by Jo Bailey
Will and Sam raced ahead of me to the gate. Sam’s face dropped.
‘Where’s Chester?’ he asked. He looked so disappointed that his pig was not there to greet him as usual, especially as he had a bag full of food for him.
‘Chester!’ he called out, his voice echoing across the valley.
We all waited by the gate for Chester to show his smiley face.
‘Here, Chester!’ Sam shouted again.
Nothing. I felt very uneasy.
‘Chester!’ we all called out together, our voices breaking the peaceful country silence.
Still nothing in response.
I felt a shudder run down my spine. Richard was right: something was seriously wrong. It was so unlike Chester not to greet us.
We all climbed over the fence and waded through the long grass and nettles towards Chester’s Wendy house. As we drew closer we could see his back trotters poking out through the door. Then we heard a noise – it was loud, rasping breathing, like an old man’s dying breaths.
Something was terribly wrong.
Sam squeezed inside the Wendy house while Will and I peered through the windows. Chester was lying on his side, groaning with pain. Every small breath seemed like a gigantic struggle. Tears started to collect in Sam’s eyes as he lay on the straw beside his friend and started to stroke his belly gently.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I said to the boys. I was lying to myself as much as them. I couldn’t bear the thought that there could be something seriously wrong with Chester. Will and I squeezed inside the Wendy house too and we all huddled around our pig on our hands and knees in the straw, as if we were crowding around a hospital bed.
‘Chester, what’s wrong?’ I asked our pig. Silly, really, as he couldn’t answer, but at that moment I felt like I was addressing a person – he was one of the family, after all.
He grunted.
‘Oh, Chester!’ We were all stroking his belly now.
He gave another heaving grunt. I had no idea what was wrong with him; I just knew I needed to get help immediately. I reached for my mobile phone. Thank goodness I had mobile reception at the top of the hill.
I didn’t know if I needed a vet who specialised in farm animals or if one who dealt with cats and dogs would do; pigs in general don’t need veterinary care so I’d never had to call one to attend to Chester before. I phoned the local practice and prayed that, if they couldn’t help, then they would at least be able to point me in the right direction. The receptionist said she would send a vet up right away.
‘Can I have your address?’ she asked.
I looked around at the big open expanse before me and wondered how I could describe where I was. Somehow I managed to cobble together a description of lanes, crossroads and features along the way.
‘How long do you think they will be?’ I asked, anxiously looking back at Chester.
It was going to be about an hour before they could get anyone to me. We were going to have to sit tight and hope that Chester’s condition didn’t deteriorate. The minutes dragged by. Sam didn’t leave Chester’s side once; he kept stroking his tummy, doing his best to ease his friend’s pain. Despite being in terrible agony, Chester clearly appreciated being soothed by Sam. With every gentle stroke and soft murmur Sam made, Chester grunted back his appreciation. It was a beautiful thing to watch.
I don’t know how the vet managed to find us but he suddenly appeared at the gate carrying a bulging leather bag full of equipment. He looked like a typical country vet in his corduroy trousers and checked shirt as he threaded his way through the grass and flowers towards us.
We all held our breath as he examined Chester. Sam watched the vet’s facial expressions carefully, searching for an answer, perhaps mentally flicking through Lynda’s ‘emotions’ book as he tried to decipher what the vet’s frowns meant. The vet checked Chester’s tummy, gently pressing on different areas. Our poorly pig let out a groan of pain as he felt the vet’s fingers push on one particular area. The vet looked worried and turned to us for help.
‘We’ve got to get him on his feet,’ he said, without any explanation as to what was wrong yet.
‘Come on, boys.’ I rallied Sam and Will to help.
Chester’s belly was so long we all managed to fit our arms underneath him. I took the front, the vet held Chester underneath his back legs, and the boys hooked their arms underneath the fattest part of his belly.
‘One, two, three!’ We hoisted him on to his trotters. Chester squealed in pain, poor thing. We managed to get him standing for a few moments before he fell back on to the straw, groaning.
