brca bullshit

The time my “cat vet” almost killed my cat. For no good reason.

My cat is not well-behaved. He’s not well-behaved at home, on Prozac, so let’s just paint a picture of what he’s like at the vet:

Imagine, friends, a ball of fur/teeth/claws/psychosis zipping from corner to corner and making the most (admittedly comical, although they weren’t at the time!) obnoxiously loud screaming noises – NOT a happy kitty. Unfortunately, he was a kitty that needed his shots… but if I had known what the cost of getting them would be, I would have never taken him there in the first place.

Unfortunately, after a few minutes of trying, and complete refusal of my insistence that I could handle him just fine (and my willingness to sign a release waiving my right to keep my limbs…), the vet gave up and informed me that he would have to be sedated (“boxed”) in order for her to get a blood sample (because they told me he was underweight – which he absolutely was not), give him his shots and clip his nails. Since he lets me clip his nails like he’s getting a manicure, I was already pretty perturbed that they thought this was necessary, but I wanted him to get a good exam, so I relented.

Apparently, it’s common practice to sedate “difficult” cats by shoving them into a Tupperware container and gassing them until they pass out – do they monitor heart rate? Nope. Do they check vitals to see the affect anesthesia might have on them? Nope. They label them as troublemakers, shove them in a box, and turn on the gas. That vet = Hitler.

Needless to say, I was a wreck, and when she called me back to see him, I was ecstatic. It was then that I saw my cat’s almost lifeless body laying on the table. “He’ll wake up in a second,” she told me. 10 Second went by. 20. 30. Then she started shaking my limp cat, and talking through gritted teeth at him, saying “you’re scaring your Mommy, kitty. Wake¬†up….” and looking slightly concerned. She then shoved him in his cat carrier so hard that his head hit the back of the box and handed him to a vet tech to “prepare him to go home” – all the while chastising Jason and I for rescuing a dog that doesn’t really get along with the cats. It was pretty much my worst nightmare, but it didn’t even end here!

Eventually, he DID wake up, but he threw up a bunch of times, he couldn’t walk, he tried to jump on the couch but fell … it was a mess. I called the cat vet’s office and asked if there was anything I could give him to stop the vomiting, and they said I had to bring him back in… imagine my surprise when he acted like a psychopath during the return visit – can you blame him? Anyway, after all that, the vet didn’t even make time to see him, and another vet, after attempting to give him a shot for his nausea, settled on giving him OVER THE COUNTER pepcid. Yes, exactly what I asked for over the phone. I hate these people, and will not be going back.

Thankfully, after a day of disorientation, lethargy and nausea, Fionn is on the mend, and will soon return to terrorizing J, his brother, and his new favorite thing to torment: Otto.

brca bullshit · pain management

Pain Doctor # 1837342

I love him.

Don’t get me wrong, I think he’ll be just as useless as the rest of them, but he listens. He thinks before he speaks. He even *gasp* believes my stories without having to double-check them against every doctor I’ve ever seen (although this may have to do with my BS meeting with him before my appointment – I imagine she gave him a healthy dose of “don’t fuck with her” before she bid him adieu).

He gave me back my valium, told me that my previous doctors were assholes (a fact of which I’m well aware, but it’s always nice to have angry allies), and then lo and behold: my boobs gave a performance!

Right there in the room, my chest spasm-ed in a most excellent demonstration of the hell that I’ve been through (see video below for an older recording, but a similar performance), and his eyes almost bugged out of his head. He called doctors and nurses alike in to see them do their evil little dance, and damn it if I didn’t walk out of there with tons of drugs, but more importantly: sympathy. I really feel as though I deserve some sympathy.

Jason waited in the car while I was in my appointment, and when I climbed back in, I burst into tears. He looked sad, asking “another one?” (assuming, of course, that it was a bad appointment), but I just shrugged and sniffled while he hugged me. Sometimes I think hope is the worst thing a doctor can give to a patient like me, but maybe this time it will get me through…