Frayed

Being a veterinarian means doing hard things.

Like, sometimes you have treat an aggressive, 200 pound mastiff's ear infections for less than $50. In theory, that is both dangerous and impossible, but it also happens to be something that I deal with on a near weekly basis.

At least that's a clear task: fix problem for animal. As a relief veterinarian, I enjoy when my goals are neat and comprehensible. I show up, not knowing what to expect, and use my brain to solve problems at someone else's clinic. As long as the job gets done (even if less than perfectly) everyone's pretty much satisfied.

This was my blissfully unworried attitude a few years ago as I biked to a local clinic for a relief shift. I like biking to work because it's the best way to sneak in exercise and loudly proclaim my eco-consciousness. Portland, guys.

But when I walked through the door, ready to jump into the fray, something felt off. I got raised eyebrows from the staff. At fist I assumed I had forgotten bike fenders and had the the dreaded mud butt. This would be sort of an issue since I had no backup clothes. But whatever, the fray—let's start solving, right?!

Nope, they quickly burst my bubble by asking what the hell I was doing there. Turns out I wasn't scheduled to work that day. I looked at my usual desk station and found another relief vet casually browsing her daily schedule.

Oops.

Mis-scheduling isn't super professional, but it does occasionally happen. It's not the worst thing in the world. Last time this happened, I just went on a nice long bike ride and spent the rest of the day working on funner stuff (i.e. unpaid). Oh well! Though I had this nagging feeling that I was supposed to work that day.

Then my phone rang.

The caller ID kicked my autonomic nervous system kicked into oh shit mode. Answering, I put on my most professional and humble tone while wincing involuntarily. It was another vet clinic–the one where I was actually scheduled to work that day!

My first client was already waiting in the exam room about five miles away. Reputation management and excellent customer service in the relief vet biz requires the "jump into the fray and make no complaints about it" attitude, so I begged forgiveness and promised to get there as soon as possible. The clinic owner did not sound amused by my innocent little mix-up.

Only problem, even though it was only five miles away by car, the bike route was much longer as it safely bypassed a sketchy bridge and highway. But going back home to get my car could take me an hour or more.

Without thinking too hard, I said "screw it", hopped on my bike and took the faster route.

By faster, I mean the car route. On my bike.

The first part was an fist-clenching stretch of bridge with no bike lane, more than half a mile long, over 100 feet tall, no center median and cars that mostly ignore the 40mph speed limit.

Next, I dropped through a dark underpass littered with broken glass and merged onto the pot-holed bike lane of a highway with a 45mph speed limit. The highway banked up a hill several hundred feet in elevation, and I desperately swerved into the car lane to sprint past stretches of bike lane overgrown by blackberry thorns.

The last mile was downhill through a peaceful suburb, which didn't stop me from cranking my adrenaline-soaked legs into the pedals and screaming into the clinic's parking lot.

I made it to there in 20 minutes. To do it safely should have taken at least 40. I kicked open the door, drenched in sweat and a few blackberrry brambles, and stormed my way into the exam room, terrifying the-just-annoyed-until-now client who had been waiting for me. Wake up mofos, Dr. Fray is here and we're gonna get stuff done.

I spent the rest of my energy (and the day) apologizing to the clinic owner and providing theatrically-exceptional customer service to all the clients, hoping that my reputation hadn't been torched. By the mid-afternoon, everyone seemed to relax. On my way home, I took a long, scenic path through a cemetery.

Nothing bad resulted. The clinic owner never complained, I only inconvenienced one client (who ended up leaving more confused than anything). No bad reviews, no other screw ups. Success!

But really, was it?

I could have easily killed myself that morning. I put myself in real danger (on average, three cyclists are killed a year in Portland). And for what? Because I was trying to not inconvenience others? It was so short-sighted, stupid, and unnecessary. What if I had apologized, said it would take me an hour to get there safely, and offered to compensate the owner for the missed appointment? How bad could would that have been?

Not that bad. Not as bad as lying in a broken heap on the side of the road, which easily could have happened. I thought the responsibility of being a veterinarian meant that I would do whatever was physically possible to get the job done. But I should have known better.

Professional healers have an incredible responsibility. We have the power of life and death. It can feel morally urgent, even in situations where it's clearly detrimental to your own wellbeing, to do everything you can. It's so easy to push yourself too far, to forget that you're a valuable asset that needs protection. It's very easy to ask too much of yourself, and to get hurt.

Any formally hazardous work should have protections built in. For veterinarians, I think this can only come from within. So many of my colleagues work when they're sick, when they're depressed, when they don't want too, to the point of exhaustion. So many of us confuse self-worth with work. It seems like the only important thing, the achievement we've spent a lifetime pursuing. But the responsibility of being a healer means staying healthy, inside and out.