If This Light Is On, Someone Is Saying Goodbye

On bearing witness to grief in veterinary medicine.

Three euthanasias today.

In one, the owner knew it was time. There was a large, adhered mass on the pet’s abdomen. He’d had animals his whole life, yet said it never gets easier.

In another, the family had watched their pet decline slowly over time. A senior patient with multiple issues. But they didn’t expect today to be the day. Nobody does. Knowing the prognosis, they chose to say goodbye so she wouldn’t keep suffering.

In the third, the parents came in expecting a workup, a diagnosis, a cure. They were willing to do anything, no matter the cost, to save their beloved baby. But there are conditions where the kindest decision is also the hardest one.

Between these appointments, the veterinarian moved between rooms, juggling annual wellness visits. Smiling at families as they walked in. They didn’t know what happened behind the closed door, and she didn’t expect them to. She swallowed the last hour of grief, straightened her shoulders, and came back out with a new smile.

Credits: Temperance Animal Hospital

People ask whether we become numb to these heart-tugging, gut-wrenching moments, sometimes one after another on the same afternoon. In a way, yes. We have to set the weight aside to keep going.

But those pets, those tearful owners, never leave us. We cry sometimes, quickly and quietly, in the bathroom between appointments. Or later at home, into our pillows before we sleep.

I still struggle with euthanasias. We don’t get much practice before graduating. My first time discussing the decision with a pet owner was during a simulated exercise in third year of vet school. The actor said, “I’ve had this dog for ten years.” I broke into tears and had to stop the simulation.

I got pulled into the river of emotions the client was feeling. And once I’m fully in the water with them, I can’t get us both back to shore. I’ve gotten better at the outward stuff—the clear communication, the appointment flow, the art of making someone feel heard. But inwardly, I still struggle to stay steady when those emotions rise.

Credits: Markham Road Animal Hospital

Yet amongst the blue hues, there is beauty. In the whispered “it’s going to be okay,” until someone believes it. In the gentle and loving way hands caress the fur, just out of habit. In the silent waiting room when the light at the front desk turns on, and other owners hold their pets a little tighter.

There is dignity in it. There is love.

My role as a veterinarian, I keep reminding myself, is to be a guide. To help families move through the decision, not to carry it for them. Empathy helps me understand, and that makes me a better clinician for my clients and patients. But I’m learning to walk alongside those emotions instead of sinking into them. After all, I’m not the one experiencing the loss. It’s not my grief to take.

I don’t know what my first real euthanasia with a client-owned patient will look like. I expect it to be emotional. I expect myself to burst into tears at some point, hopefully not in the room, but probably in the room.

Bearing witness to grief will likely never get easier. Even so, I intend to get better. For the pet who deserves a calm hand at the end, and for the family who needs someone they can trust in the most painful hour.

Credits: Small Door Veterinary