8.21.2012

My sweet boy, part 2

They took us right into the triage room and within two minutes a nurse had arrived. After a few questions and one quick look at his abdomen he was whisked back through the double doors.

I had a seat in the waiting room, taking mental notes of the CNN ticker and the coffee vending machine that spit out $1 mochas. A few seats away a large woman was fast asleep, slouched over herself snoring as her little long-haired four-footed companion tried to nuzzle her out of her slumber. If it weren't for that little scene, I wouldn't have thought it was an ER for animals. This place had all the characteristics of any hospital ER I had seen on TV. We were at Animal Medical Center, which I quickly learned is a six story state-of-the-art animal care center, arguably THE place to bring your sick pet if you lived in the U.S. and were experiencing some serious problems with your furry companion. Anything from acupuncture to blood transfusions to dialysis---this was the place for any sick animal.

It was the Tuesday morning after the horrendous shootings in Aurora and I kept trying to pry my eyes away from CNN in an effort to block out at least one raw reality for the moment. My eyes and ears were most focused on any door that opened or blue-scrubbed doctor that walked by. One vet came out and roused the large woman sitting down a few seats from me. She explained that this woman's other dog was alright but they were going to keep an eye on him for a few more hours before sending him home. The drowsy woman complained about how long everything had taken and demanded to know why they hadn't come out to talk to her sooner.

"We had a very serious emergency come in, ma'am. I apologize for the wait."

I looked around the room. Besides one other woman with a cat in a carrier, I was the only person waiting.

Could she be talking about my dog, about Rincon?

I didn't think so. A lot of me still thought this was all in my head and my dog just had a little bug.  None of me was prepared, in the least, for what lie ahead.

Another doctor came out to talk to the woman with the cat. He sat down next to her and relayed any news or information right there in the waiting room.

A few minutes later a woman vet came out asking for "Rincon's owner?" I jumped out of my seat and instead of her coming to meet me and relay my news in the waiting room, she led me to a back room and shut the door.

The doctors were doing everything they could, she said, to figure out what was wrong with him. They were going to admit him to the ICU (I had no idea there was such a place for dogs...) and estimated our preliminary bill might be right around $4k to run all the necessary tests.

"Yes, yes, just do what you need to do," I said as I shook my head up and down, trying to overcompensate for the shock. I had already spent over $1k. I did some quick math in my head and said a prayer to whoever was listening that my parents would be understanding and supportive and willing to transfer some money, and quick.

The vet told me to go back and have a seat in the waiting room and she would be back out within twenty minutes for me to sign the admitting papers. I went back and had a seat, scrounging for change in my purse to buy a vanilla latte as I walked. I didn't have any and I was bummed. I needed something smooth and sugary to help ease my spinning head.

Twenty minutes went by. Thirty. Forty. An hour. An hour and fifteen minutes. Uhhh where was this vet? By this time, many of the seats had filled up as owners ushered their dogs in for routine check-ups and procedures like teeth cleanings. The hospital was coming back to life after a night of sleep. I was glad to not be one of the only ones there. I heard side conversations about the Aurora shootings, a general sense of shock sitting amongst all of us strangers.

Finally the vet came back out and led me back to another room and closed the door. "After I talked to you I went back and our ER team had done a chest x-ray and discovered Rincon has a pneumothorax, which is an accumulation of air in his chest cavity, outside of his lung. We just tapped his chest and drained over 2 liters of air, which is an astounding amount. There were literally five doctors standing around in awe that your dog was still alive. You see, when the chest cavity is full of that much air it causes the lung to collapse, resulting in sudden death. In almost all cases, the cause of a pneumothorax is trauma; for instance a dog that has been in a car accident or fallen a few stories, etc. He hasn't been hit by a car or anything?"

Um, nope, he hadn't been hit by a car and didn't fall out of any buildings that I knew of.... I asked what else could cause it.

She said they weren't sure and that a CT scan was the next step.

At this point the head ER doc walked in, who was the supervisor of the vet I saw. She reiterated what the other vet had said, and said that even in the past ten minutes (after they had tapped the chest removing the 2 liters of air) his chest cavity was filling back up with air. She said it was very serious and then, "I need you to make a decision, and pretty quickly. If Rincon dies, do you want us to try and resuscitate him?"

Tears hadn't really hit my eyes until that moment. I just heard "he dies" and "you need to sign" and they came up hot and sudden. I must've looked like a crying deer in headlights. I kept stumbling over my questions, saying "Well, wait, what do you mean? What do you mean he could die? Do you mean you won't try to save him if he is dying?" She was very patient and answered my same question over and over again clarifying that no, they were referring to if he died, would I want them to try and resuscitate. I said that no, if he died, I wouldn't want them to try and bring him back. It was hard. It was really hard to have about one minute to make that decision.

And then she started to talk money. "My best estimate is that we're looking at about $8k worth of treatment at this point, complications aside. We will need half of that before you leave today."

I silently prayed and pleaded to whoever was listening, again.

"Wow. Yes, yes, just do what you need to do. I'll figure it out. Please take good care of him."

(to be cont.)




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