True Calling: Cycle of grief is endless for shelter workers

By Carreen Maloney (May 2008)

When Penny Cistaro visits shelters to teach humane animal care standards and euthanasia, she avoids revealing her occupation to fellow travelers. On an airplane, she’d rather keep her nose in a book and shut down conversation. If pressed, she pretends she’s a bartender. The harmless subterfuge is less painful than the fallout that inevitably comes when she reveals the truth.

“I have to be mentally prepared to have that conversation,” says Cistaro, executive director of Whatcom Humane Society (WHS). “People will say hurtful things. In my personal life, I pick and choose when I’m going to talk about what I do.”

In her seminars, Cistaro outlines how animal care workers can take care of themselves and each other in the shelter setting, particularly when the contentious subject of euthanasia is involved. Hurtful words shelter staff hear on a regular basis include “I love animals too much to work there,” or “You aren’t one of those people who euthanizes animals, are you?”

“It’s as if there’s a way I’m supposed to look because I’m doing this work. It’s like a slap in the face, an accusation,” Cistaro says.

Even the family dinner table might not be a safe zone. WHS community outreach director Laura Clark recalls being confronted at a holiday meal by a member of her extended family, who accosted her with the question, “You’re not one of those people, are you?”

Like every staff member at WHS, Cistaro and Clark are dedicated animal lovers working on the front lines of animal welfare. It’s a career fraught with challenges: low pay, little respect from the public, and an endless cycle of grief and emotional exhaustion.

Carving out private, peaceful time is one of the techniques Cistaro has adopted to stay balanced and protect her mental health in a job that is thankless and heartbreaking at times.

“It’s part of how I take care of myself,” she says. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this work for the past 34 years if I didn’t.”

Whatcom Humane Society, an open-admission shelter, takes in any animal regardless of age, temperament, health, and space limitations. No-kill groups have selective admission and limited space, and when they’re full, which is often, animals inevitably land at open-door shelters. Serving a community with a population of 160,000 residents, Whatcom Humane Society’s two facilities at Williamson Way and Baker Creek admit about 5,500 animals per year. There are simply not enough homes for all the homeless animals. A little more than half find responsible, loving homes.

Nationally, it’s not unusual for 80 percent of a shelter’s animals to be euthanized. Exact statistics aren’t maintained, but animal welfare groups estimate that from four to six million animals are euthanized each year in the United States. Meanwhile, backyard breeders and puppy mills supplying pet stores continue to dump enormous numbers of animals into an overburdened system. Even average citizens contribute to the problem, blithely allowing their pets to procreate with the misguided notion of showing their children the miracle of life, or wanting their pets to experience motherhood.

“Part of a shelter employee’s anger manifests because they see the callous side of society – the public dropping off animals for frivolous reasons,” Cistaro says. “If I never had to euthanize an animal, it would be the best thing in the world I could ask for, but as long as it’s got to be done, it will be done here with compassion and sensitivity.”

In a cruel twist of irony, the general public incongruously shifts the blame for the death toll to the shelter workers who are tasked with doing their dirty work. Members of the public frequently lash out on those who euthanize animals. This routine exposure to negative feedback can have a dramatic and profound effect on staff, amplifying feelings of isolation and depression in an already stressful work environment.

“I have to tell myself it’s not my fault,” says WHS animal care technician Lee Fengel. “It’s the public’s lack of education that’s killing our animals, not the shelters. The public refuses to acknowledge that they are contributing to the problem.”

Karen Tillman, the shelter’s customer service supervisor, echoes Fengel’s sentiments.

“They think we’re just animal killers,” says Tillman. “People forget that shelter workers have feelings. As shelter workers, we are more sensitive.”

For example, the loss of personal pets can be devastating to animal rescuers. When spouses, family and friends don’t want to hear the gruesome details of a traumatic day at the shelter, a companion animal provides a friendly, gentle and unconditional source of comfort. Cistaro mentions her brother, who didn’t offer sympathy when her beloved 14-year-old cat Shiloh died because he believed that losing a pet was more devastating for him. “He said I must be used to it because I do it all the time,” Cistaro says.

“We can all deal with shelter life, but we don’t do any better at losing animals than the general public,” says Laura Clark.

