The past couple of weeks on rotation have largely consisted of looking down a microscope or performing postmortems – and despite clinical and anatomic pathology being very different, a running theme seemed to exist across both.
On the clinical pathology week, we pored over slide after slide of blood smears and cytology samples, trying to formulate differentials from minimal or no history about the case.
We muddled through a number of biochemistry profiles and attempted interpretation, often with little or nothing to go on from the submitting clinician.
Historical significance
In anatomic pathology, we were often supplied with the history, but the clinicians would not reveal the full extent until after we had formed differential lists – even then the “full” history we were given before proceeding with postmortem examination would often be scarce.
Although we would often get there in the end, or at least in the right ballpark, I think it’s safe to say the importance of a relevant history has been drummed into us for evermore.
Going forward as new graduates – far sooner than many of us would like – I don’t think we’d dare send a sample to the university lab without filling the forms out meticulously and providing a relevant history. Making an accurate interpretation that fit the clinical picture was so much easier when a few, seemingly minor points were highlighted in the history.
The write stuff
Another lesson creeping into every rotation over the year is the sheer amount of paperwork involved in veterinary medicine – be it clinical notes, postmortem reports, lab submission forms, case reports, anaesthetic records… the list goes on.
Keeping accurate records can be the difference between being sued and being able to prove your clinical judgement at the time. Most relevant to this rotation was accurate completion of lab submission forms, so samples can be correctly identified and results sent to the right place.
It sounds obvious, but the clinical pathology staff assure us the frequency of receiving samples with important information omitted is much higher than you’d think.
Out of practice
Having explored the different aspects of clinical and anatomic pathology, while dragging a lot of material from the depths of third-year knowledge, I can appreciate how quickly some skills and understanding can be lost when you don’t practise or use them regularly.
Feeling considerably rusty at the beginning of the rotation, I feel a lot more comfortable now, but can see how vets can lose their ability or confidence to make a cytological diagnosis when in practice, especially when things get busy.
Being able to send samples to the experts is a major advantage, but I think, as new grads, we should at least have a quick look down the microscope and make a provisional call to be confirmed by the lab, rather than just sending samples straight off.
2017 has reared its hopefully not-so-ugly head, and with it comes the realisation my classmates and I are mere months from entering the real world of veterinary medicine.
The sheer number of poorly written recruitment ads has prompted Jordan to create a list of tips for advertising a job to new grad vets.
While tales of classmates getting job offers following placements become more frequent, those of us without much of a plan have, so far, remained blissfully ignorant. But now we fear our lazy flicking through the job adverts at the back of varying veterinary publications will have to become less of an exercise in procrastination and more of a quest for our future.
While my flatmate and I often indulge ourselves in shared exasperation at the lack of mixed or farm jobs, or simply flick through to see if we know the practices and try to work out who must have left, we have noticed a few patterns in poor adverts – and these mild grievances have resulted in this list of top tips for advertising a job to new grads.
(Disclaimer: these tips are not based on any success rates, merely on the opinion of myself and some of my colleagues)
Title
The most annoying thing when skimming job adverts is to read half a page of waffle, only to reach the end and realise it’s the wrong type of work or miles away from the area we’re looking around.
A short, snappy title wants to include type of work (small/farm/mixed vet), location and, perhaps, whether a new graduate is wanted. For example: “New grad position for mixed practice in Leicester.”
The practice name doesn’t really need to be there (we’ll read on to find out); the purpose of the title is to catch the eye of your prospective applicant.
Do you want a new grad?
“Suitable for new graduate” or “new graduates considered” is all we need to know. On the flip side, if you don’t want a new graduate, please say so (for example, “must have two years’ experience”), otherwise we’ll be wasting our time looking into it and wasting your time if we apply.
We also don’t really need further details on this topic. Information like “great support network for new graduate” is too wordy and the support needed will vary between individuals – we’ll only get a true feel for that on interview or trial.
Type of vet
Please, please, please say what type of practice you are or what type of vet you want. I know it sounds simple, but the number of adverts that leave me unsure whether they’re for a mixed or small animal role is frustrating. In these instances, I’ll often have to look at the practice logo to work out where to hedge my bets…
Type of vet (additional)
The term “mixed vet” doesn’t tell us a lot and “mainly SA [small animal], some LA [large animal]” doesn’t really tell us a great deal more. A clear (and preferably accurate) estimate of the likely proportions of work will give us the best idea of what to expect – “50% small, 30% farm, 20% equine”, for example.
