I was the Hulk around Halloween...
Thursdays are procedure days, and on Wednesday a very sweet pittie came in with her toe partially amputated. My job was to amputate the remainder.
And I did it, golâ dangit.
At first as I clamped down on the metatarsal bone (rear left paw, digit V), and the rongeur handles bit into my hand, I squeaked. Then I squeal-growled, in a girly fashion, leaning into the table. The technician and the assistant snickered. âHulk it!â they told me.
So my growling took on a more gutteral, less high pitched tone. More She-Hulk than Hulk, I guess. My left hand joined the melee. My growling could echo up to the front of the building where clients were present and so, knowing that a good whole-hearted but blasphemous swear** was out of the question, my verbalizations turned to some softly muttered, partially grunted âoh holy frijolesâ and âfreaking popsicle sticks.â
Then the table tried to tip over, since I was bracing my hands and the rongeur handles on it (not the foot). The assistant leapt into the battle near the dogâs head and counter-balanced my attempts.
And then the cut went through.
My hands, vibrating from adrenaline and effort and the sheer âWTF-eryâ of the event, hovered over the dogâs draped limb. Before me was a necrotic PI and an oblique-cut remnant of the MT-V. Now I had to rasp the rough edge of the bone still inside the dog, clean her healthy tissues, and close her up.
The technicians are still giggling about all of this.
**I never swear during work hours, and usually donât ANYWAY. But frustration was coming at me in leaps and bounds.
(To clarify -- I have poor muscle strength in my arms/hands, and regularly see a doctor for upper back and neck pain. Itâs not like this is usually THAT hard to do. And the other doctor on that day is still recovering from cancer, so her strength is even less than mine. Couldnât ask her to do it. Heck--I almost made the assistant scrub in just to do the cut.)