Emma’s Prolapse Recovery Journey
Some stories are hard to write—but they’re important. This is the story of our dear Emma and how we almost lost her to a prolapsed vent. It was one of the scariest moments I’ve faced as a duck mom. Emma isn’t just part of our flock—she’s family. Seeing her in pain and so vulnerable brought tears to my eyes more than once. But this is also a story of strength, healing, and love—because Emma fought her way back.
Thursday Morning: The Moment Everything Changed
It was early—around 6:30 a.m.—when I found Emma outside. My heart dropped the moment I saw her. She had a prolapsed vent and a soft egg stuck. She looked miserable. Her crest was picked, likely from being mated by Simon, and she was just standing there, clearly in pain, helpless.
I rushed her inside. With gloved hands and KY jelly, I carefully removed the stuck egg. It came out in one piece, but the situation was still critical. I set her up in a soft playpen, gave her water with Hydro Hen, niacin, and avian calcium, and gently applied sugar to the prolapse to try and bring the swelling down. She got 1.5 ml of meloxicam for pain. I did everything I could—but she still looked so bad.
Thursday Afternoon: Emergency Vet Visit
By lunchtime, I couldn’t wait any longer. Emma was still lethargic and weak. I called the vet and they got us in at 2 p.m. She was sedated slightly so they could reposition the prolapsed tissue. She also received a calcium injection, vitamin B12, and the vet placed sutures to hold everything in place.
It was hard watching all of it—but we needed to give her the best chance. She came home with prescriptions for meloxicam and antibiotics, both every 12 hours for five days. She needed to stay indoors, dry, clean, and in the dark until the sutures could be removed. The vet bill came to $480, but all I cared about was giving her a shot at recovery.
Friday: Quiet Worry
Emma wasn’t herself. She just stood there in her little playpen, still and silent, only sipping at her water from time to time. She didn’t respond much when I spoke to her, and she completely ignored every treat I offered. Mealworms, lettuce, peas—none of her favorites tempted her. I kept checking on her constantly, whispering her name, gently talking to her, telling her how much I love her. But she just stared off, tired and distant. It broke my heart.
She looked uncomfortable, too. The sutures from her procedure made it harder for her to poop, and when she finally did, it came out with visible effort and strain. I could see how uncomfortable she was, and I just wanted to take all of it away for her.
In the afternoon, I ran a shallow bath in our bathtub so she could preen and clean herself a little, hoping it would lift her mood. The moment her feet touched the water, something in her changed. She began splashing nonstop—determined and almost frantic. For over half an hour, she cleaned herself, focusing especially on her soiled backside. It was like she had an urgent need to feel normal again, to restore her dignity. I just sat there quietly, watching with tears in my eyes. It was a small moment, but it meant the world.
Later that evening, we brought her best friend Schnatterinchen inside for a visit. Emma’s entire posture shifted the moment she saw her. She perked up just a little, even wagged her tail softly. They stayed close for about an hour—no words needed, just quiet presence. It truly helped her mood. You could feel it in the room.
But still, she wouldn’t eat. Not even with Schnatterinchen there. That part worried me deeply. We knew we’d have to start tube feeding soon if she didn’t pick up—and I kept hoping she’d turn the corner on her own.
As night fell, I couldn’t stop crying. I was so scared that we were going to lose her. I kept checking on her every hour, barely sleeping. Every time I walked to her playpen, my heart pounded with fear—afraid of what I might find. I whispered to her over and over, “Please stay with us, Emma. Please keep fighting.”
Saturday: Tube Feeding and a Visit from Hertha
By Saturday morning, it was clear—Emma still hadn’t eaten nearly enough, and we couldn’t wait any longer. She had barely had anything in almost two full days. I knew she needed nutritional support urgently if she was going to have the strength to keep healing. So we made the decision to begin tube feeding her with critical care formula.
Thankfully, we had everything we needed already on hand. We still had the critical care mix in the freezer from when Simon had his phallus prolapse and also stopped eating. We’d also gone through this recently with Krümel, so we had the tools, the know-how, and the experience. But that didn’t make it emotionally any easier.