Out-of-hours rota
Clearly stating the out-of-hours rota in an adequate amount of detail avoids any misunderstandings and helps us know what to expect from the off. For example, “1 in 3 rota” gives us a bit of an idea, but I’ve seen some really good adverts that clearly state something along the lines of: “4.5-day week with 1 in 3 weekends and 1 day off following a worked weekend.”
Things like this can be clarified at interview if not clear in the advert, but it just keeps everyone on the same page from the beginning.
Pay
Pay is not the be all and end all in a first job – and this will depend on whether other benefits are offered – but we’d still like a ballpark figure to be able to assess if what we’re being offered is reasonable.
Other benefits
A lot of practices seem to like to highlight their CPD allowance, which is all very well for those more experienced vets, but new graduates have the Personal Development Programme to occupy them in their first year of practice, so an attractive CPD allowance doesn’t mean much to us.
On the other hand, if you’re looking for a new graduate, state whether you have accommodation or a car available – again the details will be discussed at interview, but these can be a priority for some new graduates who are potentially moving to a new area. We may discard an advert that doesn’t state whether they have accommodation, even if it would transpire later they can offer some.
Final thoughts
I’m not drawn to an “all singing, all dancing” colour advert that takes up half a page in particular – the most important things for me are a clear and concise title, and an advert that is short enough to keep my attention, but includes just the right amount of detail.
Obviously I’m biased, but I think the University of Glasgow offers the best selective rotation options of the vet schools in the UK. Numerous opportunities exist to go abroad, with a variety of options based on species or type of practice.
The traveller in me was never going to pass up an opportunity to take to the skies, so halfway through my final year (eek) I found myself with five classmates on a plane to Morocco.
Language barrier
American Fondouk is a charity clinic for the working equids of Fes. Every morning the gates open at 8am and a stream of mules, donkeys and horses wander in with various ailments.
My French is minimal and Arabic non-existent, so history taking usually involved the owner pointing at the affected body part and translation with the help of a multilingual staff member. Even so, the histories were usually little more than “he fell over” or “it’s been like this for a week”.
Clinical exams were also not without challenges. For a start, it’s important to note donkey “normals” are different to those of horses (at first, we thought everything was hypothermic), and mules kick – in every direction.
Normal’s not normal
“It’s been like this for a week…”
Treatment of outpatients could vary from ivermectin and a dental to admission and intensive care for critical cases. It was just a case of dealing with whatever walked through that door.
Certain normal parameters for horses are different in Morocco than in the UK and for a while I couldn’t understand why so much fuss existed about PCVs of 40% – it turns out the Moroccan normal range for PCV is much lower than I was used to.
A full hospital with multiple high-maintenance inpatients certainly kept us on our toes for the month. However, after a couple of weeks, we’d gotten used to a lack of sleep, the protocols for treating certain conditions and the general craziness our daily lives had become.
I felt competent with a number of practical skills I’d never tried before I came to the clinic and could diagnose a tetanus case before it was even off the box. Wound care and bandaging were daily requirements – it was astonishing to see how well some seemingly horrific wounds would heal and the animals recover.
Ethical dilemmas
Acting in the interests of the animal without its owner’s permission is not allowed in Morocco.
The hardest thing I found about working at the clinic were the ethics surrounding euthanasia.
To the owners, these animals are often their only source of income – their livelihood – and the economics of replacing a mule are heartbreaking. Emotions run high when a seriously sick mule with a heart rate through the roof, suspected of a surgical colic, desperately in need of the pink juice would leave the owner with nothing.
The other logistical obstacle is the legal status of these animals. In Morocco, these animals are considered property of the owner and as such, permission must be gained before euthanising an animal.
Acting in the interests of the animal without permission is not allowed, so if an owner is not contactable, some unavoidable suffering may occur. This is limited as much as possible through pain relief, despite knowing what ultimately needs to happen in the interests of the animal.
Outside the box
On the whole, we were able to do our best for our patients and provide the optimum care.
I had a great, albeit exhausting, month. Working in a busy environment with somewhat limited resources pushes you to think outside the box and embrace different approaches to problems.
I learned a lot, gained confidence and even managed to discharge a patient in stilted Arabic by the end.
