Happily Ever Esther Page 9

  On the way to the hospital, I called our close friend Krista, who has worked in animal rescue. I just wanted to let her know what was going on, but our brief conversation turned into her giving me a twenty-minute speech about how much money the animal-agriculture industry donates to OVC, the testing that goes on, and ultimately where she believed OVC’s interests lay. By the end of the call, Krista had me convinced that OVC was basically working for the animal-agriculture industry and that the people there would kill Esther at the earliest opportunity they got. It was the last thing my overactive imagination needed to hear.

  I’m sure Krista had not intended to upset me, but she’s such an encyclopedia of information, she often answers my questions a little too well. And like most of what goes on in the world of animal agriculture, it’s almost better when you don’t know the truth. The world seemed like a much kinder place when I lived in my bubble. Every time I learn something new about what our laws have deemed to be an acceptable practice, I realize how cruel we humans really are.

  Esther is a threat to the animal-agriculture industry, and we know that because we’ve started showing up in industry magazines suggesting how “ridiculous” we are. And after that conversation with Krista, I felt like I was handing Esther over to the enemy. My panic level jumped off the charts in a heartbeat. And because I arrived at the hospital fresh off the phone with Krista—and emotional because my baby girl was lying in agony on the floor of a trailer—I admit, I was no peach to deal with.

  At the hospital, I questioned everything the doctors said. I even called Susie Coston at Farm Sanctuary and Rich Hoyle from the Pig Preserve to ask for their thoughts on every little detail. I’d tell them what the doctor had said, what medication he wanted to use, or what procedures he was considering. Then I’d go back to the medical team at OVC and say, “Well, Susie says” this, or “Rich says” that. I was basically every doctor’s worst nightmare—animal doctor or otherwise.

  Keep in mind that this is one of the best veterinary schools in the world, and here I was questioning the physicians’ every move. Things really came to a head when they said they wanted to sedate Esther for X-rays. That’s when my mind went into overdrive, and I basically lost it. Aside from the typical health concerns that come with pigs, another very serious issue is hyperthermia, which just means dangerous overheating. That can happen to pigs when they go under general anesthesia. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do to bring the temperature back down. And there has been very little research and scant knowledge about why this condition happens or how to know if the animal is at risk for it.

  This is it, I thought. This is how they’re gonna kill her. I pleaded with the doctor to try the X-rays without sedating her. At this point they were still just trying to figure out what the problem was. I knew they would need to sedate her if they found she needed surgery, and at that point, we’d accept the associated risks of sedation because it would be necessary. But I couldn’t stand the thought of taking the risk for a simple X-ray. Unfortunately, Esther had been a bit snappy during her initial examination, so despite my pleading, the doctor wasn’t willing to do the X-rays if she wasn’t sedated.

  The doctor started rattling off reasons she had to be sedated. His tone was progressing from slightly annoyed to downright fed up. I could tell I was losing the battle, so I played my final card. I had been holding back tears since we first arrived, and I finally just gave in and let them go. I literally burst into tears like I had lost the love of my life. I’m talking full-on wailing.

  “Just give me a few minutes to try,” I sobbed. “If I can’t get what you need, we’ll do it your way, no questions asked. Just let me try.” The doctor looked a bit taken aback. I’m sure he didn’t know what to make of the whole situation. Let’s be honest, this had to be the first time he’d ever seen a grown man erupt into borderline hysteria, sobbing and begging, because he didn’t want a pig sedated. For a few seconds, he looked like he wanted to object, but I think he realized this was no everyday pig, and this wasn’t going to be a normal case by any means. He finally said, “You’ve got twenty minutes.” Then he turned and walked away with the rest of the medical team.

  A few minutes later, the X-ray technician showed up with a lead vest and a handheld machine that looked like a big two-handled Polaroid camera. It came with square cartridges that held the film. I had to place the film behind Esther’s leg, then get her to hold still long enough for me to grab the camera thingy and take the picture. This wasn’t just a matter of “put in the film and snap a quick photo.” They needed multiple angles, and the film had to be placed in the perfect position, or it wouldn’t capture the image they needed. Esther was restless, but she had been given pain medication, so I knew she was feeling at least a little bit better.

  I tried using foam wedges to hold the film at the proper angle. I’d get it all jimmied in place just perfectly, grab the camera, get ready to take the X-ray… and then Esther would adjust her leg and knock it all over. It seemed like another losing battle, and I had wasted almost half of the film cartridges they brought me, without getting a single usable picture.

  Derek was the only other person who could come into her stall without Esther’s getting all paranoid that she’d be jabbed with yet another needle. So he was trying to keep her distracted while I gave it one last attempt. I laid down the foam wedge and placed the film on top of it. Then, ever so slowly, I slid her leg up onto the film without having to lift it at all. I grabbed the camera and got my first successful shot. Finally! I repositioned everything to try for the next few angles, and although I did waste a few more film cartridges, I eventually managed to get clear shots of every angle they needed. And I did it without any sedation—for Esther, I mean. For all I know, the doctor stuck me in the neck with something really quickly to calm me down. (Not really, of course, but I probably could’ve used it.)

