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At the end of another manic day at Park Lane Vets, Craig is stocking up. As he wanders to the storeroom, he recites the list of things he needs, “Size 7 surgical gloves, drapes, propofol, swabs, T-ports, bandaging stuff, bungs, 2ml syringes, clinical waste bags and some throat packs… 10 things”. Lisa passes him in the corridor, “need a hand, Craig?”

Our brains process information. When there is too much information in the environment at any one time we select what to pay attention to. This may be driven by what is around us, such as a sudden noise or movement, but also by our experience. Information stored in our memory directs us to those things that we think to be important.

David was feeling confused. Peanut wasn’t settling under the anaesthetic. He checked her gums – they were a nice bubble gum pink, but her breathing was erratic, like she was having a bad dream. One minute fast, and then suddenly slow again. He fiddled with the anaesthetic dial, and recorded the latest set of readings.

In this article, Mark Turner will expand on compassion and explain in detail how in very concrete ways, it can help with the quality of care we provide in the veterinary profession.

In Quality Improvement, we talk a lot about improving systems of care. But what does that mean exactly and how do we start? To understand what a system means, let’s look at a familiar system… making a cup of tea.

It was Friday 6:00 pm, only half an hour to go. Sophie checked the weather for the weekend and smiled to herself as her app showed nothing but sun. The weekend couldn’t get here any faster. The week felt longer than it actually had been, and she had spent every ounce of energy on saving a sweet yellow puppy named Garfunkel, from the clutches of parvovirus. But her expert team pulled him through and they all feasted on the elaborate thank you gift of chocolate and biscuits from his grateful owner. Her last consult was an easy vaccination with one of her favourite clients, who always requested her. She breathed a sigh of both satisfaction and relief. Not long now and she’d be in her garden with a glass of wine.

“Stop! Ok thanks everyone, it’s time to stop. Time of death 3:21 pm”
As the room ground to a halt and silence and sadness filled the air, Lewis slid down the wall to his knees, a million questions racing around his head, “why, why, why?” as a lump formed in his throat, he watched Isabelle, (the nurse who had been caring for Lucky and raised the alarm) stroking the dogs head, a tear rolling down her cheek as she whispered, “Sleep tight my love”.

My patient died today. A cat that was loved by its family. A mother, a father and a little girl who looked up at me with tears spilling from her eyes. They had trusted me to help. Instead, I had to tell them their cat died, during the procedure that was supposed to make her better. We all cried in the consult room when I broke the news. All of us stunned and devastated, in overwhelming measures.

Everybody knows the spine chilling, nauseating feeling when you realise you have made a mistake, irrespective of professional experience. The slow-motion moment where the clippers roll off the table and smash onto the floor because you were rushing and didn’t put them back properly, or the terrible realisation that you miscalculated the sedation you drew up and have just overdosed your patient. Head in your hands you count the cost, panic rising, knowing that you need to talk to someone, fess up and put it right whilst drowning in the fear that you will be in big trouble…... struck off, fired, or financially liable.

I have been a veterinary nurse for 21 years and feel privileged to say that I love it! Ok, so not every day, but overall, it’s been amazing. Occasionally I ponder what makes my job so special – after all, only a few of my friends have stayed in the career they embarked upon after finishing full-time education, and a high percentage of those who have claimed to hate their jobs. Reflecting on some of the places I have worked, the Animal Health Trust (AHT) stands head and shoulders above the rest. Losing the AHT was like losing a dear friend, but why?