Jenni

It has been awhile since I’ve posted. That’s partly because it’s summer, and life has been pretty busy; and it’s partly because I have been procrastinating. This post has been on my radar for months. I have drafts of it. I have walked away from it and come back to it so, so many times. I am a perfectionist, and I know there is no way to perfectly articulate my feelings about Jenni. But it’s time to say something, however inadequate my words will undoubtedly prove to be.

Jenni is Jim’s wife. She is a vet, too. She is an amazing vet. And she is my friend. She is my dear friend. I don’t have any idea what I would have done without her all of those months that Huan was sick. Jenni was with Jim just about every time he examined Huan, both at my house and at their clinic. She also independently examined him, ran cytology, came to my home by herself. One day, she spent at least an hour of her time calling specialists all over the state to consult on Huan's case and research prices for MRI scans—from my kitchen.

Those are the objective, quantifiable tangibles. The implicit, qualitative intangibles of Jenni’s goodness—well, that’s the stuff that is impossible to convey adequately with words.

I remember very distinctly, months and months ago, perhaps even before Huan got sick, Jenni told me in a casual conversation that: 1. She never cried in front of a client and 2. Whatever happens to an animal after it has been euthanized—I mean beyond carrying it out of the room—she can’t bring herself to do. (I don’t know exactly what that is, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.) I was touched so deeply by that. I have had vets before Jenni, as I have had animals my whole life. I have always been a little unimpressed, even saddened, by the seeming lack of emotion and personal engagement. I mean, I understand that there is—even has to be—a degree of desensitization, but I often left the vet’s office thinking, “Didn’t you go into this profession because you loved animals?”  Every experience just felt sterile, overly scientific, clinical, routine, even rushed. What I love about Jenni, what I find so impressive and unique, is that she is as competent as she is compassionate. I mean, the girl knows her stuff. But she is never, ever showy or imposing or redundant. She doesn’t railroad people or rush them or raise her voice—or love the sound of it. And she is always professional. But she is always a person, too, a good person.

Case in point: Before Huan passed away, weeks before, when I knew death was imminent, I called her. I needed to brace myself. I didn’t want to go in cold. Through quiet sobs, I asked her a multitude of pretty graphic and specific questions about what would happen to Huan when he died. And she answered every single one--patiently, kindly, gently, truthfully. In fact, before Jim injected Huan with the anesthesia on the day he died, he went to explain the process to me, and I stopped him. I already knew. I am so grateful to Jenni for that. I don’t think there is any other person or professional with whom I would have felt more comfortable having that conversation.  She was the absolute best.

Another case in point: On the day that Huan died, Jenni was with Jim. She was so gentle with me and with Huan. And when it was all over, when she and Jim left the room to give David and me a chance to say our final goodbyes, I could hear her crying in the other room. As I write that, I, myself, am crying. I don’t think she knows I know she cried. It turns out she was true to her word: She didn’t cry in front of a client. But she did, in fact, cry. And that’s how I know there is such a thing as becoming too desensitized in this profession. Because Jenni is not. After countless euthanasias and years of experience, this vet, one who surely “got into this profession because she loves animals,” was moved to tears by the death of a Mastiff and the heartache of his owners--because she is a person still, one who understands a dog is more than its breed and scientific makeup and the owners more than mere clients. And I know she was uniquely connected to and involved in this case, but I also know she is remarkably compassionate and selfless with other clients. Once, for example, she took a dog to her own home, with its owners’ permission, because she was confident it would not survive the night alone in the clinic. She tended to that dog throughout the night--again, in her own home--forgoing sleep in order to ensure its survival.  One would be hard pressed to find a better vet--or a better person.

And, incidentally, Jenni is as creative as she is competent and compassionate.

In October, five months before Huan died, I told Jenni about a page in Grace’s baby book devoted to baby’s first animal and about how much it meant to me to make that page special with a meaningful picture so that Grace would, in some capacity, know Bubba. I told her, probably in another conversation, that Grace was going to be a giraffe for her first Halloween. And Jenni went to the store, bought fabric, and spent hours of her life making a lion’s mane for Huan so that he and Grace could have a properly themed Halloween, so that Grace could have a special page in her baby book. So that her mother's pain could be mitigated by the creation of a beautiful memory that would comfort her always.

Likewise, after Huan passed away, I asked her if she knew of anything I could do with Huan’s collar and tag as a way to memorialize him. She suggested a memory box. Within days, she texted me and told me she was at the arts and crafts store and told me she could pick up the box. “What color would you like?” turned into, “Danielle, would you mind if I did this for you as a surprise?” And, before I knew it, she was at my house sorting through pictures and storing them on a flash drive. She worked for days from her own home, and this beautiful creation is the final product. When I first saw it, I bawled. It hangs in my kitchen, above the spot where Huan’s food dishes used to be.

(In case it’s not totally clear, in addition to pictures, Huan's collar and tag, and some text and graphics, in the bottom left corner is Huan’s paw print, which Jenni and Jim took and preserved in clay after he passed away. This is something their clinic does for clients after every euthanasia, and I think it is just so, so special. And I know Jenni worked really hard to get the perfect imprint.) 

It has been almost a year to the day that Huan got sick, almost five months since he died. I have sent cards and notes of thanks and written a post about my cousin on this blog to express my gratitude for people's kindnesses to Huan, David, and me. Jenni is last on my list of people to thank, but certainly not least. In fact, the truth is I am most grateful to her, which is, again, why it has taken me so long to actually find the words to express my gratitude for all the things that are just so hard to quantify or qualify in a card, note, or blog post...for being an amazing vet to Huan and an even better person and friend to me. For comforting words and costumes and pictures and memory boxes. For all of the gestures and moments and conversations whose significance just can't be conveyed with words but which are felt and treasured so deeply in my heart.

So I say--however simply, inarticulately, and belatedly--thank you, Jenni, from the bottom of my heart. For everything. xx