  So that all went well. One little victory.

  And then we got the bad news.

  The X-ray results confirmed our worst fears. Esther had developed an abscess in one of her toes, and it was dangerously close to what they actually call the coffin joint. No kidding.

  Like, really? I’m supposed to remain calm when the very joint with a problem just happens to be named after a casket? Not ominous at all!

  At that point, it was already well into the evening, and both Derek and I were exhausted. The vet tech told us if the infection got into the bone, it could be a life-threatening situation. The only option was surgery, which they scheduled for the next morning.

  In other words, Esther would have to sleep there that night.

  That’s when I remembered the rules Dr. Kirkham had sternly conveyed from the hospital: no photos, no guests… I was weighing everything in my mind. How much of a pain did I want to be on our first night here? Did I really want to piss off these doctors before they put my baby under the knife?

  Derek and I were sitting on the floor in the stall with Esther, trying to comfort her after what had been just as stressful a day for her. The stall itself was about ten feet by twelve feet, with cinderblock walls about six feet high, and solid concrete floors padded with pine shavings over rubber mats. It looked like the stalls were set up mainly for horses or cows, because there were little metal hay feeders in the corner and heavy metal gates at the front that looked like they could contain a rhino. There was a row of about six stalls on one side and a “milking rack” on the other. Apparently they would bring in dairy cows and use them to train students on using the equipment, examining animals, doing various tests, and so on. It was a stark reminder of what kind of facility we were in.

  I was glad all the other stalls and milking racks were empty. It was just the three of us in this section, and Derek and I finally had a moment alone to take a breath and wrap our heads around what was happening. I was lying next to Esther; Derek was sitting beside us, talking on the phone to check in with our farm sitters back at the property. He told them we were just going to stay with Esther for a few more
minutes, that we’d head home soon and come back to OVC first thing in the morning for the surgery. As I listened to him, all I could think was, No. I was looking around at the milking racks across the hall and picturing Esther sitting here all alone, scared and in pain. There was no way in hell I was leaving.

  Derek hung up the phone. Before I could even open my mouth, he said, “Are you gonna come home, or do you want to try to stay here?” He knows me better than anyone, so of course he knew I desperately wanted to stay. But we’d already talked about not pushing the boundaries too far, especially after my little breakdown earlier with the X-rays.

  Ultimately, we decided we wouldn’t push it on the first night. Esther was sleeping comfortably, and we knew nothing was going to happen until morning. I could go home tonight and come back first thing, like 7 a.m. first thing, which you know is early for me. Even if that meant sitting around in the facility for hours with Esther before the doctor arrived.

  As Derek and I were just about to pack up, the X-ray tech came in and handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s the Wi-Fi password,” she said, smiling. “You might get bored tonight without it.” Turns out we weren’t the only ones who knew I didn’t want to leave, and someone there understood.

  And so began my nine-day stay—yes, you read that correctly—at the Hotel OVC. Derek gave Esther and me a hug and kiss goodbye, and then he went back to the farm and the rest of our fur family, while Esther and I settled in to watch something on Netflix and try to get some sleep before the big day tomorrow.

  The following morning was surprisingly calm. I had managed to get some sleep, and Esther didn’t move at all during the night, so I had to assume she did as well. She woke up around 8:30 but didn’t even try to stand up. She had a big sign on the front of her stall that said NO FOOD, but I did my best to make sure she didn’t see it. Derek arrived at 9, and the vet tech and doctors started shuffling in shortly after that. Her procedure would be later that morning, so we hung out with Esther in the stall, watched some more Netflix, and waited.

  When the team of doctors and anesthesiologists arrived, Esther could tell something was up and started to get a bit fussy. She would watch everybody, and the minute someone opened the stall door or came too close, she would grunt and start to squirm a bit. The doctor finally came in to start the sedation process, which began with a nasal mist we administered to her ourselves. Esther trusted us, but there’s no way she was going to let the doctor put a syringe up her nose.

  Step one went really well. The grunting slowed, and her reaction to people entering the stall all but stopped. It seemed like a good time to administer the needle that would take her sedation to the next level and allow them to insert a catheter into her ear for the general anesthesia. The doctor prepared the needle and went behind Esther so he could stick her in the butt. He got the needle in, but before he could depress the plunger to administer the drug, Esther came to life and shot up like a freight train. The needle remained in, but it was hanging off her butt while she paced and squealed at the gate to get out. My calm state went right out the window as panic once again set in. The doctor managed to get ahold of the syringe and inject the medication, but Esther wasn’t going down easily; her adrenaline was too high, and she fought the effects of the medication. It took about twenty minutes for her to finally lie down, which she did with her snout against the gate.

