So, I am waking up this morning, and settling into the routine of most days. I’ve been living in a small town in Northwest Arkansas for five years now, and I am watching my four-year-old covering the sides of the garden tub with bath paint. My old life seems a million miles away, but like so many of my friends, I felt everything come to a screeching halt yesterday.
We lost an amazing light. We lost an amazing advocate. We lost an amazing mentor. And we lost an amazing friend.
I have been gone from Kansas City and veterinary medicine for five years. I only worked for him briefly, and rarely in proximity. Why would I have anything to say about losing Jeff Dennis?
The simple answer is that everyone who worked or works in the Kansas City veterinary community knows who he is, but as a technician, the answer is more personal.
I worked at hospitals that were part of national chain of veterinary hospitals for most of the 16 years I was in the field. I often got to work with veterinarians who were new to the field, and who were dealing with some of their first major cases. I was often in the treatment area of my hospital when doctors were on the phone with him, as he patiently answered questions for all of them. In the very early days of my career, he seemed to be some veterinary mystic that everyone relied on, and that everyone could rely on.
I remember the random and odd occasions when our practice might be out of some little used item that we either never kept on hand, or that expired before we could use it. As the assistant or technician, I was tasked with making the desperate call to see if we might be able to borrow one until we could get one in. I don’t remember a time that he ever said ‘no.’
In the first few years that I worked as a technician, there was a Sunday when I was working, and about an hour before time to leave, I got the call from home that all veterinary professionals dread—“Sam, bring something home for diarrhea.” I usually had something at home for those pet emergencies. In this case, I just needed some bland food, only we were out of stock that afternoon, and by the time I would get off, I wouldn’t be able to get it anywhere else. I think the doctor I was working with suggested I might get lucky if I stopped by VSEC on my way home. Maybe they would sell me a can or two to get by.
I was tired. I had worked all weekend, and I knew what awaited me at home. I made the stop, and hoped that the receptionist or one of the technicians might take pity on me and sell me a few cans of I/D until our food order at work came in. It was after six p.m. by this time. The receptionist disappeared for a moment, and then he appeared with three cans, and as I started to get my money out, he he told me not to worry about it. As the earnest, young technician, I argued that I was happy to pay for it since he was kind enough to let me have it. He wouldn’t hear of it.
I was so grateful, and sent him a note to say so later. After years of watching him help doctors, and having him hand me three cans of I/D, I had taken to calling him Saint Jeff. I never told him that. I’m almost sure I wasn’t alone. I know it was only three cans of food, but come on—diarrhea.
As the years went by, the thriving specialty and emergency practice he helped to build started offering technician lectures for continuing education credit for just a small donation to a local animal related charity. Technicians are often one of the lowest paid professionals in our field, but we are still required to acquire continuing education hours in order to maintain our licenses. For many of us, that often means missing out on at least one day of work, and paying fees we really can’t afford. These lectures were scheduled after most practices were closed. As someone who had to pay out of pocket for continuing education most of my career, those lectures were a godsend when I couldn’t afford to go to a conference.
About 11 years into my career, I decided to take a giant leap. It wasn’t the right leap for me, but I got to work in his practice for about six months. At that point, the practice had not only grown from a cramped little corner of a strip mall to a large and technically advanced facility jam-packed with veterinary genius, it was being absorbed into a larger company with locations in at least three other states.
Even with all of that going on, he was still answering calls from doctors and spending time on the phone with pet owners. When I recovered patients from surgery, I would see him with the phone attached to his ear, as he paced a small path, back and forth, all the while the cord would be wrapping around him. When he would notice the cord predicament, he simply lifted it up around his head, and began pacing the same worn path again. I am sure he didn’t really do that for hours, but it sure appeared that way.
My shift was from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., but one day our surgery schedule was chocked full, and we had squeezed in a couple of emergency surgeries near the end. The surgery department looked like a massive pile of bloodied scrap metal, and the task of just getting everything clean and drying so it could be wrapped the following morning seemed impossible. But technicians and assistants just keep scrubbing, and doing whatever has to be done. At around 8 that night, he wandered back to the surgery department and asked what he could do to help me get out of there. Before I could even try to come up with an awkward answer that would let him off the hook, he rolled up his sleeves and started scrubbing with me. I was exhausted, I was overwhelmed, and to have him scrubbing instruments alongside me, I was also humbled.
For several years, VSEC—now Blue Pearl—has been offering a full day of continuing education lectures for doctors. Now they were going to do the same thing for technicians—and it was to be free, and on a Sunday! You could literally get all of the continuing education you needed for your yearly license for free, and on a day when you were already likely to be off work. So, you didn’t even have to lose a day of pay. Even though there is now a request of a ten dollar donation for the event, it’s a ridiculous bargain.
If you were a technician or assistant working with him, you were respected, and cared for. I know he wasn’t perfect, and I know he didn’t do all of the wonderful things alone. I know there is a phenomenal team of people who help organize events, topics, sponsors, and lectures. I also know that it is more than an altruistic effort. It is a very sound business strategy. After all, in spite of the fact that assistants and technicians are usually grossly underpaid, overworked, and sometimes inappropriately utilized, we can wield a fair amount of power, especially in private practices. We’re often the person in charge of ordering supplies for our hospitals, and we’re often influential when it comes to persuading our doctors about referral hospitals.
When we feel respected and cared for, we remember it, and it matters.
And that’s at least part of the reason I have something to say about losing Jeff Dennis. He always made me feel respected and cared about as a professional.
Even now, five years as an inactive technician who maintains her license “just in case,” the legacy of all that he had a hand in building for the technician community in Kansas City is helping my little family. I would not be able afford continuing education if not for the opportunities he helped create.
None of us leave the world the same as it was before we came to it. And our actions and efforts have a rippling and lasting impact on others. He helped hundreds of veterinarians be better doctors, by answering their questions, and helping them gain the confidence to take on cases they were unsure of. He helped thousands of technicians, simply by understanding and respecting their vital role to the veterinary practice, and offering support that is meaningful and generous.
To say he will be missed is ridiculous. I am sad for every new doctor who won’t get a chance to run a case by him. I am sad for every technician or assistant who won’t have another chance to thank him one more time for the role he has played in supporting our part of the veterinary community.
When Vincent Van Gogh died, he left a note. “The sadness will last forever.” I thought about those words all of last night, and again this morning, as my husband quietly told me again that he was so sorry about my friend, and the tears started again. I never worked closely with him. I didn’t know him as well as so many of my colleagues and coworkers. But in that moment this morning, it occurred to me that he was exactly that to all of us—our friend.
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