Fertility work makes up a large proportion of cattle veterinary work in the UK and, after spending a month on the farm rotation at university, I can appreciate the importance of getting it right – and how hard it can be.
Experienced large animal vets make it look easy – they scan the uterus and ovaries, and decide what drug to give to aid getting the cow in calf, all in a minute or two.
In the meantime, I’m still fumbling about trying to palpate what, I think, may be the uterus or ovaries while the cow squeezes and gradually cuts off the circulation in my arm until I can barely feel my fingers.
Meanwhile, the vet has zipped through several cows already.
When things go wrong
What happens if you misdiagnose a pregnant cow as negative and administer prostaglandin, or give a cow steroids without realising she’s in calf?
On one fertility visit this week, we discussed when things go wrong. For example, what if:
you misdiagnose a pregnant cow as negative and administer prostaglandin (PGF2α)?
a vet gives a cow steroids for any number of reasons without realising she’s in calf?
The outcomes of both of these scenarios are almost inevitably abortion, which can have a number of repercussions on the farm – and, potentially, the vet.
Negligence or misconduct?
Many new graduates are terrified of being called up for “fitness to practice” for making a mistake such as those aforementioned. However, during a Veterinary Defence Society (VDS) workshop at the SPVS Lancaster weekend earlier this year, it was emphasised a difference exists between negligence and misconduct in the eyes of the RCVS.
What I took away from this session was, in simple terms, negligence involves making a mistake – such as missing a diagnosis, giving the wrong treatment accidentally, eliciting side effects from something due to missing something in the case history – whereas misconduct is actively doing something you know you shouldn’t – such as trying to cover up a mistake, lying or misleading a client.
Mistakenly giving PGF2α to a pregnant cow would be classed as negligence and, on the whole, the VDS would have your back; the farmer may receive some compensation for his losses, but the incident wouldn’t tarnish your career. In the same situation, misconduct would be denying you had administered any treatment.
In short, you won’t get struck off for easily made, one-off mistakes, but you may if you lie about them.
In the news
Our conversation about accidentally aborting cows led us to discuss the case of Honey Rose, the optometrist convicted of gross negligence manslaughter. News reports vary, but, from what I can gather, she failed to diagnose papilloedema (swollen optic discs) in an eight-year-old boy, which would have been an indication of the hydrocephalus he died of five months later.
It is reported she claimed to have been unable to examine his eyes properly because he had photophobia – a claim considered false by the judge. However, she had also failed to look at retinal photos taken by a colleague, on which the papilloedema was evident.
Going by the RCVS’ rules, missing the diagnosis or not looking at the retinal photos would be negligent. However, denying she’d been able to carry out a thorough examination, despite written records suggesting otherwise, would be misconduct.
Rose was found guilty of gross negligence manslaughter and was handed a two-year prison sentence, suspended for two years, and a 24-month supervision order, and was ordered to complete 200 hours of unpaid work.
In your defence
As vets, we have the VDS to help us in these situations – and, while it would be truly awful to make a mistake resulting in an animal’s death, we would not be at risk of imprisonment.
Doctors and dentists also have defence societies that will fight their corner, but optometrists? To my knowledge, an equivalent does not exist – and this was the first case of an optometrist convicted of manslaughter in the UK, which added to the complexity of the legal battle.
The death of a little boy is devastating, but, as medical professionals know, death is a risk with many procedures, no matter how small the risk may be. It’s frightening to think jail could be a consequence for those in the medical profession.
So, while I gradually lost the sensation in my right arm as I tried to reach an ovary of the 10th cow in a row, I mulled this over and realised I was extremely thankful for the safety net the VDS provides and would not take working with animals for granted.
After all, if I’d decided to be a doctor instead, I could be rummaging around in another human’s back end rather than a cow’s!
For further details of the Veterinary Defence Society and its services, visit www.thevds.co.uk
Maintaining a work-life balance can be difficult within the veterinary profession, unless you actively make an effort to do non-vet things.
Although a “poor runner” Jordan is taking on a half marathon in aid of two charities close to her heart.
Joining a sports team or other society requires a certain level of commitment (depending on the level), and this can be helpful to keep a frequent scheduled period of “escape time”.
Another good way to motivate yourself to do “other” things is to set a personal target to aim for.
Procrastination aid
Several months ago, in the middle of fourth year exams, I think I was subconsciously craving any method of occupying time that didn’t involve staring at a textbook – so, in my revision-frenzied madness, I signed up for the Great Scottish Run Half Marathon.
