Oh, *cobweb_monkey*. We see you, and we feel this in our bones, the kind of bone-deep dread that only comes when a feathered friend who usually ignores you with majestic indifference suddenly can't stand. You gave her a warm Epsom salt bath, which is what every well-meaning chicken parent does when they suspect egg binding, and she came out looking *worse*. That's not just scary, that's the kind of scary that makes you Google symptoms at 2 a.m. and spiral into a pit of "what if I'm the worst chicken keeper alive."
That bath might have been the wrong call, and you need a vet now. Not tomorrow. Not after you try one more home remedy. Now. Epsom salt baths work when a chicken is egg-bound and still has the energy to push. But Plymouth isn't just not laying, she's lethargic, she's weak, and she's been off for a month. That timeline tells us this isn't molting (molting birds are grumpy but still standing) and it isn't a quick egg blockage. Something systemic is eating her from the inside. A reproductive infection, internal laying, or even a tumor could explain the drop in energy and the failure to respond to treatment. The bath may have stressed her already fragile system, she came out looking sicker because she *was* sicker, and the warm water just pushed her over the edge.
We would tell you directly: stop guessing. You're not a vet, and this bird is past the point where a Reddit diagnosis or a warm soak will save her. Call every avian vet within driving distance. If none are available, ask a regular vet if they'll see a chicken, some will, in an emergency. In the meantime, keep her warm, quiet, and separate from your other hen. Offer water with a little poultry electrolyte powder if you have it, but don't force-feed. Watch for labored breathing, a swollen abdomen, or a bluish comb, those are red flags for an emergency euthanasia decision. It's the worst part of loving these ridiculous, demanding, stubborn little dinosaurs: sometimes love means knowing when to let go, and sometimes it means making the frantic, expensive, inconvenient phone call to a professional.
What this means for you, practically, is that you've already done the brave thing, you admitted you're scared. Now do the next brave thing: put Plymouth in a carrier and drive. You might get good news, or you might get the hard news that lets her go peacefully. Either way, you'll know you didn't leave her to suffer in a bath that made everything worse. And that, cluck-tastic or not, is the only way to sleep at night.