Mean cows and cute calves

I haven't posted for a few days, and will be busy enough for the next month that posts will be few and far between. 

WE'RE MOVING TO MONTANA!!!

Yes, I'm a little excited.

But since I haven't posted recently and have not managed to post many funny stories, I thought I would tell the story of my first c-section.  We are approaching calving season, after all.

It was last August, I think.  It was warm.  I remember that.  I don't know if I was on call that night, but when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter.  If the boss doesn't answer the phone, I'm on call even on my nights off.  So the phone rings at 2:30 am.  I'm sound asleep.  A guy on the other end of the phone proceeds to tell me, in a very mumbly and unintelligible voice, that he has a cow that can't calve.  And he can't get hold of Doc.  He'll be there in half an hour. 

I look at the clock, set the alarm, and roll over to go back to sleep for 20 more minutes (living 5 blocks from work has it's advantages).  DH rolls over and asks me what's going on.  My reply?  "My worst nightmare."  This is my very first solo c-section.  That makes me very very very nervous.  See, when you're doing a c-section on a cow, it's very physically difficult.  The cow is awake and standing, her side is just numbed enough that you can cut in.  Then you have to reach in and manipulate a uterus containing a calf that can weigh as much as 80 pounds by itself, not counting the fluid and body of the uterus.  You have to manipulate it so that the feet, which are supposed to be pointed out the back end of the cow, are now pointed towards the side of the cow so you can cut over them and hoist that 80 pound calf vertically out of a small incision.  This is difficult enough by itself, but I am 5'3, have very short arms, and the cow has 4 stomach compartments and a bladder in the way. 

But I tell myself I can handle this.  My alarm goes off at 3 am, I get dressed, head into work.  He's not there yet so I start setting up chutes and getting everything ready.  About 10 minutes later, he comes in.  Things have gone from bad to worse.  Now she's down in the trailer, and he can't get her up. 

Okay, deep breath.  I gather my things and go outside to the trailer.  And there she is.  A massive Charlois (I absolutely hate white cows.  They are the devil in cow bodies.)  She is laying with her head to the front of the trailer, but her rear end is very stubbornly stuck up against the wall of the trailer.  I can just barely see two little feet sticking out.

I hang my light up on the bar of the trailer, and the owner and I reach down, grab her feet, and try to slide her so her butt is accessible.  She's not having any of that.  She starts kicking.  And even when she's laying down, she weighs 1200 pounds at least.  She kicks hard.  So we tie her feet up to her head, and try pulling her tail.  Not so successful, but enough that I decide to try pulling the calf without cutting her open.  I get the calf jack ready, attach it to the calf, and start winching.  The calf comes out to its elbows and gets stuck.  I keep working.  It ain't happening.

At this point, I start to get worried because I saw the calf move.  Now if the calf had already been dead, that would be one thing.  I wouldn't have to hurry quite as much.  But with a live calf, if it compresses or breaks the placenta, it could suffocate before I get it out.  And this calf is moving.  I decide I don't have any more time to mess around with the calf jack, I go prep the side for a c-section.

After I'm done prepping, I tie a rope around the cow's leg and tie it back since she's still trying to kick me.  Then I start cutting.  Her head swings around and she's trying to get me from any direction she can, while I'm kneeling in the straw between her legs in a small trailer.  Did I mention small trailer with a mean 1200 pound cow?  And an 80 year old man who doesn't have the strength to hold the rope tighter so she can't kick me?

I finally get through all the layers and go to find the calf.  This calf has to weigh at least 80 pounds.  I cannot, no matter what I do, get the calf to move into a position I can get hold of it.  All I can feel is the massive span of it's incredibly slippery back.  Nothing to grab.  Nothing.  And as I'm working on this, the owner decides to try to see what I'm doing in the dark abyss of the cow's abdomen, so he walks over.  Rather, he shuffles over, kicking dirt and poop-filled straw all over my sterile surgery pack.  So much for a sterile surgery.

After fighting with this calf in her belly for 20 minutes, I know there's no way I'm going to be able to do this.  I try to call my boss.  He, of course, doesn't answer the phone.  I'm running out of ideas.  I can't pull it, I can't get it out via c-section.  And we live in the middle of nowhere, we are the only vets around for a hundred miles.  It's not like I can say, "Sorry, I can't do this, you'll have to take her somewhere else."  I have never felt so incredibly hopeless and frustrated before.

But it's up to me.  So I settle down to sew her up.  And the owner goes to see what I'm doing, bumps the light, and the bulb goes out.  We are instantly plunged into complete darkness.  I have my hands in the abdomen of a mean 1200 pound cow in a small trailer with a clumsy clueless owner, and I can't see a damn thing.  So I cover her up, stumble my way inside, and try to find a light bulb.  There is not one in the entire building.  I even called the tech and woke her up, but she didn't know where any were.  And again, living in the middle of nowhere, there's not a store anywhere to buy one.  So I start searching for a flashlight.  I find ONE.  And it's almost dead.  Crap.

So I go back to the trailer.  With nothing but a dim flashlight being shined over my shoulder, occasionally onto the incision site but more often a foot off as the owner drifts to sleep, I try to sew up the abdomen.  Every time he realizes he's dozing, he wakes up with a start and shuffles his feet, risking contamination of my already not-as-sterile-as-it-should-be surgery pack.  But somehow, I get her sewn up with only a few pokes to my own finger.  And then I get behind her again and set the calf jack back up.  I get hooked on the calf and start pulling again.  This time, by some miracle, I finally manage to get the calf out.  And even more amazing, it was still alive.  Barely.  It took one glace to assess that yes, it was alive, but it wasn't going to make it.  However, the mom was still alive, she would live another day and produce another calf.  Gotta love the life of production medicine...

So what did I learn that day?  That doing c-sections in the middle of the night on a down cow in a small trailer with no light SUCKS.  And yet, if I were to stay in this job, I'd be doing it again.  And may still have that opportunity, seeing as calving is about to start and I still have 3.5 weeks left.  But I'm sure crossing my fingers that this particular scene does not repeat itself. 

However, when the calves make it, they sure are cute.  :)

 

This is me with the first calf I ever pulled, right before I graduated from vet school.