Just filling in the application and perusing training plans gave me a few sweet minutes of procrastination at the time. But after exams had been and gone, and final year rotations loomed, I started to question what an earth I’d gotten myself into.
I’m a poor runner at the best of times, sporting an age-old ankle strain and intermittent shin splits – the furthest I think I’d run before beginning training was 5km (about seven years ago, when I was considerably fitter) – but I gritted my teeth, donned the ankle support and shin splint tape, got a decent pair of trainers and set out on a run.
Staying motivated
Despite my misgivings, by following a training programme almost impeccably, I’ve gradually been building stamina and have surprisingly avoided aggravating my shins.
Now, having nearly finished the training, and with the half-marathon only two weeks away, I can appreciate how much having a target to aim for has helped me keep fit throughout my first few rotations – and with many of them being the sort of rotation notorious for having long hours, it would be so easy to miss out on exercise.
In addition to keeping motivated to exercise, the main aim of my insane challenge (for me anyway) is to raise money for two deserving charities with which I have personal connections.
Determined to finish
Help In Suffering has helped keep the people of Jaipur rabies-free for 14 years.
The first charity is The Air Ambulance Service, which saved my life five years ago when I fell from a horse and sustained near fatal injuries.
The other charity, Help In Suffering, runs a neutering clinic in India where my friend and I gained valuable skills last year, having been let down by another placement and stranded in an unknown country. This charity’s vital work has kept the people of Jaipur rabies-free for 14 years.
I still hate running, but I’m glad I’ve tried to overcome the challenge to support these fabulous charities. While I know it’s going to be tough on the day, I’m determined to cross the finish line and not let down my supporters who have so generously donated.
If you would like more information about the charities, or to donate, please visit my sponsor pages below:
While a documented shortage of graduates does not exist as in previous years, significantly less fuss has been kicked up about the announcement of the new Aberystwyth-in-conjunction-with-RVC vet school, compared with the opening of the Surrey Vet School in 2014.
Surrey vet school: a bolt from the blue?
Is this because we knew Aberystwyth was in the pipeline so are not shocked by the announcement, or has the profession kept quiet because we do need more vets?
The problem is not a lack of graduates, but a lack of “experienced vets” and a shortage of vets staying in the profession after a few years of graduation.
This begs the question: why?
The simple answer is, as shown in last year’s “Voices from the future of the veterinary profession” survey conducted by Vet Futures, the profession, in its current state, does not meet expectations of those entering it.
Essentially, we feel undervalued, underpaid and overworked, and lack a sense of life outside veterinary.
Undervalued
The profession has an image problem, in many respects. It is becoming more commercialised, not just because of corporate takeover, but because clients expect more.
We seem to be moving away from the respected professionals who have dedicated their lives to helping animals and, as such, are praised for performing little short of a miracle in medical and surgical feats, and towards the providers of a service that, if not absolutely perfect and costs next to nothing, will only be complained about and bad-mouthed to other customers and competitors.
Sadly, the economic climate has caused much scaremongering, bringing vets to the absolute disposal of the pet owner for fear of losing clients and, therefore, not being able to balance the books.
I feel very strongly part of the reason our services are so undervalued is the NHS (See Jordan’s July 2014 blog post, “I Blame the NHS“).
The everyday person has no concept of how much medical procedures, diagnostics and therapeutics cost. I’ve done the research – prices for private medical care are found fairly easily, but NHS costs? Nigh impossible.
So how can we blame the public for not having a clue how much a radiograph costs? The public perception of veterinary in this country needs to change and I don’t think it will without transparency on human medical costs in conjunction with our veterinary ones.
Depending on the kind of practice you’re in, or going into, the relative feeling of being overworked will differ. I realise my points won’t apply to every practice in the country and this is sweeping general opinion on the UK profession as a whole. However, I struggle to see how many full-time vets’ hours fall within the legal limit.
The legislation is complex, with loopholes in the Working Time Regulations 1998 (WTR) possibly allowing certain practices to skirt round some of the “rules”, such as the designated 11-hour consecutive rest break in each 24-hour period and the minimum 24-hour rest break in each 7-day period.
On-call work is difficult to classify, but, in essence, the signing of a workforce agreement (probably as part of an employment contract) means the employee is agreeing to to provide out-of-hours cover that impinges on these designated rest breaks.
