I would ask my husband not to read this post, as it will upset him more than I was this morning on my commute, but I am sure he will read it anyway.
I was just cruising along. Blasting Ryan Upchurch and Adam Calhoun, singing at the top of my lungs. Just minding my own business.
Then I passed the exit to the emergency veterinary clinic.
It didn’t happen right away. About ten minutes later, I realized I had stopped singing along. That’s what I noticed first. Not the thoughts that were actually going through my mind.
I remember my son driving. Accelerator to the floor. Flying down the dark highway, encouraging me to keep going.
She was in my arms. Had been the whole time. I was frantically doing chest compressions and blowing air into her nose.
I remember her gasping a couple of times while I did this, so I continued.
It was when we sailed down the ramp that my heart shattered and the sobs started all over again. It was at that exit that I knew, deep in my soul, that she wasn’t going to make it. But…
It took a full minute for someone to buzz us in at the emergency vet clinic, because no one was at the counter.
What if that minute had made all the difference?
It wouldn’t have in my case. But it will for someone else.
I always tried to impress upon my fellow receptionists to never leave the counter empty. This is why.
What if that minute is the most important one in a pet’s life. What if that cup of coffee you are pouring in the breakroom while your counterpart is loading a room, costs a pet her life?
We work in a field of medicine. Emergencies happen. We never know what is going to come through that door.
I would think every medical field that has a chance of seeing an emergency would make sure that someone is at the front desk at all times. Especially an emergency facility.
I was on autopilot for another 12 miles. Reliving the horror, the stress, and the sadness all over again.