I AM NOT AN E.R. The Story Of Sophie. Baclofen Toxicity

It has been a week since I last flossed. It seems like a confessional to the internal self to seek a pardon, and once again, promise to do better. It seems I seek a peaceful acceptance of all of my inadequacies within my inabilities too often.

This week was exactly like this… a series of internal confessions with a humble begging for forgiveness to a self that doesn’t take disappointment, or failure, easily.

This day, this Wednesday evening, within this moment, was about Mollie, Genie, Maxi, Taylor, and Sophie. They were all in some degree of desperate dying. Each patient was supported by at least two technicians, all wondering the same thing as I; how could so many catastrophes happen at once?, and, which one would start to crash/die on us first?

“We are not an E.R.” I hear myself produce these words almost daily these days. I am not sure why I even try to explain, or, perhaps more realistically, excuse myself. For every 100 times I recommend to a client that they transfer to the ER, 1 actually consents and goes. People just don’t/can’t/won't/refuse to go. For some of these cases they have already tried to get in. They have called, been directed to sign in via the online portal, and been notified that there is a 10 to 24 hour waiting period. People who are desperately worried for their pet’s life are not going to wait 10 hours. So, they drive to us. Many just show up. Arrive unannounced. Crash a party and hope that the door is open and the staff is welcoming. Depending on the degree of the emergency they may have called us. May have spoken to our Charge Tech to plea their case, which gets parlayed to a vet, and almost always given permission to “come up, be patient, and we will do our best.” I try with each case to set the stage for the reality that we are “not an ER” and may have to transfer them to one should it be in the best interest of the patient to do so. I know that even with this preface, this CYA blanket statement, that I invite the chaos, and hence, I internally beg for forgiveness yet again when I get myself too deep in the shit pile.

At 7 pm I was standing, circling and losing my mind amid the evenings vetmed emergency offerings I had unintentionally invited to my own misery party. I looked into the surgery room. On the table to the left was an 8-month-old puppy. I’ll call her Sophie. She was intubated, on oxygen, and poorly to absently responsive. Under her head sat a bucket of vomit with specks of white pills. To the right of her was Taylor. A five-month-old tabby with fluid in his chest. He was sleeping in a clear plastic box full of life saving, life giving super saturated 100% oxygen. He was happy and loving his time with us, thanks to the oxygen. Just outside the doors to the surgery in a little stainless-steel cage sat Mollie. She was barely visible behind her cluttered cage door with its two fluid pumps, iv fluid bags, (also two), and a clipboard holding checklist of her too numerous medications. You couldn't see her adorable face with its white fluff mane that surrounded her blunted nose and omni present wide mouthed grin framed within the haloed plastic e-collar. She was sitting up on her front feet but straining and posturing her back legs. She had spent the last week like this. Trying in vain to push out a stone that was lodged so deep down her urethra it was only permitting a drop of urine at a time to pass. In the cage beneath Mollie was Genie. A sweet, slow, aged Dobie who had been vomiting for four days. She came in as a mystery ailment and she remained the same until the next day when the 4-year-old in her family confessed to feeding her a whole box of chewy milk-bones. She was in critical condition and not able to move, except for the vomiting that just spilled out of her mouth as she lacked the strength to pick up her head. Skip a few feet to the left and there was Tigger. I.v. catheter running saline into his veins in the hopes we could flush out the grit in his bladder and dodge the need to place a urinary catheter. He had arrived 3 days earlier just about to block. We mounted the most aggressive defensive plan we could to spare him a urinary catheter and his mom the price tag it came with.

Gastric lavage

Within these moments time stands still. I have to suspend it. It is the only way I can muster all of the senses to attention to compute the vulnerabilities and re-assign staff to guard the weak points. I know, I know deep in the seat of my gut, that at least 2, maybe even four of these guys are going to die in front of me. Probably in the next few minutes to hours. “I am not an E.R.” I remind only myself this time.

This is one of the best examples I can give of where vetmed is now. We have burnt so many people they don’t trust, or don’t want to be sent to an ER. For all of the many reasons the ER’s have gotten themselves in the predicament our clients see them as, it doesn’t change the reality that accidents, illnesses and yes, even death comes to find us.

I see my husband for about 15 minutes daily. 15 minutes when I get home, typically around 9 pm, starving and exhausted. He has a meal waiting, typically two hours old, as I never get my ETA correct. I do not recollect any of the meals from the last week. Only that I inhaled them, and that the portions were too large. We go to bed with me feeling like a bloated corpse, and him angry that I cannot ever say “no.” He reminds me of my limitations and the power of “NO.” I remind him that there are few options in these scenarios that I can live with. I remind him that I am reminded that if I don’t help, I don’t know if anyone else will. If martyrdom was a pageant, I could have a crown to sit upon. Think I am being foolish? Well, lets talk about each of these cases in a little more detail. Wonder why I don’t floss? Well, I don’t do anything in this state. I fall asleep as soon as I hit my bed. Surrendering to the exhaustion like the coma that claims me. I repeat this Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday and Thursday. I fall off to sleep worried for the patients I saw. Fearful for those I failed, and afraid for those I will see. I cannot say “No” to these either. They find me in my dreams.  Even here, as I try to rest I see them. I worry and react for them. I send them treatments, and apologies. A figment of a life preserver even here, when they aren’t near me. 