Some final year rotations at university I know are well beyond the limits set by the WTR (although the legality is sketchy since we’re not employed while we’re students).
“It’s not a nine-to-five job,” was a comment given with regard to rotation hours. That’s tough love: you’re going to be worked into the ground when you qualify, so you may as well get used to it now. But why? Why can’t veterinary be a nine-to-five job? It certainly is in other countries.
The profession is changing and I really hope this is the kind of change that comes about nationwide. With the increasing popularity of outsourced out-of-hours cover and shift work, why can’t a vet clock off at 5pm, enjoy some exercise, cooking, social activity, whatever and come back to work refreshed the next day ready to put in 110%?
Achieving work-life balance
We have numerous talks at uni about mental health awareness and the importance of work-life balance. But how is it possible to achieve a work-life balance if you’re working from 8am to 8pm and, even on the nights you’re not on call, you essentially only have time to grab something to eat and sleep.
It’s all very well lecturing us on being conscious of having a work-life balance, but what if it is beyond our control, as in so many cases?
I know for a fact, if the profession remains stuck in its ways, I will become just another statistic and leave the UK, if not the profession entirely, within a few years.
Don’t get me wrong, I have loved my rotations so far and the sense of fulfilment when I’m actually getting a handle on things is excellent, but I know I will resent my job if it does not allow for some enjoyment outside of veterinary.
But will it ever change? I think something has to give soon, or the profession will find itself in dire straits before long. How would change come about? If we wait for one practice or chain to provide a great work-life balance and rely on the trend to catch on, I think we’ll be waiting a lifetime. But what if the regulations changed?
I don’t really want to talk about Brexit (I’m sure a little piece of me dies inside every time that word is uttered), but the potential change to employment law (which has mainly been derived from the EU) could allow for changes specific to medical professions to protect us from “burnout”.
Overtime pay should exist in the veterinary world, as it does in any other “normal” job, allowing for those maniacs who want to work 24 hours a day to do so at their leisure (or those who need the extra cash), but not at the detriment to those who don’t wish to. Working out a vet’s base salary as an hourly basis is just depressing. And it shouldn’t be.
I keep hearing phrases such as “the profession is changing” and “it’s an exciting time”. I genuinely hope that is the case and we become the progressive generation we like to think we are, and drag the profession kicking and screaming with us into the modern world of enjoying life outside veterinary and moulding our careers around our lives – not the other way around.
Exams passed, Jordan can walk the halls of Glasgow’s small animal hospital without feeling like an imposter.
As regular readers of this blog may have noticed, I was a little apprehensive about starting my final year at veterinary school…
Having already been in the small animal hospital for two days, we finally received our results – confirming I and many of my fellow classmates had passed our exams and could now wear our final year jackets without guilt and walk around the hospital without feeling like imposters.
However, despite now knowing we had qualified to be in the hospital, it still felt like we had been thrown in the deep end.
In at the deep end
My first rotation was emergency and critical care, with the first part being internal medicine. The first couple of days were spent frantically researching the background of patients coming in for appointments, bumbling through clinical exams and brushing up on my rusty practical skills.
It was my first time taking consults alone and, after missing out key questions the first few times, I eventually got into the swing of things and made fewer mistakes.
Image: seregraff / Fotolia.
Despite feeling like I didn’t know anything to begin with, I at least managed to scrape together a few sensible ideas when clinicians tried to worm differentials out of us. It has been a steep learning curve, changing the way of thinking entirely to apply things to a real patient in front of you, which usually has not read the textbook.
OOH my goodness
Just as I was beginning to feel comfortable with medicine, we swapped to out of hours – which, against my presumptions, turned out to be a really enjoyable week.
I adjusted to nights far easier than I expected and was powering through until one particularly long night when a bulldog came in with a suspected gastric dilatation volvulus (GDV).
This was the first genuine emergency we’d been involved in and stress levels were running high. Having rapidly set up fluid boluses, taken radiographs to confirm our suspicions, checked lactate levels and run in-house bloods, we went through to theatre. After a very long night of surgery and having warned the owner of an extremely grave prognosis, we were delighted to see said bulldog looking bright and happy the following evening, eating and pulling us down the corridors to the runs outside.