‘This isn’t good, is it?’ I asked nervously, half of me not wanting to know the answer. The vet rooted around in his leather bag and pulled out a needle and a vial of clear liquid.
‘Just going to give him some painkillers,’ he explained. I held Sam and Will’s hands as he stuck the needle into Chester’s neck. A trickle of blood ran down his dusty skin and on to the straw. The sight of his blood suddenly compounded the seriousness of the situation.
The vet flashed me a look as if to confirm how serious it really was. I gestured for him not to mention anything in front of the boys and to follow me out of the Wendy house so we could talk outside. The vet dusted the straw from his knees and clambered out into the sunshine. My heart was thudding in my chest as I waited for him to deliver the verdict.
‘He has an obstruction,’ the vet whispered.
‘What? How could that be?’
‘He’s eaten something he shouldn’t have and it’s blocked his intestines.’
‘But all we’ve been feeding him is pignuts,’ I said, confused by this news.
I started to worry that we had put him in a field with some poisonous plant or flower, but the vet reassured me that the blockage wasn’t caused by something he’d eaten in the wild. It would have been caused by him eating something processed, like bread.
I was thrown. I just couldn’t think how that would have happened. I didn’t have time to think about it further, though. I needed to find out what I could do to help Chester. ‘So, how do we get rid of the blockage?’
The vet went very quiet and shook his head.
‘If we can get him walking, we might be able to get the blockage to shift. But it’s by no means certain. And,’ he hesitated, clearly not wanting to go on. I gestured to him to do so and he jutted out his chin as he continued bluntly. ‘Blockages can be fatal for pigs. I can give him some painkillers but I don’t think he will last the night.’
My mouth fell open, but no words would come.
As I absorbed the enormity of what was happening I glanced back at the Wendy house, at my boys stroking Chester. Chester wasn’t just a pet. He was like a person. He was one of us.
I started to panic. I couldn’t imagine how Sam would take this news. ‘Oh my God, how am I going to tell my son, who has autism, that his pig is going to die?’ I blurted out to the vet.
‘How can you tell any child their pet is about to die?’ he countered.
His words made me realise that I was always going out of my way to protect the more vulnerable of my children. He was right, though: Chester was just as much Will’s pig as Sam’s. If Chester died, we would all be grief-stricken.
It was at that moment that I decided we were not going to let Chester die. I was determined to save our pig. The vet had said if we could get him walking there was a chance we could shift the blockage. Walking it was!
I started marching back towards the Wendy house with the same determination that took me over whenever I had a battle to fight. I’d battled to protect my son and give him the best possible life, and now I was going to fight to save Chester.
‘Come on, boys, we’ve got to get Chester on to his feet,’ I directed. We all leapt into action.
It must have looked like the most absurd sight, the four of us with our arms around this giant pig as we tried to heave him up. I think we were grunting and groaning under the weight just as much as Chester wa
s groaning from the pain! But it was worth all the effort: Chester eventually got to his feet and staggered out of the Wendy house with all the grace of someone who has had a little too much to drink.
I knew if there was something Chester couldn’t resist it was chasing the boys, so I turned to my children and told them to run. Sam bolted across the field with his brother in tow. And Chester immediately started to follow them. He only managed a few steps before he collapsed – but at least we’d got him moving. And then, in a sign of just how poorly he was, even the draw of playing with his Sam wasn’t enough and he staggered back into his home and lay down on the straw, grunting.
But I wasn’t done yet.
‘Again, again!’ I beckoned the boys back to the Wendy house.
The vet commended my determination. He could see I wasn’t going to give up on Chester so he handed me a huge syringe and a bottle of liquid paraffin, explaining there was only a small chance it could help, but it was worth me trying it.
‘Inject a shot of this down his throat twice a day and feed him anything that might get his bowels moving, like fruit,’ he said. ‘I can’t make any promises. I hope it helps.’