The routine day

On the night before a dog arrived with much the same scenario; "ER has a 10 hour wait. Patient is bleeding everywhere from a dog fight." We explain to the caller that we will do our best to help, but, if sedation or anesthesia is needed they will have to head to the ER. When they arrived it was after 6 pm. I was told that he was "bleeding everywhere" so I rushed in to see him. There was blood splatter on every wall in the exam room. He had been there for less than 5 minutes. The wounds to his left ear were so significant that I was not able to fully assess whether ear needed reconstructive surgery. The ear was not being held up at a normal (or symmetrical) angle on head. There were about a dozen (maybe more) wounds to the top of his head that included both puncture wounds and lacerations. Some appeared to have pocketing and underlying muscle damage. Again too bloody and painful to assess. Wounds appeared to go over to right ear, base of ear and included the neck. As with all wounds of this severity he was too painful to assess fully without pain meds and sedation, and most probably required general anesthesia. I advised them to go to ER. When I mentioned the ER the owner became volatile. She shouted and became angered. She would not to go to ER! she yelled, so I offered analgesics and antibiotics as initial treatment option but again warned that wounds may need clean up to check for degree of soft damage, and tissue damage. I told the owner I was also concerned about pain, bleeding, and high infection rates with dog bite wounds. Owner declined again to go to the ER, and take any medications. The owner went on to say that "this dog had cancer and she would not wait 10 hours at ER to be told he doesn't need anything." I attempted to diffuse her and offered pain management and antibiotics again. She stated that I was being rude. The owner got up, took her dog by the neck and began to leave exam room. She kept yelling, repeating that I was rude, and she was not going to ER. As she was leaving I told her to not return to us, nor treat staff this way. When I said this she turned around and charged at me with a hand in my face and the words "I'm going to beat your face." 

That's what advising someone to go to the ER can get you. She was served with banning papers from the Sherriff the next day. Yet another gem to add to my Wednesday fiasco.

My Storm,, his happy place.

Sophie is 8 months old. She is a wire-haired terrier just fostered and adopted by an older couple who adore her. For all of the mischievousness of a terrier, (vets tongue-in-cheek refer to them as “terrorists”). They find her antics, her strong opinions, and fierce compulsions, adorable. (I can relate, my parents felt the same about theirs. I grew up with 5 generations of Jack Russell Terrorists. They killed our cats. They killed any small thing that scurried). Sophie has a boxy face, tan highlights to a brown face and inquisitive soft intelligent eyes. Her ears stand with a little bow at the tips and she is formidable in a compact package of taught muscles and youthful velvet softness. Sophie was carried into the clinic in her mom’s arms as she burst in the front doors like a hurricane. I was alerted to their arrival by my receptionist who quickly came rushing into the treatment area yelling, “EMERGENCY! WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY!” arms flailing above as if waving down a passing car. I walked to the front and her sobbing mom attempted to pass over her lifeless puppy to me and asked myself, “why does this place feel like a firehouse on some days?” 

It is exactly in this moment that I have to decide. I do not extend my arms. I do not rush to offer some act of heroism in a crucible of mercy. I have to make that split second decision as to who I am and who I want to be remembered as. It is in this second that your marrow matters. It is here that your consequences, your good deeds, your ethos, and every second of every tid-bit of training finds you. Your actions here will haunt you. I know this. This is the place where some vets will offer “humane euthanasia” while others will offer extremis estimates for a chance, and many will take a bad situation and make it hopeless. (To be honest I never quite know if I ever pick the right offering of an answer. More on this with Genie’s story to follow). What I wanted to do was ask her to remain there. Put her on a pause, holding her rag-like puppy and make a quick physical exam assessment and,,, punt. HARD. I did not want to be responsible for her. I did not want to be responsible for a hysterical mom feeling guilty about an accident I have seen so many times before. I did not want this dying puppy. I didn’t want any of the hers in front of me asking for help. Now I know this sounds cold and cruel, but the reality was that I had just finished a long morning of over booked surgeries. I had come in early, after getting home very late, to try to cram in all of the things that I had scheduled. There was not enough room for them, never mind the falling deaths from the skies. I know this. I know I am supposed to say "NO!" I looked at her puppy, I looked at her, the words slipped out softly, “I am not an ER.” I knew we didn’t have the manpower, the time, nor the facility to help a puppy in this state to the degree she needed. Sophie was purple, barely responsive and I was pretty sure she was dying in her moms arms, if not already dead, and would die on her way to the ER. I clumsily said as much. Mom begged me to “try” and I am a sucker for that word. It is my verbal kryptonite. No other word compels me. Mom was hysterical. Mom was not safe to drive. Mom was not going to make it to the ER with Sophie alive.