Not all GDVs end with such a happy ending, as we had learned earlier in the week – a dog that underwent the surgery at its own vets came to us for overnight care in ICU and, after a rocky night of a supraventricular tachycardia that we struggled to keep under control, crashed the following morning, was resuscitated successfully once, but could not be saved when it crashed again minutes later.
Hearts, not brains
Coming from nights straight back into days, however, was much harder and I felt like a zombie for the first day of my cardiology week.
On the subsequent days, when my brain was working again, I was able to make a bit more sense of echocardiography and gain a better understanding of some conditions and the tray menu options available.
I also learned a bit more about the genetics of Bengal cats and found trying to heart scan a cat that’s only two generations away from a leopard cat can be quite challenging (and may involve chasing said cat around the ultrasound room for some time, following an artful escape act).
This year isn’t going to be a picnic, but, although I already feel exhausted, if last month is anything to go by, it will be an enjoyable one.
Two years ago, I received an email to confirm an EMS placement at a certain well-known veterinary practice in the south of England.
Fitzpatrick Referrals: arguably one of the most recognisable practice premises in the UK. Image taken from the VBJ Practice Profile.
In my head, the placement remained far off until – three days after one set of exams ended and four weeks before another set – it seemed to sneak up on me far quicker than expected.
Brain slightly frazzled from exams, but orthopaedics (hopefully) fresh in my mind, I found myself pulling into the car park of Fitzpatrick Referrals.
Making sense of things
Being such a large and busy hospital, the first few days were a bit manic, with lots of new faces and protocols to get used to. To be honest, just finding my way back to the staff room was quite a challenge.
As my first time in a referral hospital, there were notable differences from first opinion practice, and the sheer number of surgeries the vets would get through in one day was impressive.
I was able to see a lot of surgery, which helped make sense of the numerous abbreviations our orthopaedic lectures presented, for both the conditions and procedures – an FCP corrected by PUO or the options of TPLO or TTA for CrCLR meant very little until I was able to see the procedures and understand a little more why they helped correct the particular conditions.
Noel Fitzpatrick: veterinary visionary? You be the judge.
The above are among many other “standard” referral procedures carried out at other referral orthopaedic hospitals throughout the country. There are, of course (as seen on television), other surgeries Noel carries out. Whether these are considered groundbreaking, experimental or too much is open to interpretation, but they are certainly unique to the “Supervet”.
Noel himself is clearly very passionate and believes wholeheartedly his innovations provide the best options in the world for his patients.
Many other vets would disagree. Many believe he goes too far; that the prolonged recovery and rehabilitation time for heroic procedures are not justified in patients that live in the moment and cannot perceive the future advantages temporary discomfort may bring.
Having been “behind the scenes”, I’m still not sure where I stand on these heroic procedures, but am certain the ethics must be considered on an individual case basis, as is done at Fitzpatrick’s – for example, limb-sparing surgery was decided against in a case of osteosarcoma in which survey chest radiographs showed metastasis.
Camera shy
Undoubtedly, Noel is an extremely clever bloke who has dedicated his life to providing animals with the best orthopaedic technology possible, but his methods will always remain controversial.
The placement was certainly a worthwhile and very different experience. The stationary cameras around the practice were easy to ignore, but observing a surgery that was being filmed, with the surgeon re-explaining the procedure for the third time at a different angle, not so much.
A very definite highlight was scrubbing into a TPLO and being handed the bone drill, to my utter terror and delight at the same time. I’m not sure the novelty of putting a screw into a dog’s leg will ever wear off.
Sleeping pattern ruined, and a number of family and friends to see in quick succession (seeing as the next time I’ll be “home home” will be in five months or so), the four-day “summer holiday” we were given was anything but restful.
Midway through a week of induction lectures and “how to cope with real life” talks, the prospect of final year rotations beginning in five days’ time is becoming very real.
However, I think the induction week has had the opposite of the desired effect and, subsequently, I am anticipating my first week in the hospital with utter terror.
Panic mode
In theory, we should have the knowledge base to cope with whatever they throw at us in final year. However, in my panic-stricken state, I can only imagine drawing a blank at the first case I’m given and already feel sick at the thought of looking like the idiot I’m almost certain I am.
I feel under-prepared and tired from the last few weeks, not to mention the fact I don’t know if I’ve passed the exams and deserve to be in the hospital in the first place.
Several family members have asked me if it feels like my time at vet school has gone quickly, to which I can only answer “yes and no” – on one hand, it feels like I’ve always been at vet school; on the other, final year has sprung suddenly out of nowhere.