Emma hated it. She fought me with all the little energy she had. Her eyes looked at me with something between fear and betrayal, and it broke me. I kept telling her, “I’m sorry, baby girl. I know you don’t like this. But you need it. Please forgive me.” I could feel her anger and discomfort, and I honestly think for a while she was mad at me. But I had to push through—because she needed this nutrition so badly.
I also added something new to her recovery space: a mirror, thanks to a tip from @bowie_the_duck. I wasn’t sure what she’d think of it, but she actually seemed intrigued—maybe even a little amused. She stared at her reflection quietly, and there was something almost peaceful in the way she interacted with it, like it gave her some company when no one else was around.
Later in the afternoon, I had the idea to bring in Hertha, her sister and one of her closest companions. I hoped the visit would lift her spirits like it had in the past. And it did. The moment Emma saw her, something in her softened. Her eyes brightened, her posture changed, and for the first time since Thursday, she showed a flicker of joy.
The two of them sat close together, and Emma even started nibbling at some food. It wasn’t much, just a few pecks, but it was the most she’d eaten on her own since this started—and it filled me with cautious hope. Seeing them side by side again reminded me of all the good moments they’ve shared, and I knew Emma felt it too.
Hertha didn’t want to stay inside too long, though. She started quacking loudly after about half an hour, clearly missing the outdoors and the rest of the flock. So we let her go back outside—but even that short visit made a difference. Emma looked just a little bit more like herself. A little less alone.
We continued the tube feeding, continued the medications, and clung to those tiny wins. Every nibble, every tail wag, every moment of light in her eyes felt like a step forward. One breath at a time, we were getting through it—together.
Sunday: Tiny Triumphs and the Power of Companionship
Sunday morning brought a bit of light into what had felt like such a dark stretch. For the first time since her prolapse, Emma ate a little on her own. It wasn’t a lot—certainly not enough to stop tube feeding—but it was something. And it was everything to me. Just watching her peck at her food, even if only a few bites, gave me a lump in my throat. I could see she was trying.
Her mood seemed brighter, too. She wagged her tail a few times and even preened herself more carefully during her shallow bath. Water has always been her happy place, and I think these short, gentle baths were helping not just her hygiene, but her spirit too. On Sunday, she bathed for another solid 30 minutes. She was so focused—meticulously cleaning every feather, working around her healing vent. It was clearly the highlight of her day, and it was a highlight of mine, too, just watching her find comfort in that little routine.
And in those hours, Emma started eating more and more. Slowly but surely, she pecked at food beside her friend. It wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. That connection brought her comfort and seemed to spark her appetite in a way nothing else had.
But the biggest boost came when I brought Schnatterinchen inside again. Unlike Hertha, who clearly wanted to go back out, Schnatterinchen seemed more content being indoors with Emma. She settled in easily and stayed with her for several hours. The two of them were side by side almost the entire time, just quietly enjoying each other’s presence.
Still, we didn’t stop the tube feeding. She was improving, but she wasn’t there yet. We kept giving her small amounts of critical care throughout the day to make sure her nutritional needs were met. She needed all the energy she could get to continue healing.
Seeing her eat with Schnatterinchen, splash in her bath, and show interest in her mirror felt like turning points—small but mighty. I kept whispering to her: “You’re fighting, baby. Keep going. We’re with you.”
Monday: Sass and Sunshine
By Monday, something had shifted. Emma started acting more like… well, Emma. There was a spark in her again—her posture more upright, her eyes more alert. She wasn’t just surviving anymore; she was starting to come back to life.
That evening, she even picked a little fight with Krümel. And while normally I’d sigh at their squabbles, this time I was so relieved. That bit of sass—that unmistakable Emma attitude—was the moment I knew we were truly on the road to recovery. I couldn’t stop smiling. Our girl was coming back.
We had decided to stop the tube feeding that day. Emma was finally eating enough on her own—especially when it came to her favorite treats. Peas, mealworms, and soft leafy greens were back on the menu, and I let her indulge. Whatever she wanted, she got. After everything she’d been through, she deserved it all.
