From the CVO: I'm officially my dogs

As a veterinarian, I have dedicated my life to understanding and alleviating the pain of my patients. However, nothing could have prepared me for the moment I truly became one of them. It wasn’t by choice but by circumstance. In the blink of an eye, I found myself walking—or rather, struggling to walk—in their paws. I became a dachshund.

Earlier this year, many of you saw me at VMX in a scooter and using a cane, and many of you know how much I love to work out. I have been exercising since I was 20 years old and found great joy in the love of staying fit and finding my crew of fellow gym buddies over the years. But severely herniating L4-L5 in my spine brought me right down to the ground—like a dachshund. At first, I thought I was going to be OK. I had received 2 epidurals to manage the pain, but unfortunately, it didn’t help. At VMX, my incredible friends were there to support me and literally bring me up when I was down for the count. To those of you who were there, thank you!

Adam Christman, DVM, MBA, with his dogs.

As you know, dachshunds, with their long backs and short legs, are notorious for their predisposition to intervertebral disc disease (IVDD). It’s a condition I’ve diagnosed, treated, and even wrote a book about—Honey, Have You Squeezed the Dachshund? A Guide for Dachshund Owners Who Are Terrified of IVDD. I’ve counseled pet owners countless times and watched their beloved companions yelp in pain, drag their hind limbs, and tremble with fear as they faced an uncertain road ahead. I’ve seen it in my own dachshunds. I also follow my own advice to clients about ramps. If you’ve been following me on social media, you’ve seen how many custom-built ramps are in my house; it’s like MTV Cribs for dachshunds!

It wasn’t until I personally experienced the searing agony of nerve pain, the crushing weight of immobility, and the unrelenting frustration of ineffective treatments that I truly understood the depths of their suffering. Sleeping 30 minutes maximum a night was my average. And yet, I woke up, went to work, and put on my game face.

The pain you can’t escape

Pain is a thief; it robs you of movement, peace, and sleep. It consumes every moment, turning even the simplest tasks into insurmountable obstacles. It took me close to 30 minutes just to put 1 sock on. I, too, found myself trapped in this relentless cycle. What you also don’t know is that I had soft tissue surgery earlier this year as well—a postop recovery that I care never to remember. Additionally, I still had (and currently have) my herniated disk. Standing up was an exercise in courage. Walking was an act of defiance against the pain that threatened to pull me down. Every nerve in my spine seemed to scream with a fire I couldn’t extinguish.

Like my dachshund patients, I learned to adapt. I shuffled instead of walking. I used a scooter, just like they use a cart. I hesitated before taking the stairs. I feared sudden movements that might send electric jolts of pain radiating through my body. I cried during a cough or a sneeze. I experienced the frustration of treatments that didn’t provide relief and the heartbreak of feeling helpless in my own skin. I knew what it was to lose trust in my own body.

Now I know how my patients feel. I thought of them, curled up in their crates at night, whimpering in discomfort. I thought of the pet parents who sat beside them, stroking their fur, feeling powerless to ease their pain. I understood them in a way I never had before. The nights are the hardest—when the world is silent, you are left alone with the echoes of your suffering, and everyone is resting while your mind is as active as a marathon runner.

The search for relief

Finding the right pain protocol was a journey of trial and error. What worked for one patient did nothing for me, and what gave brief relief often came with intolerable adverse effects. I gained a newfound appreciation for the complexity of pain management, not only the science of it but also the deep, personal impact it has on every patient’s quality of life.

Dachshunds with IVDD face a similar battle. Whether it’s steroids, nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, gabapentin, acupuncture, rehabilitation therapy, or laser, there’s no one-size-fits-all solution. The patience required to navigate this process is exhausting. Yet my doctors never gave up on me, just as we would never give up on our patients. The willpower to keep trying when nothing seems to work is nothing short of heroic. I now recognize that our patients don’t just need treatment; they need our compassion, persistence, and unwavering belief that relief is possible. And to me, the best medicine I could receive is TLC. Being home with my dogs and my husband and being surrounded by friends, coworkers, and family who relentlessly checked in on me to make sure I was following the doctor’s orders meant more to me than anything.

The road ahead

As I write this, I am heading toward surgery. I’m nervous and scared but also excited to be the Adam Christman I want and need to be. Social media never showed how I truly felt as I didn’t think my platform was suitable for this, so this is the first time I’m sharing my journey. I know my profession would understand the synergy behind our personal battles and the battles our patients experience. They, too, need to be surrounded by TLC, their family, and loved ones.

Pain has a way of changing you; it deepens your empathy, sharpens your awareness, and shifts your perspective. As veterinarians, we pride ourselves on our medical knowledge, but true understanding comes from lived experience.

I now speak to my clients with a different kind of authority—not only as a veterinarian but also as someone who has felt the very pain their pets endure. I understand the urgency in their voices and the desperation in their eyes. I recognize the silent suffering of a pet who is too stoic to show how much they’re hurting. When I went down, I thought I was permanently down. Imagine what that is like for people and our pets. It was absolutely terrifying, but one thing is for certain: I have received my strength from my dogs and patients over the years. They still manage to wag their butt, purr next to you, and greet you at the door regardless of any physical ailment they may have. They have inspired me to be strong throughout my own personal journey.

To my fellow veterinarians, I urge you to see beyond the clinical signs and feel beyond the science. When a pet yelps in pain, know their suffering extends far beyond that moment. When a client worries about their dog’s future, recognize the deep, emotional toll of that fear. Walk in their paws—not only in theory but also in spirit. Pain is a universal language. And because of this journey, I now speak it fluently.

An invitation to compassion

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that suffering is not just a physical experience, it’s also emotional, mental, and deeply personal. My journey through pain and healing has made me a better veterinarian, a more empathetic healer, and a stronger advocate for those who cannot speak for themselves.

To my dachshunds out there: I see you. I feel you. I am you.

To my colleagues: Let us remember that we are not just treating conditions, but we are also treating souls. Let us be relentless in our pursuit of relief, patient in our understanding, and unwavering in our compassion. Use your intuition, for it is stronger than you know.

Because, in the end, we are not so different from the patients we serve. We are all walking—sometimes stumbling—on this journey together. And some of us, like me, are officially dachshunds. And to me, I think it’s weiner-ful.