes.
In the first semester of our first year of vet school - when we one is still dewy-eyed with the wonder of being accepted into this elite program - we took a class called 'Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine."
This innocuous sounding title did not prepare us for the curriculum which was largely comprised of presentations by vets that had battled drug addiction, alcoholism and failed relationships.
I like to call this class the 'disclaimer course' so when we are burnt out, divorced and chain smoking they can say "Don't blame us! We warned you, you need work life balance."
So what does this have to do with my daughter turning nine? Perhaps nothing.
Except that:
The demographics of veterinary medicine are changing. 75% of vet students at my university are female - some schools have all female entering classes. Many of these young women want to begin a family someday.
So back the the 'Perspectives" class.
One notable speaker, a mother of three, came to class bearing so much of her self that it was painful to witness. She cataloged the years spent working toward her DVM, then on to a post doc and board certification. She was before her time, in an era where the masculine paradigm of long hours and no family time held sway. 
During these years she also had three children. Children that went immediately into day care.
She showed us a PowerPoint presentation, with bulleted pros and cons of her life decisions.
On the plus side: Professional recognition, good money, meeting interesting people.
On the down side: Not spending enough time with her family, sending sick children to day care, missing important milestones such as kids big sporting events, growing apart from her husband, divorce.
Ouch.
There she stood, in front of all 134 of us bright eyed and bushy tailed vet students - with her most painful moments bulleted before us. My heart hurt, for her, for her kids, for us, for the young women in the room being told that this was their only option.
Another speaker that day addressed the same topic; being both a father of three and a working vet - yet his choices were no different than the previous speakers.  His wife (also a vet) and he had three children, one an infant, all in daycare. He joked with the first speaker about the joys of dropping them off and heading to work. I winced at his cavalier attitude.
Our class turned out to offer only one view - rather than discussing options for parenthood and "work life balance" - the message of  "Career First, kids second" rang loudly through the lecture hall.
It appears the "masculine paradigm" still rules in veterinary medicine.
The point that is lost in all of this is, that not that the kids will be damaged (I myself am the product of daycare from my third day of life onward) but rather how damaged the parent is. Those years with your children are lost. My daughter does not remember her first smile, tooth, steps, word -  but I do. I was privileged enough to be home with my young ones, not everyone has that option.
The most challenging thing I have ever done (more terrifying than backpacking through East Africa, or caring for my dieing father) was being a stay-at-home mom. It is a job that is never done, nor done well enough. Those years were also the most rewarding and ones I wouldn't give up.
Parenting is challenging enough. The last thing we need is to feel bad about our choices. But if we are going to offer 'perspectives' to this next generation of veterinarians perhaps the entire spectrum of choices should be given?
So, Abby is nine. She went to her school for her birthday, I went to mine. She tells me about her friends, how she hates Latin and loves music. She says I smell like "horse poop."
I tell her about the mares I palpated, explain the magic of assisted reproduction, show her pictures of the foals born that week and lament the parasitology test I failed.
It's good. I am happy to be pursuing two wonderfully challenging careers. Veterinary medicine, marriage, parenting can all be woven together.
So to all you vet student hopefuls out there; Go your own way, have kids, don't have kids - whatever - just know that it is possible to have a career and be the parent you want to be. You don't  have to follow in the foot steps of those that went before. Be big and courageous and fight your own battles.

And happy birthday Abby.

