Boston - Lucky Dog: How Being a Veterinarian Saved My Life

LUCKY DOG

HOW BEING A VETERINARIAN SAVED MY LIFE

DR. SARAH BOSTON

Copyright 2014 Sarah Boston

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This edition published in 2014 by
House of Anansi Press Inc.
110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801
Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4
Tel. 416-363-4343
Fax 416-363-1017
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Boston, Sarah, author
Lucky dog / Dr. Sarah Boston.

Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN: 978-1-77089-351-1 (pbk.). ISBN: 978-1-77089-352-8 (html).

1. Boston, Sarah, 1973, Health. 2. Women veterinarians
Biography. 3. Cancer Patients Biography. 4. Medical care.
I. Title.

SF613.B67A32014 636.089092 C2013907014-1
C2013-907015-X

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918885

Cover design: Alysia Shewchuk

We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

For Stevie

CONTENTS

DIAGNOSIS

I WISH I WERE a dog. The lack of opposable thumbs part would be hard, and I do like talking a lot. I am also pathologically attached to my iPhone, but maybe there is an app that would allow me to continue to stay connected as a dog. The iPaw? Canine fashion has come a long way in the past few years, but I would miss shopping and dressing myself. I wouldnt miss the self-actualization and consciousness, but I would probably miss everyone recognizing my self-actualized consciousness. That would be hard. Even with having to give up the use of my hands, texting, the ability to speak, shopping, and the recognition of my full potential, I still wish that I were a dog today.

On Sunday night, six days ago, I was performing my nightly bedtime ritual, which involves washing my face with fantastically overpriced French cleanser and toner and then moisturizing with an equally overpriced French face cream. I believe this is worth it if the products can fulfill their promises of preventing the inescapable turkey neck that plagues women as they march into their late forties, the neck that seems to tarnish movie stars and human beings alike. No woman is immune and no amount of Botox or plastic surgery can erase the creping of the neck. It is the truth. Despite this, I am convinced that my routine is worth every penny and is working wonders. At thirty-seven and a half, I have the neck of a twenty-five-year-old. I alternate between extreme vanity and the suspicion that I may look like a cross between Ellen DeGeneres and Janice the Muppet. But back to vanity, Im spreading on the cream, banishing forehead wrinkles, eye wrinkles, and smile lines. I move on to my the neck. Wait a second, what is that? I can feel a mass.

I do not say bump or lump or swollen gland because these fingers are trained fingers and I know instantly that it is a mass in my right thyroid gland. I know that it is new, and that it is not good. Im away from home and staying with a dear friend in Calgary. I run into her bedroom and climb into bed with her. I ask her to feel my neck. She agrees that she can feel something and asks if it could be a swollen gland. She is not a doctor, but she plays one on TV (she is a health reporter). It is 11 p.m., and charged with this finding, but certain there is nothing that I can do about it right now, I retreat to my room. I try to reach my husband but I cant his cellphone is dead. So I just lie awake all night thinking about what to do next.

The next morning, I get up early and try to see a doctor at a walk-in clinic, which is a mistake on many levels. In the waiting area, there is a guy wearing a SARS mask and a haggard woman with a bleeding gash on her head (and an inadequate piece of gauze taped to it), as well as a few other infectious-looking people. They all appear in more urgent need of attention than neurotic veterinarian with self-diagnosed lump in her neck. The nurses are chatting away while people stand in line to be processed like cattle. I check in, but before I sit down, I ask how long the wait will be. The medical receptionist tells me that they are not permitted to give out wait times.

Sure, Im not going to hold you to it, but can you give me any idea? I have to call my office and I need to know what to tell them.

We are not permitted to give out wait times.

Okay, but can you tell me an average, like, will this be fifteen minutes or three hours?

Im sorry, but we are not permitted to say.

Wow, thanks, superhelpful. I call work. I am doing a locum a temporary position to fill in for another surgeon at a private hospital in Calgary. It turns out that there is a patient waiting for me right now. We cant have that now, can we? I bail on the walk-in clinic. I am further delayed because I have to sign something that says I elected to leave against medical advice. What medical advice? Okay, whatever. This was a mistake. I sign it. I am going to be home in a week. I call my family doctors office and get an appointment for Monday morning.

I arrive at work a referral centre for animals. I am a veterinary surgeon with a subspecialty in surgical oncology (cancer surgery). I get through a couple of appointments, admitting one dog with an abdominal tumour that may need to be removed, along with the adjacent kidney. One of my colleagues is a veterinarian who is triple-boarded in three specialties: internal medicine, medical oncology, and radiation oncology basically, this means he is a rock star to us vets, and a dog doctor to everyone else. I head to his office and ask him if he can feel my neck. I can see the instant recognition of a problem on his face and he says, Its amazing what our fingers tell us sometimes. We sit and talk about what the mass could be: a cyst, hyperplasia (an increased production of normal cells), or a carcinoma (which is thyroid cancer), but mostly we talk about thyroid cancer because that is what we both think is going on. He tells me that the prognosis for most cases of thyroid carcinoma is good, especially in my age group. He tells me that I am pretty much the thyroid carcinoma poster girl and that I should go home.

So I fold on my locum early. I have never done anything like this in my life. Usually I drag myself into work, no matter what state my health is in, partly because I may be a workaholic and partly because I think the whole place would cease to function without me (see above, workaholic). I change my flight to leave on Wednesday and schedule an urgent appointment with my family doctor for Thursday. In this time, I am pretty sure the mass is growing.