A lifelong horsewoman reflects on loss, compassion, and the unseen burden of rural veterinary medicine
The First Goodbye
Susan and Reed Man pole bending at the Kansas State High School Rodeo
It was a sweltering summer evening at the veterinary clinic when my world began to shift.
The gelding my grandfather had given me when I was nine—my companion through every formative year—was gravely ill. I was in my early twenties; he was in his mid-teens. The veterinarians didn’t yet know what was wrong. They were doing what they could—IV fluids, supportive care—but he was uncomfortable, and I was unraveling.
I’ve never liked needles. Watching him endure them made it worse.
When the room started to spin, the veterinarian gently suggested I step into the air-conditioned office. A few minutes later, he checked on me, pressed some money into my hand, and sent me across the street for a cold drink—for all of us.
A small act of kindness. One I have never forgotten.
A Small Act of Kindness
That horse was more than an animal. He was my confidant, my steady place through the chaos of adolescence. We traveled across the state to shows and rodeos. He even went to college with me.
He was my heart horse.
Over the next few days, the clinic continued supportive care. Then came the call. They needed insurance information. Neurological symptoms had emerged. There was nothing more they could do.
By the time I returned with the paperwork, he was gone.
They performed a necropsy. The results were inconclusive. My father—our town’s only physician—helped me understand what they could, though nothing could soften the loss.
It was my first real experience with that kind of heartbreak.
Learning What It Really Means to Care
Not long after, I took agricultural classes at a nearby community college. One instructor, a veterinarian, said something that stayed with me:
To be a veterinarian, you need to like animals—but you must love working with people.
At the time, I understood it intellectually.
Years later—after caring for animals and for my husband through serious illness—I understood it viscerally.
Because when people walk into a clinic, they are rarely at their best. They are scared, overwhelmed, grieving, or bracing for loss. And veterinarians meet them there—day after day.
When the Caregiver Keeps Showing Up
The veterinarian who helped me that summer once told me he wouldn’t work himself to death like his predecessor.
He meant it.
Others who came after him didn’t—or couldn’t.
One was a childhood acquaintance. We had grown up riding horses together. He later developed cancer, recovered, and then died suddenly during a routine follow-up at a major treatment center. He wasn’t even 40.
Another was a young woman who purchased the practice.
I brought my 17-year-old dachshund to her one Monday morning. He was in respiratory distress—blind, incontinent, unable to navigate steps without help. I had already made the decision.
When I asked for euthanasia, she suggested diagnostics—x-rays to determine the cause. I declined. I wasn’t willing to prolong his suffering.
She asked again.
I said no again.
Years later, I brought in a 21-year-old mare who had been showing mild colic symptoms all week. Bloodwork revealed she was in liver failure. The veterinarian told me we might be able to reverse it—for a time—but that it would likely return. This time, there was no pushback. She knew me by then. She understood. That veterinarian later died suddenly at 42.
The Cost of Always Being On Call
My dad was in Family Practice for 37 years. Today, after 25-plus years of not practicing, I still have people tell me they wish he were their doctor.
In rural western Kansas, veterinarians live much like my father once did as the only physician in the county—on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
There is no real off switch.
And the people they serve—understandably—are often calling in moments of urgency, fear, or frustration. Patience can be thin. Emotions run high.
From the outside, it’s easy to see veterinarians as tireless. Capable. Even superhuman.
But they are not.
They are carrying far more than clinical responsibility.
Seeing the Human Behind the Veterinarian
What made my father approachable wasn’t just his medical skill—it was his presence in the community. He showed up. He took photos at events and hung them in his exam rooms. Patients saw themselves in his world—and him in theirs.
That connection mattered.
In small towns, those overlaps happen naturally. In larger communities, they don’t. It becomes easier—for both clients and clinicians—to remain at a distance.
Something important is lost when we do.
Because when we can see the humanity in our veterinarians—and when they allow themselves to be seen—the relationship shifts. There is more trust. More grace. More understanding on both sides.
Compassion Goes Both Ways
Veterinarians stand at the intersection of medicine, emotion, and responsibility. They are asked to heal when possible, to guide when uncertain, and to carry the weight of loss when there is nothing left to do.
And they do this while navigating the very human realities of exhaustion, grief, and their own lives beyond the clinic walls.
What I learned over the years—through loss, through caregiving, and through witnessing their lives—is this:
Compassion must extend both directions.
Not just from veterinarian to client—also from client to veterinarian.
Because behind every diagnosis, every late-night call, every difficult conversation…
there is a human being doing their very best to care—for our animals, and for us.
Veterinary professionals and caregivers give so much of themselves—often without a place to process what they carry.
If you’re feeling the weight of it, I offer a space to slow down, breathe, and be supported—alongside horses who have a way of meeting you exactly where you are.
Reach out if you’d like to learn more or schedule a conversation.
Every story needs a soundtrack.
This is the one I’ve chosen for this post—sometimes because of the title, sometimes the lyrics, sometimes simply the feeling it stirs in me.