Life is goo

 My friend Maria once told me "The meaning of your communication is the response you get."
Words to live by.
In the last few decades the need has been recognized, in human medicine, for an improvement in bedside manner. Much time and money has been spent on how to improve doctor/patient relationships and how to reduce the number of cases that end up in court with the subsequent payout of big bucks.
Not to be outdone, veterinary medicine (certainly at the bastion of cutting-edge known as Colorado State University) has instituted communications courses that begin during our third year to get us eggheads up to speed on how to "build relationships" with our clients - otherwise known as drowning in emotional goo with your clients.
It turns out that our sublime understanding of ion flow, mineral requirements for Guinea Pigs, organophosphate poisoning,  fasciola hepatica life cycle and the mating ritual of the llama (whose Latin name is llama glama - and I'm totally not kidding) is not quite sufficient to make us successful members of the veterinary medical profession.
So, to arm us is two weeks of open-ended questions, deep listening and team building. Now, I am bound by the strictures of both confidentiality clauses and the "honor code" not to repeat the particulars of this course or to share information about the members of my group. So I will do my best to poke fun only at myself - although there are others far more deserving than I.
We are assigned to small groups of five, with one "coach"- in our case a private practice veterinarian of many years. We are given a "case" and a brief description of the biomedical issues that need addressing - but very little insight into the client themselves. The caveat is that these "clients" are actually actors that are primed to trip us on our intimacy skills. To top this off we are observed - behind a one-way mirror - by the other members of our group - and being filmed so that we may enjoy our performance for self assessment at a later date. Super.
Our facilitator is in the room with us - although we do not interact with them, except if we need to call a break and get some help out of a sticky situation. These appointments last around 15 minutes - which at the time feels more like 15 years.
I step into the room on Thursday morning and lose ground with my irate client immediately - I call for a break within the first 30 seconds - so fast in fact that my unflappable group leader can't quite hide the surprise on his face.
"I'm a little stuck." I say - duh
"What's not working" he queries me.
"Well, she wont sit down - that sort of threw me, and shes threatening to sue me..."
"What can you do to build partnership?"
Tell her to shut-up and sit down, I think, but these words do not leave my mouth.
"ummmmm - ask when she noticed the first signs of  ***** or maybe how long she has owned this *****"
(I'm not actually allowed to divulge the particulars of this case and have to edit key words so that my fellow vet students will have a "fresh perspective" on these cases.)
"Sounds good" my coach says blandly.
So - I take a deep breath and jump back in.
Things progress more smoothly from there. I offer sympathy, she appreciates my active listening, receptive body language, eye contact and words of acknowledgment. I feel like a hoop jumping fraud, but man do I not want to have to repeat this rotation (a fate that has befallen some of my more unfortunate classmates.)
I have a sneaking suspicion that in real life I would not be quite so mild mannered. But perhaps I should trust the options and experience of those in the game longer than I?
The appointment drags on. At the end I am "assessed" by my group members, coach and the actor portraying the client. I have done well over all, but lost points from the client for not working at uncovering the love she had for her ***** and how a deep connection was "there." I focused too much on the medical issues - ah yes - the past three years of egg headed-ness back to haunt me. I thought she was here for veterinary help (silly me) not emotional unloading.
Now, I am a hand-holding, touchy-feely, heart-on-the-sleeve kind of a girl. Feelings don't frighten me, but the expectation that I will have deep emotional connection with each person who brings an animal to me for care is terrifying.
So, I'm thinking - take what you like and leave the rest. I try to hold on to the salient points from the week: leave judgments at the door, be kind, listen more than you talk. When you listen, really be quiet - don't just wait for the other person to stop talking so that you can get your two cents in.
And remember that the meaning of your communication is the response you get.
A point that was brought home to me by my six-year old son over french toast this morning.
"Hey mom" he says "life is goo!"
What???
"I think you mean life is good" I reply.
"No, it says it right here" he says pointing at his shirt, where a "d" is indeed missing from the end of the clothing line phrase.
I had to laugh -
You said it little brother, life is goo.
Sometimes.

The (not so) Silent Lambs

 About mid-way through each semester of vet school I begin to stress – seriously. I worry that I have forgotten an assignment, that I am not doing enough “extra” stuff to flesh out my resume, I am under qualified;  accepted here  by mistake, if they only knew how inept I am…..

In the past I have been able to manage these times with the knowledge that a long break is coming. A three month summer during which I can surrender to the joys of motherhood, bread baking and long Sunday runs in the Rocky Mountains.

But this is not to be, no no, not this year. Forth year looms with clinics starting 12 hours after the end of our third year finals.  14 hour days, but no tests, except the big one! Boards, both state and national are coming – and the past three and a half years have all been a dress rehearsal for the mother of all multiple choice exams. Yikes – my jaw is hurting just thinking about it.

And the absolute worst thing (for moi) is the relentless – but well-meaning query – from fellow students, friends and family alike – the dreaded question… “What are you doing when you graduate?”

Now this is an understandable question – I have schlepped my family across country, spent untold thousands on out-of-state tuition, dictated family scheduling and gathered a lot of gray hair in my pursuit of veterinary medicine.  However, the truth is…… I have no bleep, bleeping, ba bleep idea. Just being employed will feel like success.

In a vain attempt to escape these fruitless cerebral gymnastics I volunteer for overnight lambing duty (because I am evidently not quite sleep deprived enough) at a small local sheep farm. The woman who owns it is recently widowed and grateful for the help.

First night of lambing: It's snowing – not hard, but enough to make the roads slick. I fetch my fellow lambing partner and friend, Sierra, from her snug house, warm with hot chocolate and dog bodies. The drive is interminable as we are stuck behind a snow-phobic motorist who feels that driving down the middle of the road at 15 miles per hour is the best way to go. 

We step into the night, don insulated coveralls, gloves, hats, jackets until we resemble sumo wrestlers. The sky clears and the stars hang fat in the blackness. The mountains are in relief to the west - outlined in the velvet night. The ragged edges of my day begin to soften. We make our way through the darkness, avoiding the guard llamas, sleeping boarder collies and slightly creepy mobile home with its unknown occupants.

The ewes are quiet, hugely pregnant and breathing heavily. We were warned not to disturb the mamas as this might rile them up and make them more likely to lamb - which is a bad idea to do at night - if you're a prey animal.
Sierra and I attempt to be non-irritating, but they're sheep - and easily riled. We try to surreptitiously angle around and check out their backsides for evidence of impending birth. This is easier said than done, as the ladies angle around themselves, keeping us face on. We eventually give up and sit in the straw, backs against the barn wall and watch recent arrivals, probably born that day, gallivant and prance alongside their dams. Lambs are silly things, with long tails, and floppy ears that decide (for apparently no reason) to jump and rear as if to say "See these moves, you can't touch this."
After half an hour of uneventful hoohoo watching we backtrack to the truck, past the same sleeping llamas, dogs and scary-trailer living dude. The moon has risen - it is light enough to see Sierra's smile - I imagine it matches my own.
We drive home in silence. The jaw-clenching demons that are the soundtrack to my days are mercifully quite. Maybe this is what I'll do when I graduate.
I drop Sierra with sleeping dogs and head home to a husband that tolerates my freezing toes.
I think I'm doing just enough.