Rabbit Peril

As I write this my 3 year old rabbit is sitting in her hutch looking absolutely fine. I know she's fine because she spent the morning trying to eat the sucker off Tilly's arrow and eating hosepipe.

Two weeks ago things were different. Two weeks ago I thought she'd died. I refer you to this blog entry where I discussed how bad I am with dead animals. Or even animals that look like they are dead. Well Petal looked dead from the two metres away where I stood and squealed at Paul. It turns out she was just extremely poorly.

It was a Sunday evening. Of course it was. No-one's rabbit gets perilously close to death on a week day when the vets are open. Oh no it had to be a Sunday and hence an emergency trip to the pet hospital in Attercliffe. Who knew there was a pet hospital so near a large number of brothels.

I am, of course, exaggerating about how easy it was to ascertain that Petal was near to death. She looked dead, then when we lifted her into the pet carrier she hopped out of it like there was nothing flipping wrong with her. We drove across Sheffield well aware that the appointment alone was going to cost £125 and thinking she looked a lot better really. We didn't have long in the waiting room during which we very nearly decided to go home to avoid the cost. The short consideration time turned out to be a good thing.

Apparently because rabbits are prey animals they will do anything other than show they are poorly, because then something might eat them. So with her last ounce of willpower she tried to leap off the examination table and gave the vet the run around. Then she flopped over and looked, well, nearly dead.

I won't go into details about the examination. Sufficed to say there was more flopping over, some scurrying, the insertion of a thermometer somewhere unpleasant and a blood test which confirmed that she was very nearly dead. At one point there was even talk of diabetes. Had I not had pet insurance i might very well have flopped onto my side panting too. The expected cost was £450.

£450 to keep her overnight, give her medicine and fluids and try and get her to eat.

In the morning I had to drive back to Attercliffe and pick her up, terrorising her further by driving her back across town. If rabbits hate having thermometers stuck up their bottoms it's nothing compared to how much they hate car journeys. I then left her at our vets for the additional sum of £120.

To say my flabber was ghasted would be an understatement.

£580.

I mean I do like her but £580 would be enough to fly her to Amsterdam first class to visit her ancestors (she's a Dutch rabbit). You'd at least expect five star treatment. The hospital she was in was nice I'm sure but she didn't mention anything about chocolate coins on the pillow.

Just as a point of note, three weeks ago we called our pet insurance to cancel it because £12 per month per bunny seemed expensive. It was a Saturday and they were shut. Thanks be to the god of pets. Otherwise Petal would have been joining the great rabbit warren in the sky.

So now we are back to normal. Two rabbits who can't seem to stand each other and eat anything and everything they lay their teeth into. And one rabbit who isn't keen on us going anywhere near her bottom...

Emotional

Everything seems to shift in importance when someone you love is in intensive care. Small things don’t matter at all yet at the same time sit enormous and unmanageable.

For the last ten days the only thing I really wanted was to hear the news that he was improving and that he was going to be ok. That was the only thing that mattered. Sometimes I simply sat on the sofa, watching TV. Because what is the point? Just waiting. In other moments I’ve been fired up and determined to live life to it’s fullest. Stop pissing about and just get on with stuff including everything from planning to travel the world and cleaning out that kitchen cupboard. Because after all there is no bigger eye opener than this. He is only 42. Anything could happen to any of us any time. Grasp life by the horns and shake it. Oh and sit there doing nothing. Because what actually is the point? We just have to wait until he’s better then we can get on with life. It’s a somewhat contradictory and confusing way my brain is processing things.

So it’s evident from my blog silence that I haven’t quite known what to write about all this. It felt as if I couldn’t write anything down in case I wrote something wrong, confused somebody, or didn’t get everything absolutely spot on. In case I didn’t adequately get across how big this is and how very much I care. It felt like if I wrote anything he wouldn’t get better. I’m not superstitious at all but it felt wrong. If there was little sign of improvement I wasn’t writing anything.

But after 12 days he seems to be improving and I’m on my way to see him on a train. I saw him last week and it broke my heart. Today will be more positive, I hope. I want to offer what support I can to him and his family. Even though it can’t be enough. 

I won’t go into detail. This isn’t my story to tell. What I will say is, at the risk of becoming overly sentimental, this has shown me how important family and friendships are. Sometimes we don’t prioritise those relationships. It’s no-one’s fault but it needs some thought and some action. 

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I’m writing this on my way home. Today was hard. This will be a long journey. It’s already been the hardest thing in the world and it may continue that way.

I love him. I certainly never have told him that enough.

So just take the time to tell those you care about how much they mean to you. Thanks.

Updated to add
Things are getting much much better. Sod off Jeremy Hunt you know nothing.

The next problem

Not content with an infestation of the hair we now appear to have a rat in our garden. Or we may not have. Basically I'm in denial because I'm not exactly a fan.

As I had my first meltdown Paul tried to reassure me that a rat is just like a squirrel. This is a lie. If it was like a squirrel it would be sleeping up a tree not underneath my decking.

As a consequence for the past five days I haven't really been in the back garden. When I have been out there I have signalled my arrival by banging the door loudly, stamping my feet and shouting. The neighbours must think I'm strange. For any thing more demanding than shutting a rabbit hutch door Paul has fallen on his sword.  He's much tougher than me. That's what marriage is all about after all.

Today a man from the council came. Unsurprisingly I wasn't in.

Apparently he could tell we have a rat problem from the gnawed hutches in the garden. Paul tactfully pointed out the two cute long eared rodents who roam freely (ones that are actually invited to) and are partial to eating, well...pretty much everything.

The council man stroked their heads, left three traps, took sixty eight quid and left.