I thanked him for everything he had done and then returned to Chester’s side. The boys and I sat next to our poorly pig for as long as we could, getting him up on his feet as much as he could manage. Too soon, it grew too late for the children to stay with him any longer. The boys gave him a kiss on his furry face and told Chester how much they loved him.
He grunted back. It was his way of saying thank you.
The drive home seemed to take much longer than usual. The boys were trying to be brave but I caught their tears in the rear-view mirror.
‘We’ve got to make him better. We have to do everything we can,’ I said. I was trying to sound authoritative but my voice was quivering with sadness as I spoke.
I knew the family would want to know about Chester’s illness. It was too early to call Darren with the time difference between us, but I phoned my mum as soon as we got home. She was devastated to hear the news about Chester. Even though he had driven her up the wall with his banging on her door, she still loved him to bits, as did we all. She came straight round to the barn to comfort Will and Sam and to cook up some apple sauce for Chester.
‘This should help get him moving,’ she said, stirring the big pot of peeled apples and water on the stove.
Poor Sam and Will couldn’t stop crying that evening. I didn’t know how to console them, other than by promising we would do everything in our power to make Chester well again. After cooking the apples, Mum helped me put the boys to bed but Sam didn’t want to be alone. He was glued to my side. Wherever I went, he followed. I tried tucking him into bed but a few minutes later I heard a tap at my bedroom door.
‘Mummy, I can’t sleep,’ he said, clutching his Ben 10 figurine in his hand.
I knew Sam was at his most distressed when he wanted to climb into my bed.
‘Come here.’ I patted the duvet.
I wrapped my arms around Sam and smothered him in little kisses, just as Chester would have done if he was well. I did what every mum does and promised my child everything was going to be OK.
‘Chester will be fine,’ I whispered, stroking his hair.
Sam eventually nodded off to sleep but I lay awake for much of the night. I couldn’t sleep with Chester’s – and Sam’s – fate hanging in the balance. What would happen if we lost our pig? He was a lifeline for Sam; without him, how would my boy cope? He’d come so far, I couldn’t bear to see him regress all over again. I wasn’t sure if I could go through it all again. Eventually, in the small hours, my eyes lidded shut but I tossed and turned all night.
I woke up the next morning feeling like I’d been hit by a bus – I was so drained of energy. Thankfully Sam looked a lot calmer for spending the night in my bed. Will came bounding into my room as I was rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
‘Are we going to see Chester now?’ he asked anxiously.
I’d prepared my answer.
‘We can see Chester this afternoon,’ I told them.
The vet had said it was unlikely Chester would survive the night so there was no way I was going to risk the boys finding him dead. My mum was going to come with me to see him that morning instead.
I dropped Sam and Will at school and then Mum and I made our way to the field. We were armed with a Tupperware box full of stewed apples and the liquid paraffin that the vet had told me to inject into Chester’s throat to soften his stools. I climbed out of the driver’s seat and braced myself for the worst.
The hundred yards from the gate to the Wendy house was the longest walk of my life. Every footstep was weighed down with dread.
Please don’t let him be dead, please don’t, I prayed as we shuffled through the long grass.
As we neared the house, I could see Chester’s trotters protruding from the door. He hadn’t moved a centimetre since we’d left him the night before.
‘Chester!’ I called, willing him to let out his familiar grunt.
Nothing.
Oh God, no. I was certain he was dead.
But then, as we got closer to the trotters, from inside the Wendy house came a deep, breathless grunt. It was Chester – he was telling us that he was still with us.
‘Oh Chester!’ Mum and I cried in unison. We squeezed into Chester’s den and gave him an enormous cuddle. He grunted weakly with a greeting and tried to lift his head to give us a kiss, but he was too sick.
‘Just rest yourself, you poor sausage.’ Mum stroked his sore belly.