Cistaro speaks tearfully of an adoption she did recently of a Catahoula Leopard Hound mix named Gavin. She had grown to love the dog during his stay at the shelter. Staff knew not to euthanize Gavin without her agreement. But as the weeks went by, no one showed any interest in adopting him. Cistaro grew worried. Kennel stress was starting to seize hold. Finally someone stepped forward. When Cistaro took Gavin back to the receiving area to give him a new collar, she broke down sobbing uncontrollably, hugging him and begging him to behave in his new home.

“It was utter relief that I didn’t have to euthanize him,” Cistaro says. “I was so attached to him, and I was the one who would have had to make the decision.”

Unlike caregivers who minister to humans, animal shelter workers are frequently forced to end the lives of the patients they have nursed, fed, walked and cuddled.

“It’s the only job where you go to work every day knowing you might have to take the lives of the ones you love the most,” Cistaro says. “If I let the floodgates of pain open, I wouldn’t survive.”

Without adequate coping skills, shelter workers can find themselves relentlessly mired in the early stages of grief. Most people who experience the death of a beloved animal have time to go through the process, which can include denial, bargaining, rage, sorrow and eventually acceptance. Shelter workers don’t have this luxury. They are kicked back to the beginning of the grief cycle each time an animal they have bonded with is euthanized, which occurs frequently.

“Someone’s always dying,” Cistaro says. “People don’t understand that many shelter workers live in the cycle of grief. They sit in anger or denial. It’s a horrible space they’re in. Loss of hope is the worst thing that can happen to a shelter employee.”

Attachments to shelter animals form easily, particularly with the most pathetic cases – the ones who are sick or difficult to adopt. WHS lead animal care technician Adriana Trenary says she “always gets attached to the ones who are going to be euthanized.” Lee Fengel says he is drawn to the “shabby-looking ones.”

“An animal will often bond with one person, and you’re the one they trust, so you’re the one who has to walk them to the peach room,” says Fengel, referring to the area reserved for euthanasia at WHS. “You spend all this time trying to bring them out of their shells so they’ll have a chance at adoption, knowing half the time that they won’t make it.”

Still, Fengel feels it’s his responsibility to usher them into death. A friendly human face makes the procedure peaceful and less frightening for the animal. Performing this final act of love provides emotional sustenance to the animals’ human caregivers.

A study conducted in 2002 at the Humane Society of United States’ (HSUS) Animal Care Expo concluded that animal care workers, especially those who perform euthanasia, “are at risk for a variety of psychological, emotional and physical ailments such as high blood pressure, ulcers, unresolved grief, depression, substance abuse and suicide.” The study, led by researcher Charlie Reeve, was funded by HSUS.

Outside of WHS, dozens of rescuers interviewed over a two-year period as background for this story admitted to numbing themselves after a bad day using substances such as alcohol, recreational drugs or prescription medications. One rescuer takes over-the-counter cough medicine every night to quell nightmares. Several others smoke marijuana regularly when they return home to gear down. Many admit to using alcohol to relieve anxiety. “There are times when it’s such a bummer that I need to sit with my friends and drink a beer and talk about the animals,” one man said.

WHS lead animal care technician Carrie Anderson says she has tried drinking to blunt her pain, but has learned it doesn’t solve the underlying issues. “After you sober up and come down, the pain is still there,” she says.

These days, to reset after a tough day at work, she leashes her five dogs and takes them for a long walk.

Suicidal thoughts are common in the animal rescue community, and most seasoned animal rescuers personally know people who haven’t survived. One shelter worker talks about her friend, a veterinarian, who committed suicide. She wonders if her loss of hope was connected to the times they spent euthanizing animals together, and admits she has battled similar impulses. Cistaro says she knows of many lives taken, including one woman who took euthanasia drugs home from a shelter. That evening, she euthanized her animals, then herself. The names and tributes to the numerous casualties float through the animal rescue community like ghost legends.

Certainly some of the suicides can be traced to the emotional challenges of working in animal rescue, but the backgrounds of the people drawn to the work might also play a part. People who risk their own lives, health and sanity for the sake of animals are often victims of traumatic or neglectful childhoods. They find safe, rewarding, unconditional love among animals. Having to destroy the ones they love most can push them past the breaking point.