I'm trying not to think about the next bit. I daren't let the rabbits out of their hutches so there is some kind of equilibrium because I'm not going out of the back door for a while either.

Paul on the other hand is hard as nails.

Waging War

I have had enough. I fed up of the battles. I am waging war.

We am already at the stage where if a member of my family raises a hand to their head I leap across the room like a woman possessed.

My front line are relatively sorted although they can be a little unreliable. My second in command takes instruction pretty well. He can be ordered to check for signs of occupation provided I let him sit down and bring him a cup of tea. Although I don't feel I can totally trust him.

I do my fair share of checking for enemies too. In fact you could say I look for them with a fine tooth comb. No stone, I mean hair, is left unturned.

When intel is accurate we swoop like a crack team of commandos. Chemical warfare is in the cupboard waiting along with the best removal system available. It's messy and unpleasant. As is the state of the head of hair in question the morning after. I need to bulk buy shampoo and conditioner.

But you know what parents, your country needs you. Well the sanity of my family does at any rate.

Because I can have all the weapons of mass destruction possible but if you, yes I'm talking to you, don't check your flipping child's hair for nits every week... well there is just no point. They hop back on to my child's head and start another party. I may as well just accept occupation and start giving them names.

Just check them. Please. And regularly, not just when school sends you a reminder.

In the meantime I will carry on with my war on nits. I'll be spending the next few hours watching tight plaiting styles on Youtube and boiling my hairbrushes.

More day to day

I feel like a terrible parent. Phoebe has had a weird red painful toe problem for quite a few weeks and apart from a brief period of me applying nearly out of date fungal cream for few days with no discernible result I have done nothing about it. She mentioned the pain quite a bit. I put it off and shouldn't have.

Today I finally took her to the nurse. She looked at Phoebe feet and looked puzzled. She pressed her toes and checked between them. She even got a second opinion from a  doctor.

They were in agreement. Phoebe has chilblains. Prescription? Warm socks. I mean really.

I got home. Phoebe put some socks on and I went outside to find the rabbit. I've been worried about both rabbits since the parsnip Tilly used for her snowman's nose went missing. Can rabbits eat parsnips? Who knows.

She's in the shed. I can't get her out without risking life and limb, or at the very least being knocked out by a bicycle pump and spraining my ankle tripping over a bale of hay. She can come out in her own good time. Which may be never.

Back in the house we are seeking the other slipper which is probably buried under the massive pile of chaos that comes from redecorating bedrooms. Oh well at least we are treating one foot. Half way there.

Partus

Talk about making you think. I went to see Third Angel's Partus last night at the Studio. I came out having laughed, sniffled and thrown my hands over my face in half remembered horror. I also emerged equally determined, to champion the cause of midwives in the NHS, and to never have another baby.

Partus is about births. Funny ones (and it really was funny in places), scary ones, multiple ones, sad ones, young ones, and exhausting ones but all of them real ones. It was born out of a research project and included real life experiences of mums, dads, doulas and midwives. I have no idea how you would begin to decide which stories to highlight out of the hundreds they heard but Third Angel chose well, I think, setting the balance of humour and emotion.

It's been a while since I gave birth. Nearly 8 years in fact. It's safe to say my brain had pushed to the back some of the more painful and frightening bits. Which of course is the same for everyone otherwise no-one would ever have more than one baby. Last night reminded me how bloody marvellous women are. It's the most natural thing in the world but also the toughest. I mean, answer a child's question about how a baby comes out and the look on their face tells it all. It shouldn't be possible.

Partus tackles some gritty stuff which goes with the subject matter, and is ably, humorously and passionately presented by an all female cast who form part of the audience. It's a theatrical experience rather than a play and even includes biscuits.

The trouble is I'm not great at writing reviews due to my general fear of accidentally providing spoilers. Inevitably the best bits are the bits I want to write about, and therefore can't because then you'd know the best bits. You see my problem?

What I will say is this, if you are interested in births you should go. There are even performances where mums take their babies along. If only theatre had happened like that in 2006 when I had mine I'd have been at every event like a shot.

I am not sure however if I would have gone before I'd had a baby. For the same reason that I only read a small amount, didn't watch any birthing videos and tried to pretend everything would be painless and quick and I'd be home by tea time. Of course if you like to be more prepared than that it could be ideal.

I came out feeling it's an important piece. My friend and I decided all teenagers should have to see it as part of the curriculum. And probably all men.

Ouch

You'd be surprised how inconvenient cheese grating the end of your index finger can be.

So far I've discovered that it renders me useless for chopping vegetables, washing up, painting and in fact doing any kind of cleaning or DIY. (One or two benefits then I guess)

My typing is definitely somewhat hampered. It's five days later and I'm still stretching the capacity of spellcheck somewhat. As evidenced by the fact that the word 'muleteer' just appeared in the middle of my sentence.

I also look weirder than usual. I've been walking around randomly pointing at people like some kind of middle aged ET.

On Monday night I went swimming. The chlorine smarted somewhat but my main problem was the cramp I suffered from holding my breast stroke fingers in a pincer like grip. Which was necessary to avoid the plaster floating off into the deep end.

My dreams are disturbed (or ddstrubed) and involve me frantically trying to protect the end of my fingers from meeting nylon material. I lurch about like I'm being tortured.

Then to top it all off I tried to put Tilly's hair up in a pony tail. Oh the agony. This is way worse than a paper cut. And I got one of those today too.

Clearly I am a long way from being cured. Being 40 seems to slow down the healing process for grater related injuries. At this rate it could take weeks. But the worst thing of all is that now I've removed the plaster it doesn't even look that bad. How the hell am I going to garner further sympathy?

That's it. I'm never grating cheese again.