My beloved rescue bunny Skye has been unwell for three excruciating days. As is often the case with “exotic” animals, her diagnosis was never 100% definitive, but in all likelihood she had a gastrointestinal obstruction as well as a possible ankylosing spondylitis flare. She was accepting treats from Grandma at 5:30 am; when I came to her at 7:45 am her disposition had changed 180 degrees. First panic that seizes any floof parent is when snacks are refused. My stomach always tightens instantly and red alert bells scream in my ears. Outside life ceases to have meaning and heavy surveillance begins to watch every tiny flinch, every shift, every behaviour pattern that could offer a clue. I have a deep connection with this girl and we’ve been through many challenges together. I instantly could tell she was in pain in the midsection.
Rabbits don’t shout out their pain or complain about it; they just go (imperceptivly) quieter, settle in, and try to tough it out. Dad was much the same way in the spring. Similar to many of my experiences with Skye’s medical challenges, I never knew how much discomfort he truly was in before receiving treatment. In both cases, of course, to a finely tuned observer, there were many signs.
Onward to watching the clock; waiting for office hours and opening. Known (clinic/own physician) is always preferable to unknown emergency; Dad too. At the last pet emergency they wouldn’t look in Skye’s ears for a potential dizziness episode. I called her office early before opening on a whim – and someone answered! If you don’t ask, the answer is always no. I always ask. Ask in a thousand different ways if you have to.
I made my heartfelt two minute plea to the gatekeepers (reception/techs) to the medical professionals. I knew Skye needed help immediately, but they live in a world of facts, outputs, measurables. I tearfully shared her status and told her I was at her mercy, then breathlessly waited for the response. A cancellation, can you be here in six? We were there in five.
In Dad’s case, though, many more steps. It is much more difficult to get critical care for a human. Clinic visits and tests and desperate trip to emergency and triage failures and another trip to emergency and endless wait times and incorrect triaging yet again and three days in purgatory in emergency hell on earth until going nuclear and involving patient advocacy. The health system is deeply flawed. If I had the strength I would go nuclear on public health care in this province. But a friend reminded me of the price, echoing my own hesitation. I do not have the strength to relive that trauma; to be trapped in those moments and the horrors we witnessed and experienced. How many more like us suffer in silence because speaking up is too high a price to pay?
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Rabbits are an enigma. Vets try to read the subtle signs they give off but they don’t give much information up. Of course their heart rate is fast, they’re terrified to be in the office. Adrenaline can mask pain response. Blood work and diagnostics are cost prohibitive. We were at least blessed to not have to factor in those agonizing cost decisions for treatments for Dad, he stayed three weeks in ICU, likely over $3500 a day for our health system.
For Skye it was examination and then we went into probabilities, likelihoods, dipping into intuition, and costs. As I was signing the consent form for sedation for xray and filling out the form as to whether to rescuscitate I suddenly found myself back in the patient ICU waiting room, doctor sitting with us all round, talking the Night Before. Horrible times, awful decisions. Oh, how my heart bleeds for everyone who goes through those discussions.
Admission. Progress or lack thereof. The doctor consults and next steps. The celebrations over tiny steps forward and despair over steps back. Medications and more medications. In Skye’s case, she was discharged. They stabilized; now the ball is in my court to keep her alive. When family is threatened the wagons circle and I would go to, and have gone to, hell for those I love. The worst part in cardiac ICU is that families only have the margins to work within. The rest is out of control, left to professionals. But damn, did we ever blow to hell those margins trying to move heaven and earth and get Dad through.
In contrast, the margins are much larger with Skye. Skye’s very existence is now back in my hands, there is no IV providing nutrition. As she recovers and the clouds from sedation and illness and pain begin to try to clear, I perform literal life support. Critical care, a mix of essential nutrients, is added to water and syringed lovingly every three hours, until she can eat on her own. For a rabbit even six hours of not eating can spell death; their systems are so fine – almost like a fine sports car engine – that any disruptions bring the whole system to its knees.
There continue to be too many similarities in illness, bringing a torrent of flashbacks. Living on the tiny highs and despairing over the lows. The fog of illness minimizing/prohibiting interaction with the world around and hallucinations. Subtle signs consciousness remains. So many medications, full syringes, empty syringes. So much clinical science, so little natural world. That feeling that there is nothing left to give and collapse is imminent, and yet days later, somehow, continuing round the clock care. Skye is, like Dad was, an absolute fearless warrior in the face of illness. And so I shall relentlessly continue to try to do everything I can in the damn margins unless that final definitive answer comes back no.
Above, my heart- Skye