  The whole experience was so sad, and it did nothing to make me feel any better about what was going on. The hardest thing with animals is knowing they don’t understand what’s going on, and there’s no way to communicate with them that you’re doing something to help them. She was so scared, and we knew all she wanted to do was run away. We knew this was for her own good; she had no idea. All we could do was try our best to comfort her and each other. When she was finally down and the doctors got the catheter in, Derek and I took a quick walk to get some air and let the doctors do their thing.

  When we returned a few minutes later, they were already well underway with the surgery, clearing the infection from Esther’s hoof. They drilled out the bottom of the hoof, all the way up to the bones in her knuckles. They also inserted a port above her ankle to let any fluids drain out. They cleaned the area, then packed it with gauze and taped it all up. The procedure itself was very straightforward and didn’t take more than an hour. Despite how traumatic this situation was, the procedure went smoothly, and we were thankful for that.

  Esther’s waking up after surgery, however, was a whole different story.

  At first, the process was going according to plan. By 2 p.m. she was opening her eyes and starting to move her legs. She’d yawn and move her tongue around, licking her lips. Everything seemed fine, so much so that Derek went back to the farm for a bit. I was just sitting on the floor in the stall beside Esther, talking to her, making sure she knew I was there. A few hours passed, and all was relatively peaceful given the events of the past twenty-four hours.

  Then everything went to hell.

  It was around dinnertime. Esther suddenly started panting. Her breathing was labored, and she started frantically moving her legs as if she were running in place. It seemed she was panicking, and it scared the shit out of me. I was afraid it was hyperthermia. It can be deadly, and sometimes once it starts, it can’t be stopped. I screamed for the vet techs. I ran to the end of the hall and grabbed the first person I saw. I explained to her what was happening, and she raced off toward another wing of the hospital to get someone else.

  When I got back to Esther, she already looked worse. I could feel her skin getting warm to the touch, and she looked flushed all over. Her breathing was more rapid, and her mouth was wide open. Two vet techs came running in with rubbing alcohol and started dumping it all over her. They opened the outside door to bring down the temperature of the ward and brought in two big box fans, pointing them at her. They placed others around the stall to keep the air circulating.

  I know I’ve said this type of thing before, but this time I mean it: these were honestly the scariest few hours of my life. I had heard so many horror stories from other people about what can happen with pigs in surgery, and I thought Esther’s was becoming one of those stories.

  This whole awful experience went on for close to five hours, until about 10 p.m., when she finally started returning to normal. She had rubbed the skin clean off her knees and the front of her feet from running in place. We hadn’t even noticed that happening in all of the chaos. Poor Esther looked like she had been to hell and back.

  Thankfully, things got better from there. She was finally out of the woods. (That’s ironic for a pig who likes nothing more than to be in the woods, which is a joke I can make only in retrospect.)

  Over the next seven days, Esther’s condition steadily improved. It turned out that the medications she had been given had built up in the fat in her body, taking much longer to leave her system than medication does in leaner animals. It’s yet another reason why maintaining a healthy weight is so important for pigs. Being even slightly overweight can cause not only joint and muscle issues but also very dangerous reactions during (and following) medical procedures.

  We found out that people had been calling the hospital and sending gifts for Esther, a practice that obviously isn’t common at a large animal hospital. The administrators also decided to keep Esther in the private ward, so no one else could get in to see her. It also allowed us to let her out of her stall after a couple of days, so she could explore and stretch her legs.

  It was really funny because she refused to go to the bathroom in her stall. She would stand at her gate until you opened it, then walk to the opposite end of the ward before doing her business, just like she wouldn’t go to the bathroom in our home. She took over that space like it was hers, and the hospital staffers were totally cool with it. The more time I spent there, the more I got to speak with all the staff at the facility. It was an amazingly eye-opening experience. They let me ask a whole bunch of questions, and I learned a lot from them. And in the proce
ss, I think they learned a lot about my experiences and perspective. They were truly great with us, especially with me and all my needs when it came to being near my girl. If I didn’t say it enough then, I should say a big thank-you right here to the doctors and all the staff at OVC who helped save our amazing pig-daughter.

  It hadn’t been our intention to make waves, but I know our time there was memorable for the staff at OVC. We’ve even been told they will be adding a course for the care of large companion animals like Esther, something they never offered in the past. While I can’t say for sure that we influenced their decision, I’d like to think we played a small part in helping them see things a little differently.

  Most of the time in large animal clinics, the owners just leave the animal, and it’s usually something like a horse or a show cow. It’s not very often somebody spends thousands of dollars on a pig, let alone refuses to leave the animal’s side. Nobody would think twice about it if she were a dog—my actions would have been seen as nothing more than those of a concerned parent. But because the patient was a commercial pig, they simply weren’t prepared for the reaction they got, and at least a few of the staff members said goodbye to Esther and us with a much different outlook than they’d had when we arrived.

  CHAPTER EIGHT