She also started walking more freely around the house, stretching her legs, wagging her tail, and showing curiosity again. These small moments—watching her shuffle over to her food bowl or nudge at a towel with her bill—were so heartwarming.
Schnatterinchen came inside for another visit, this time for much longer. She stayed with Emma most of the afternoon, and you could see how much it meant to them both. They nestled close, shared a few quiet moments of preening, and just rested in each other’s company. Schnatti had been such a comforting presence throughout this whole journey, and seeing the two of them together, relaxed and calm, gave me a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in days.
And of course, Emma had her bath—just like always. Still shallow and supervised, but full of splashing, cleaning, and preening. Water had become her therapy, her joy, her reclaiming of normalcy.
It was the first day I truly exhaled. Things were looking up—and Emma was leading the way.
Tuesday: Relief and a Happy Return
Tuesday marked a big milestone—Emma’s follow-up appointment to have her sutures removed. From the beginning, our vet had warned us that a relapse was possible, especially within the first few days after the tissue was repositioned. That warning had been quietly lingering in the back of my mind all week. So when it came time for the checkup, I was incredibly anxious about what they might find.
I couldn’t go myself that day because of work, so my husband took Emma to the vet, and bless him—he kept me updated every step of the way. Every text he sent, every small update, I clung to. My heart was pounding until I finally read the words I’d been hoping for: “Everything looks good. No sign of recurrence.”
I exhaled for the first time in what felt like forever. The vet was pleased with her healing. The sutures came out cleanly, and the tissue was holding up well. The prolapse hadn’t returned. After everything Emma had endured, those words felt like a small miracle.
She was officially cleared to go back outside—a moment I think she had been dreaming about as much as I had.
As soon as we got her home and opened the door to the yard, Emma made a beeline for the pool. The very first thing she did was hop in and take the longest, happiest bath. She flapped, splashed, dunked, and preened with pure joy. Watching her in the water again—where she clearly felt most like herself—made my heart swell. After days of fear and careful recovery, she was finally able to just be.
She quickly found her way back to the flock, but the real reunion was with Schnatterinchen. The two of them had missed each other so much. They tucked themselves in close that evening, side by side like always, and cuddled to sleep. Seeing them together again made me tear up. After everything Emma had been through, she was home.
She’s not quite 100% yet—still a bit more tired than usual, and we’re keeping a close eye on her—but the difference is incredible. She’s eating on her own, exploring the yard, and wagging her tail again. Her eyes are bright. Her spirit is coming back.
To protect her during this critical time, Simon is in “drake jail”—a temporary separation to give her a break from any mating pressure. We want to give her the peace and space she needs to fully recover. She deserves nothing less.
Seeing her happy again, soaking in the sunshine and floating in her pool, surrounded by the ones she loves—it’s everything I had hoped for.
Reunited and Healing Together
While Hertha was such a comfort during the early days of Emma’s recovery, it became more and more clear who Emma had been truly longing for—Schnatterinchen. From the moment Emma was back outside, those two picked up right where they left off, like no time had passed. They’re now side by side all day, whether they’re foraging, resting, or just wandering the yard together. And at night? They snuggle up close like nothing ever happened. That kind of bond between ducks is so special, and watching them together again after all we’ve been through brings tears to my eyes. It’s like Emma is whole again.
She’s still under close watch, and we’re giving her all the time and space she needs. But she’s healing. She’s here. After those terrifying first few days—when I didn’t know if she’d make it through—I can’t begin to explain how grateful I am to be able to say that.
I’m just so happy she recovered. Truly, deeply, overwhelmingly happy.
I’ll never forget the fear I felt when I first found her that morning—the helplessness, the panic, the heartbreak of watching her struggle. But now, to see her waddling through the yard, splashing in the pool, nibbling on treats, and cuddling with Schnatti again—it fills my heart in a way words can’t fully describe.
If you ever find yourself in a similar situation with one of your ducks, please don’t wait. Trust your instincts. Get them the help they need. Ducks are incredibly strong and resilient, but they rely on us to recognize when something’s wrong. They rely on our care, our attention, and most of all—our love.
💛 Stay strong, sweet Emma. You are so deeply loved. And we’re so lucky to have you still with us.
