A Cripple, a Burst, and a Newborn Love

Sally Moseley, St. Matthew's Veterinary School

Experiences, Winner

     Many of us can probably say that our love of animals began the first time we saw a dog, the first time we held a kitten, the first time we rode a horse.  Some fond, early memory—or group of memories—often represents our journeys to becoming veterinarians.  Also interesting with perhaps an even greater variety are the stories of our love of medicine.

Every time we prepare for interviews, someone knowingly informs us that we cannot just say we want to become veterinarians because we want to help animals.  A medical student cannot say he wants to become a doctor because he wants to help people.  Many vocations are conducive to help people, animals, or even both.  Something about medicine is particularly alluring for all of us to rack up debt while spending years in school.

Benjamin Bunny was the first vehicle that drove my love for medicine.  Prior to first grade, this was the equivalent of showing me a shiny trinket that I could have easily discarded without a thought.  Many such shiny things turned up around this time and in the next couple of years.  And many times I found my shiny thing was merely a paper clip, and it, though useful, was not the exciting thing I once thought it was.  However, in this particular case, instead of discovering a paper clip I discovered a diamond.

Benjamin Bunny died the summer before I entered first grade.  In his life, he was the remarkable creature who taught a young child what it meant to care for someone weaker than herself.  On his deathbed, he was the remarkable creature who taught a young child that suffering was not the end of happiness.  In death, he was the remarkable creature who taught that same young child that adults have answers to many things, but not all of them.

With that love of animals that I recall with fond memories at a young age, I cared for Benjamin Bunny.  When he got sick, I did not understand what was happening.  He could not stand up.  He swam in the grass and flower beds using his front legs.  He reached for dandelions by stretching out his too-short neck.  He behaved like Benjamin Bunny for a while.  And when he did not, it was time for him to be euthanized.

I still did not really understand.  I understood that he was in pain and unhappy, and he could be freed of that, but I did not understand why he became that way in the first place, or why no one could help him.  No one, not the vet, not my parents, could give me answers.  My curiosity piqued.

This curiosity lasted throughout childhood; whenever someone was sick, disabled, or in pain, I wanted to know why she was sick, disabled, or in pain, I wanted to know if someone could help, and I wanted to know why.  My shiny thing winked at me just out of reach, I just needed to find a different, possibly unconventional, way to reach it.  Following Benjamin Bunny, many other things directed me there.  The next major event that I did not pursue—because it, like Benjamin Bunny, delivered itself to me—was my own appendicitis.

I think the body is incredible; it runs and jumps and does all of the weird things I make it do, and then it heals itself.  It has never impressed me more than when it faced something it could not fix completely.

With just a year left in my high school life, the norovirus was making its way through my family, friends, and even the whole town.  It was a stomach virus that lasted 24-48 hours.  I was slightly annoyed that it was lasting much longer in me.  After three weeks, I finally let my mom take me to the doctor.

Several doctors later, every one of them a little confounded, I had a surgeon who suspected appendicitis without completely believing it, because how could an appendicitis patient survive three-and-a-half weeks?

For once, I have an answer to that question: the body is amazing.

The surgeon discovered that my intestines had wrapped themselves around the pus leaking from my appendix, walling off the infection and preventing its spread.  This gave me all the time I needed to find the care that would allow me a longer-term survival. 

After the incident, I had a few thank-you cards to make:

To my pediatrician, who knew it was not just a flu.

To my surgeon, who took a chance, made a discovery, and removed the offender.

To my microbiologist, who monitored my infection.

To my anesthesiologist, who let me feel all of the above as little as possible.

To my family, for getting me to the hospital.

To my friends, who still yell at me for letting it happen at all.

To my body, for giving me enough time.

With the curiosity Benjamin Bunny gave me, I questioned all those I thanked.  I wanted to know what my body did normally, what my body did to change, what made the doctors realize I needed help, what the doctors did to help, and why what they did helped.  Not only was my body amazing, but all those doctors astounded me with their knowledge, and I was grateful for all they taught me and all they did for me.  I was also grateful to them for showing me that the shiny thing I was chasing was still very, very appealing.

 Thus, after all this time, I believe I have found a treasure trove filled with shiny things.  Some are paper clips, which, as I said before, can be very useful.  But most importantly, I have gathered those precious diamonds close to me, and I am not, as of yet, overrun with paper clips.  One rather large and especially shiny diamond is medicine.  It has led me to school, and I anticipate treasuring it for a lifetime.

More shiny things I have found:

Polly, a survivor of breast cancer, melanoma, basal cell carcinoma, and lung cancer.

 

Mike exploring appendicitis gifts. Mike will be very dull one day, seizure, and die in my arms.