Monday 21 October 2013

Would you want to know when you were going to die?

This one often leaves me in a tangled quandry.
I don't know. It's one of the few things I don't know about myself that causes confusion.

On the one hand, I would like to know, so that I can do the things I want to do before it is too late - but on the other hand, I don't want to have a timer ticking down on me. I would find that awfully anxiety-inducing. I hate time trial games. (Though I do have a great fondness for hourglasses.)

I don't know when I'm going to die. Currently, I'm comfortable without having an "expiry date" - I am all too aware that I could die tomorrow, but I can't do much about that. I am also aware that I could easily live into my late eighties; the women in my family are the sturdy sort, on both sides. This also worries me, for things like pension funding. I can't do much about that other than have a pension plan.

5% of my salary has been put into my plan since I hit 25. I also have a will, mortgage insurance and life insurance - I'm 27. I have plans for the next two years, like getting married, but no major life requirements otherwise. If I died tomorrow, I'd be a bit pissed, sure, but not completely gutted. (Depending on method of expiry, of course - plenty of fish factories round here.)

I don't want for much. I've never needed much. I'm pretty happy with my lot so far.

And I appreciate that's more than many.

So, in the meantime, don't tell me.
I don't think I want to know.

Monday 14 October 2013

I'm sorry to say that we lost Spyyk today.

I had noticed a few days back that he didn't want his dinner, which is unusual, but then I came down sick.

It seems that so had he - I found him floating on his side in a right mess. I won't go into graphic details, but even his extraordinary powers of healing weren't going to be sufficient - his lower abdomen was intruded by a large mass; I've seen and treated axolotl prolapses and impactions before, and this wasn't either.

I've done the kindest thing for him and freezered him; axolotls are pretty unusual - they can happily cope down to 2C, then their metabolism slows down enough to send them into a form of suspended animation. He will be totally unaware and not feel a thing below this.

There wasn't much I could have done even if I'd picked up on it earlier. That's the trouble with axolotls - there's not a huge amount you can do when they're really ill, except for cool them down and hope their healing ability outpaces the slowed condition - and I could see immediately that this wouldn't be enough for Spyyk. The vets here wouldn't have been able to deal with him, and he was about nine years old already, not a bad age for an axolotl. (The usual life span is 8-12 years, though the record is 15!)

He was also more travelled than most axolotl - he went to Bath city and then to Somerset before coming back home to Grimsby. He was a happy 'lotl. Didn't ask for much. Mind you, they don't, normally. He mooched round a lot, sat staring into space a lot, floated round a bit, slept most of the time, and always charged over to see if I had food when the lid opened.