But even healthy, well-balanced rescuers are at risk for developing trauma and stress-related conditions such as compassion fatigue. The term describes a condition considered to be a form of post-traumatic stress disorder, and it’s an affliction commonly suffered by animal rescuers and other humanitarian workers. People at risk are empathetic by nature, and feel a deep awareness of the suffering of others. They are driven to relieve their chosen subjects’ emotional and physical pain, putting aside their own suffering in the process. When they become physically and emotionally exhausted, they have succumbed to compassion fatigue. Classic symptoms of compassion fatigue include crying spells, irritability, reduced sleep, nightmares and physical fatigue.

“I wake up and look at my own animals who are rescued,” Clark says. “They’ve given me so much in my life. I have an obligation to help others. I feel such a sense of responsibility to be there for them in their final moments.”

Clark’s feelings of responsibility were evident in each shelter worker interviewed.

“Sometimes the only thing that keeps me from quitting is thinking that somebody else won’t do as good of a job as I can do,” Trenary says. “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

When compassion fatigue is combined with stress, a feeling that goals aren’t being met, and an inability to cope with the work environment, burnout can set in. Turnover at shelters is notoriously high. Many employees don’t survive their first year on the job.

“At WHS, we have a number of long-term employees because we have a supportive environment,” Cistaro says.

Camaraderie among staff provides a lifeline at WHS when tough choices must be made, Anderson says.

“Nobody likes to play God and decide who lives and who dies,” says Anderson. “These are hard decisions. Every animal who comes in here is in your heart. You always wonder – am I doing the right thing?”

Tillman, a nine-year shelter veteran, says she can spot which employees aren’t going to last.

“First the attitude goes,” she says. “Then their performance drops. They stop focusing. Things get missed. Some people you can pick out the first day they’re in the shelter that they won’t survive.”

Techniques suggested by psychologists to combat compassion fatigue consist of breathing exercises, self-hypnosis and meditation. Shelter staffers are encouraged to “find their happy place,” Anderson says. Hobbies, creative pursuits, sports and communing with nature can provide essential relaxation time.

Debriefing sessions release a pressure valve by allowing workers to review traumatic events. At WHS, staff is encouraged to talk about their pain and comfort each other, Cistaro says. She also suggests euthanasia technicians find a partner, someone with a compatible style.

“I don’t want to physically feel the life go out of the dog, so I’m the injector,” she says. “Some don’t want to be the one doing the injection because they don’t want to physically take the dog’s life.”

Symbolism can soothe the pain. Clark never puts a dead animal alone in a barrel in the cooler, preferring to wait until another comes along. Monty Apt, an animal care technician, memorializes some of the dogs he has lost with body art. His tattoos feature animal names with paw prints drawn around them. He keeps a collection of dog collars at home.

“At least they had somebody who cared about them,” Apt says. “That makes me feel better. I bring a lot of emotion into the work. The day I start shutting down, I’m done.”

Shelter workers report they are touched by certain cases. Clark is torn apart every time she euthanizes Australian Shepherds, because her beloved dog Jesse, who died recently, was one of them. Old dogs also break her heart.

Cistaro agrees. “For me, it’s old stray dogs. It’s the saddest thing for an old dog to die in a shelter with no owner. If they’re scared, it makes me sad. They shouldn’t die here. They should be with their people. Unless you have emotional strength, you can’t live with the pain. The pain has to motivate me to keep going.”

Shelter workers don’t always open up, even to their spouses. Co-workers can be the best sounding board. At WHS, they protect and care for each other. “There are certainly things I don’t share with my husband,” Clark says. “I don’t want to bum him out.”

But compassion fatigue is contagious. When one worker reaches out to another to get relief from the pain, some of their sadness is vicariously absorbed by the listener. That fosters a highly charged work atmosphere.

“There are some days you walk in here and we’re all growling at each other,” Tillman says, adding that her supportive work environment is one key to her job satisfaction. “I love the fact that I have the support and backing of upper management and staff.”

Despite the chaos of their environment, Whatcom Humane Society’s shelter workers say they have tremendous job satisfaction and an inspiring sense of purpose that encourages them to keep going. When animals are reunited with owners or taken into responsible new homes, they get a rush of joy that most people don’t experience during a work day. And when supporters of the Society show generosity and kindness, it restores their faith in human beings. But in the end, their best rewards come from the animals.

“When you have a bad day, you can climb in with one of the dogs,” Tillman says. “It’s rewarding. That’s my escape.”