I lost it when my cat died

Cleo. Photos courtesy of Jennifer Graham

Cleo as a kitten.Coming to terms with the loss of my own pet was something I wasn't prepared for. After 15 years as a veterinary receptionist, I'd seen my share of sick pets. I sat with clients as they signed euthanasia consent forms. I helped techs bag pets afterwards. But I had also silently built walls to protect the part of me that wanted to grieve over every single pet. It was those walls that helped me be a better receptionist, a better supervisor, the kind of team member who could stay calm and follow protocols during tense situations. I knew losing Cleo would be tough. I just didn't realize how tough it would be to be able to continue to function at work with the same level of compassionate indifference.

Cleo was my first pet as an adult. She was a beautiful, feisty orange tabby who lived 16 ½ full years. She helped me learn so much about veterinary medicine and was the inspiration behind most of my writing and creative endeavors. She was my buddy, my muse.

Cleo receiving IV fluids at the veterinary practice where I worked. After an agonizing struggle with hyperthyroidism and kidney disease, she was gone. The professional me was determined to just keep going to work. I thought the daily routine would provide some level of comfort and stability. Personally, I was a mess. I wasn't eating or sleeping normally. I had no desire for any of my favorite hobbies. I stopped writing. Everything just seemed to stop. I was sad-extremely sad. I put on a brave face at work and tried to project a “business as usual” attitude.

My coworkers knew I was grieving, but they had no idea how much.

At any moment I was on the verge of tears and had extreme difficulty dealing with clients whose pets had chronic illnesses, particularly cats. I had to pass off rooming euthanasias to other teammates. I think everyone was OK with it for a while, but I knew I wasn't functioning at the level that was expected of me. No one ever made any comments to me directly about my dodging euthanasia appointments, but I still felt guilty for pushing them off.

Getting through my shift was tough. By the time I got home, I was emotionally exhausted.

I cried, a lot, on a daily basis.

I bounced between the stages of grief more times than I can count.

The sadness was overwhelming.

People who don't have pets can't fully understand what it means to experience their loss, so I had very few people to confide in. I regularly talked with a tech friend because I knew she understood. But I said very little to my boyfriend. Although we've been together for 20 years and he knows me better than anyone, I still didn't think he would understand how I felt. All he knew is that I was sad.

One day, while I was sitting on the couch, lost in a cloud of thought and grief, he asked, “Are you ever going to feel better?” I wasn't really sure.

At that point, I probably should have talked with a counselor or therapist.

Cleo poses for the camera. But I was determined to figure things out on my own, as I always had. I didn't want a prescription medication to be the answer to my grief. A pill wasn't going to bring my little buddy back. So there had to be another way.

After almost six months of silently struggling at work, I felt like I couldn't take anymore. I walked into my manager's office and asked to take time off so I could collect myself. “I'm just so tired,” I told her. She never hesitated and offered to cover my shifts for as long as needed.

For the next week, I dealt my grief and loss in the only way I knew how-by researching and meeting it head on. I read a lot about the stages of grief and was able to find several helpful websites for pet owners, but none specifically for veterinary team members. However, I did take a webinar about compassion fatigue, which I think was a large part of my problem.

Ieven contacted our liaison with the nearby specialty hospital, but I found out they did not have any programs in place. Surprisingly, there were two local grief support groups for pet owners, but the meeting times didn't coordinate well with my schedule.

Veterinary team members are expected to provide compassionate care to patients, to bond and counsel clients from their pet's first visit to their last. But who provides compassion and counseling to them? Who comforts the comforter when the burden of empathy becomes too much?

Everything reminded me of Cleo, which reminded me of the reality that she was gone.

Down under the water I went. If I focused on something else, like work or cleaning or gardening, I felt a little better, a little more like myself. It's those quiet times that are dangerous, when you're alone with your own thoughts and feelings of loss. It took a long time, but eventually I was able to listen to music without bursting into tears. I was able to say Cleo's name without it catching in my throat. Inspiration and creativity returned, not as a clap of thunder or burning bush, but as lightning bugs.

Smudge, Fox and Cleo, relaxing on the couch. The practice where I work today offers extensive alternative care options for pets, so we see a lot of chronically and severely ill patients. Sometimes we are their last hope. Fortunately for me, most of my work is done behind the scenes with management and team members, but I do still assist with clients and patients at the desk. Seeing the pets struggling with kidney failure, sinus tumors, stomach cancer, heart failure, lymphoma and spinal malformations is heartbreaking in a way it never was before. So I try to focus on the good that we're doing-providing comfort for whatever time that pet may have left.

Veterinary medicine as a whole needs to bring grief and compassion fatigue out of the shadows.

Why can't we address it the same way we would cancer or infectious disease? We educate ourselves so much about medicine and patient care but fail to care for each other. Managers and practice owners, talk openly about emotional issues at team meetings or on an individual level. Be attentive to team members' attitudes and emotions. If you notice someone is off his or her game, don't ignore it. Ask them about it.

Veterinarians and team members: if you're feeling overwhelmed, you're probably not alone.

Don't be afraid to talk with a teammate or supervisor or seek professional counseling if you can't complete normal day-to-day functions. The first step to healing is acknowledging you're having trouble. Acknowledgement doesn't mean you're weak or an inferior team member, it means you're human.

Almost two years to the day I lost Cleo, a helpless grey kitten showed up on a neighbor's porch.

Penelope, or Nellie "the 6-pound terror," poised to dethrone the top cat. She was emaciated and covered in fleas. She desperately wanted food and attention. She needed a home, and we just happened to have a vacancy. Cleo would have hated Penelope; she never really did like her two younger brothers very much. But she would have appreciated her spunk and her attitude. While Cleo can never be replaced, having Penelope to dote on has helped me tremendously.

I read somewhere that you never really get over grief-you just get through it. Some days the drowning waves of grief are a distant memory. But there are other days when it sticks close to me, lingering in my shadow waiting for the unsuspecting moment when I let my guard down.

Jennifer Graham is a Firstline Editorial Advisory Board member and the marketing administrative assistant and team coordinator at Ellwood Animal Hospital in Ellwood City, Pennsylvania.