There was no easy way to get around what we had to do next – we needed to prise open Chester’s mouth to stuff all the goodness of the stewed apples and liquid paraffin inside him. He was too poorly to put up a fight; it was sad seeing our stubborn pig so lacklustre. I injected the paraffin and then Mum scooped up a handful of apple sauce and shovelled it down his throat. She literally used her hands to do this – it was the only way we could get the fruit inside him. We took turns to scoop up a handful of the apple sauce, and then each of us, one at a time, would put our upright hand inside Chester’s mouth. We’d then turn it over, wiping the sauce off the palm of our hand by using his tongue. It was quite a tricky exercise because he was still lying on his side, and pretty disgusting, but we were so desperate to save him that we persevered.
Chester didn’t like being force-fed one bit. ‘It’s for your own good,’ we told him gently. We then tried to get him on to his feet. Poor Mum wasn’t used to lifting such great weights. I told her to stop before she put her back out but she insisted on helping Chester.
There was a lot of groaning and grunting from all of us as we levered him up and led him towards the door. Chester took a few steps forward, stopped, and then a few more. He managed to get half of his body out of his house and into the June sunshine. But after that huge effort, he was ready to collapse. We jumped out of the way as he came crashing down on to the straw.
I didn’t like leaving him, but I felt a little less anxious than the day before. At least there were things we were doing to help him: administering the fruit and paraffin; making sure he got up on his feet at least a couple of times. The most promising thing was that he’d made it through the first night. If we could just get him moving, he might be OK. I gave the vet another call to give him an update on the patient’s condition.
He asked me if we could observe Chester’s toilet habits to see if he passed whatever had been obstructing him. In other words, the vet was politely asking me to wait for Chester to do a poo. Lovely.
That’s one for the boys, I thought.
Our focus on getting Chester better brought us together as a family – we found strength in working as a team. Every morning, Sam took up his post by the stove in our kitchen; I found him a stepladder so he could reach the pan with his wooden spoon to stir the apples into a warm mush, mixing up Chester’s ‘medicine’. Will’s job, once we got to Chester’s field, was to keep his water bo
wl topped up and help with changing the straw.
Even though Darren was off on the rigs he also got involved, giving me a pep talk whenever I became sad about the possibility of Chester leaving us. If Darren thought I was being wet, he didn’t show it. He just listened and tried to make me laugh by reminding me we were on ‘poo watch’.
By day three, Chester was able to leave his house, though there was still no ‘breakthrough’ in his bowel movements. He wheezed hard as he tried to keep up with the boys. Sam and Will would stop and start in their chasing game, just as they had done around the apple tree all those months ago when Chester was a micro piglet. Their teasing was too much for Chester to resist joining in. Despite being so unwell, he found the strength to follow them along the path.
By day four, Chester could make it halfway across the field. As he and the boys gambolled in the distance, I funnelled my hands around my mouth and shouted from the Wendy house: ‘Any poo?’
The boys shook their heads with dismay.
‘No poo!’ they shouted back.
We had to keep going with our mission: every morning and afternoon we had to get Chester on his feet until ‘it’ happened.
It was important to maintain the laughter because I knew there was something brewing with Sam. Even though he was putting on a brave face by helping look after Chester, I knew he was hurting inside. Every night Sam would climb into bed with me.
I don’t think he really understood what death was, but he could sense things were serious. His uncharacteristic ability to feel empathy was now proving a mixed blessing. Part of me wished Sam wasn’t empathic, because that way he wouldn’t feel the pain if Chester didn’t make it. I wanted to do everything in my power to shield my sons from hurt.
By now we were visiting Chester three times a day – I was making an extra trip up the hillside at lunchtime with my mum. Though it was possible Chester could have pooed without us being there, we never saw any sign of his stools and by day five Chester’s tummy was enormous. It was like a balloon, ready to explode. He was wheezing like an old man as he huffed and puffed his way after the boys that afternoon. He managed to reach them and then, all of a sudden, he stopped in his tracks.