Time flies
Sound familiar?
More relaxed times seem a long way off, such as soaking up the German sun at a yearling auction, or paddling waist-deep through a swamp to care for a puma. Even scrubbing into orthopaedic surgery a month ago seems much more distant. Time flies when you’re having fun… or are kept stupendously busy by the various aspects of vet school.
While this transition feels tough, I’m sure tougher ones are ahead (such as this time next year, when we’re all about to enter the real world of work), but I’ll worry about those closer to the time.
I can only hope students in the year above (those finishing final year), who claim they felt the same way when starting rotations, were speaking the truth and, somehow, as unlikely as it seems right now, we’ll come out the other side as qualified, competent vets.
The question now is whether to spend the next few days – between the remaining induction lectures – catching up on sleep or frantically trying to relearn everything I’m supposed to already know…
The first of April brought with it the usual abundance of amusing online articles, tweets and blogs, only claiming credibility until midday – and the veterinary community was no exception.
Sun Life’s “courtesy pet” joke didn’t have vet student Jordan fooled for a minute.
Some April Fools were obvious hoaxes – such as Sun Life’s courtesy pet scheme, offering owners a replacement pet in place of their beloved while away at the vets – while others were a little harder to interpret, such as BEVA’s announcement of a privately funded equine vet degree – or maybe that’s because I was still half asleep and it was the first one I’d seen before realising the date.
Food for thought
Although it was cleared up at midday that BEVA president Mark Bowen was not due to become dean of the first UK equine-only vet school and that the nine traditional degrees would remain the only ones available, it did provoke some thought about whether it would be such a bad idea after all.
While plans for a traditional five-year omnicompetence approach, followed by a further three years of equine-only study, seemed a little far-fetched (fourth year has nearly finished me off – I certainly don’t think I’d hack eight years at vet school), many veterinary schools around the world use a condensed version of this model.
For example, Utrecht University in the Netherlands follows the format of a three-year bachelor’s degree for all species, followed by a three-year master’s degree aimed solely at one species/area (with the exception of 20 weeks). The University of Leige in Belgium compromises in that the fifth year is spent rotating through clinics for all species and half of the final (sixth) year is spent in one area in particular, with a choice of small animal, farm or equine.
Omnicompetence or specialisation?
The question of omnicompetence or specialisation is highly debatable and seems to go around in circles in the UK. Earlier career specialisation would be favoured by some who know, undoubtedly, they never want to see a cat, dog or rabbit again after vet school – likewise for those who shudder at the thought of an emergency caesarean and an angry farmer.
Early specialisation as an equine vet could mean you’ll never find yourself taking a blood sample from a lion. Image courtesy Shamwari Conservation Experience.
But what about those like me, who, after a considerable amount of vet school already under his or her belt and a variety of EMS placements (good and bad), when posed with the question “what sort of practice do you want to go into?” still can’t come up with anything more eloquent than: “Umm… mixed?”
The advantage of omnicompetence is that, in theory, graduates should leave vet school equipped with the knowledge and skills to address most cases in general practice in any field/species, deal with emergencies and know who or where to refer a patient to if the case is beyond his or her abilities.
Early specialisation could change this to the extent an equine or farm graduate asked “can you just look at my dog” may end up looking a bit silly.
Everything changes
Circumstances also change and accidents do happen. A vet may end up sustaining an injury while working with horses or livestock that could prevent him or her from doing so in the future, so a species-specific degree could force him or her to leave clinical practice altogether.
Similarly to the “new vet schools” debate, it is feared introducing species-specific degrees may reduce job availability for graduates who have taken the traditional educational pathway, making the equine sector, in particular, even more “elitist”. Ultimately, this could potentially drive the profession away from the concept of mixed practice altogether.
Master of one?
More like our medical counterparts, we could lose our “Jack of all trades” status and end up being highly specialised instead, which does, of course, have its advantages, but leaves those of us who want a bit of variety and flexibility in the dark.
For me, omnicompetence is definitely the right starting point for a veterinary degree, but I know others have very different opinions. I did, however, enjoy the brief social media debate before a communal sigh of relief.
My personal favourite April Fool this year, however, was the University of Glasgow’s announcement the university tower would be reopening as a public helter-skelter (see video below) – and I’m still disappointed it isn’t true.