 

Sophie was in such a terrible state that I knew she had a very narrow window. I took her in my arms and we headed into the treatment area. Over the next few minutes the story of Sophie’s predicament unfolded. Her parents had left her at home for a few hours. When they came back she ran to greet them, same as always. Within a few minutes she had vomited and then they found the chewed up pill bottle. Scattered around the bottle were large white aspirin-powdered pills. Baclofen. The label was so chewed up that we had to use the pills and pharmacy information to identify them. The bottle was filled for a 30 count. 13 remained. As the technician called Pet Poison I debated her degree of consciousness and whether she was awake enough to induce vomiting. She was not. Sophie had dried bloody, thick, taffy-like saliva and vomit in her mouth. I tried to clear it. It was a sticky-spiderweb goo that left your hands incapable. Sophie was placed on the x-ray table. She had a huge distended stomach full of,,,, well, seemingly dog food and pills. We whisked her to the surgery table, quickly intubated her and provided oxygen to her purple lips and tongue. She was slipping into a coma. Four people, two of them veterinarians, swarmed around her tiny new body. We placed a stomach tube. We lavaged the stomach contents in a desperate effort to remove as much pill-peppered-ingesta from her stomach as we could. The clear plastic tube sucked out tan kibble speckled with white powdery-pieces of pills. She gagged once, whimpered once, and lay lifeless for the rest of it. I gave her intermittent breaths of oxygen and told her that I was sorry. I told her she was loved and I watched the staff so desperate to help and so foreign in this act of emergency procedures. Sophie gathered a crowd and I barked orders to try to turn a tide I knew we were all likely to drown within. I called the hospital manager down. I told her to call all of the rest of my evening appointments and tell them we were swamped with emergencies. “Offer to reschedule, (knowing this never works), and ask them to be patient if they don’t want to. Go in all of the exam rooms, (I knew all 7 were filled with people waiting for us), and tell them the same.” I put her on the reception desk and pulled the last two techs to the back treatment area. For three doctors we had 8 technicians scurrying. We also had 17 patients in our building, 7 wanted to crash and expire if you blinked.

I got on the phone with a veterinarian from the Pet Poison Helpline. He was slow spoken, jovial, and the calmness on his side of the line was re-assuring and yet vexingly annoying. “Baclofen is a common toxicity. Have you had one before?” There it came again, “No, I am not an ER.” ‘Don’t kill the messenger’ and ‘be nice.’ I said to myself. He is here to help me. (Does he know that I have 7 other animals trying to die around me?).

“Baclofen is a muscle relaxant,” (yeah, I can see that). “It has a very narrow index of safety in dogs” (Like 1 pill? How about 17?). “Unfortunately, (never want to hear a sentence start with this), most dogs, if they survive, (never want to hear this either), need supportive care for 72 hours to up to 6 days. Many need to go on a ventilator.” (Crap, who has a ventilator? Only the veterinary teaching hospitals, I thought). I kept going. We kept lavaging, hoping, and telling her that I loved her with a gentle pat to her head. I stroked her ears in between her oxygen bag compressions. If she was going to slip away it would not be without my whole heart and soul going with her.

Over the next hour we tried fluids and desperate attempts to stabilize. She was the last patient to leave the hospital that night. I called the local ER to refer. “No,” they had not had this toxicity either. “No,” they didn’t have a ventilator, but, “Yes” UPenn vet hospital does. They had sent a patient last week. Estimate given for this was $18,000 to $30,000. OMG Crap.

I look back on Sophie and I want to cry. I want to be upset about how many times pets get into things we think that they are smart enough to avoid. I want to put up billboards to say, “NO! crate training is not punishment. It is the safest place for your pets to be.” My pups are 4 years old. They are my children. My most beloved. They are also raccoons in autographed collars. They will get into everything if I turn my head for a second. They are trouble. I know that. They are crated when I am at work. They are in a cage at the clinic. They are in a crate in the bedroom when we go out the door. I don’t care if it is 5 minutes or 5 hours. They have been raised this way. Every pill bottle in this house is double locked. A bottle in a closed drawer. Never, ever is it out. Have you ever shaken a pill bottle next to a pet toy? It’s all the same inviting tune.

In a sea of crashing waves, tumultuous and treacherous, I will never forget Sophie’s face. I will never forget that yellow pill bottle with its perfectly intact child-resistant white top, labeled as such. Tattooed with its cursory; “push-down and turn” orange letters. Shrapnel-ed bottle, completely missing any recognizable bottom, or rounded edges. The label chewed, swallowed and obliterated in casual terrorist fashion.

Sophie was sent to the ER at 830 pm. She was transferred without her breathing tube. She coded overnight. She never regained consciousness.

I hope that she heard me. I hope that she knew she was always adored. I hope that she forgives as much as I hope I can forgive myself. Maybe I could have/should have used warmer water in her lavage? Maybe I should have done it just one more time?

My Raffles,, on our daily "dog" walk

Maybe forgiveness holds as much power as intentions? Maybe peaceful acceptance maintains the balance?

Maybe the other 6 will survive. Maybe I am an ER, if only in sheep’s clothing?

My Frippie and Storm