by Nancy Laracy
I called our tennis and swim club and enrolled Julie and Chris in the day camp so they would be supervised while Ward was at work. I phoned Ward at work with the update. He assured me again that he would work shorter hours and take “impeccable” care of Bunny Boy and the children. I knew he would, but I went over the instructions for Bunny Boy’s care numerous times, just to be sure. Ward made no attempt to mask his sigh on the other end of the line. I could hear him using his calculator while I rambled.
“Repeat the instructions back to me, honey,” I said, not satisfied that he had memorized them. The phone clicked. I hit speed dial. I knew the kids could fend for themselves if need be, but with Bunny Boy, I wasn’t taking any chances.
My mother and I arrived in Denver around two-thirty in the morning. We drove into the blackness, past the bright white caps of the airport building’s terminals and heading for the real peaks. Mom was rattling off directions from MapQuest like she had drunk ten cups of coffee.
“You’re a real trooper, Mom.” I whispered. “We’re all so lucky to have you.”
• • •
My mother smiled and her eyes twinkled. “I’m the one who’s lucky, sweetheart. Don’t ever forget that.” I knew that I never would. I felt the same way about my children, and I hoped they’d always remember that, too.
When we pulled into the driveway, I could see Tom’s silhouette through the picture window in the front of the house. The three of us embraced the moment we walked through the door and shed enough tears to start a mudslide.
“Thank god you’re here,” Tom said when we finally let go of each other. “I’ve been sitting here trying to make some sense of this nightmare. It doesn’t seem possible. Why is this happening, Mom?”
“Your sister and I will help you work through some of this. God will do the rest,” said my mother. Her unshakable faith had gotten us all through my brother’s illness and my father’s heart attacks.
I descended into the man cave in the basement at four in the morning and literally fell onto the futon out of sheer exhaustion. I was in overwhelming pain from the traveling—handling the luggage and pushing my mother, who was still recovering from back surgery, in a wheelchair through the airport—and I quickly felt ashamed for even thinking about my pain during such a terrible time for Tom and Audrey. Briefly, I thought of Bunny Boy and tried to imagine him curled up on my chest, wiggling his nose. Eventually, I fell asleep.
In what felt like ten minutes later, eight pounds of male dog pounced on my chest, waking me from a troubled rest. It was seven a.m.
“No, Jake!” Tom’s boys, Evan and Drew, jumped on top of me along with the dog, nearly squeezing the breath out of my body. The boys were identical in size, despite being a year apart in age, and very handsome. Drew resembled his mother—light hair, fair skin. Evan was a clone of his father—thick black hair and olive skin.
We climbed up the stairs—one nephew under each arm and Jake at my heels. My mother and Tom were sitting in front of the bay window that overlooked the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The backdrop was spectacular. The tall, jagged mountain peaks cut into the blue sky, and there were small clusters of white clouds as far as the eye could see. A dark cloud hovered above the tallest peak, dropping snowflakes even though it was summer. The sun bathed the entire back of the house. “We put our sunglasses on before our slippers out here,” said Tom. I spotted a wild bunny deep in the greenery and pictured Bunny Boy many miles away, munching on his lettuce.
I started breakfast for the boys, helping to keep a semblance of normalcy in a household that had been rocked to its core. Audrey walked into the kitchen. She looked sweet but pale, her strawberry blonde curls falling just above her shoulders. Her faded jeans hugged her curves. I held her close. I could feel her body trembling. “Thank you for coming,” said Audrey, whose soothing voice always sounded like a meandering stream.
We drove north along the base of the Rocky Mountains. The sound of the diesel engine broke the silence. What could we say? I desperately wanted to tell Audrey that everything was going to be fine, but I didn’t know for sure. The road ahead could be long and difficult. So, we rode in silence into an unpredictable future of whatever was going to happen next. And no matter what happened, we knew we would face it together, as we always did.
The look of fear on Audrey’s face as they brought her into the operating room was haunting. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Nine and a half hours later, the surgeon walked into the waiting area, his face drawn and dotted with perspiration.
“The tumor was encapsulated,” he said and patted my brother on the back with an exhausted surgeon’s reassuring smile. “I think we got it all.” Tom broke down and sobbed in my arms.
Seeing Audrey was devastating at first. A macabre necklace of stitches ran from one ear across her throat to the other, which I quickly realized would become a badge of honor for this young woman—a mother and wife, my sister, and a good friend—who was going to beat the cancer with her usual quiet strength and determination.
Before any of us had a chance to catch our breath and rejoice, the second wave crashed onto the shore. The next morning, my phone started ringing at the alarmingly early hour of six a.m. I rummaged through my purse in the dark, half asleep. It was only eight in the morning at home. What could have happened?
It was Ward. “What’s up honey?” I asked. “Do you miss me?” We had never been apart from each other for more than a weekend since we married, and neither one of us liked to be separated for long.
“It’s Bunny Boy,” Ward said. I could tell by the sound of his voice that he had been afraid to call me with the news. “He’s got a growth the size of a tennis ball hanging from his chin.”
I bolted upright in the futon. “And you just noticed it?” I said, sounding a bit more accusatory than I meant to.
“It wasn’t there when I spoke to you last night,” said Ward helplessly.
“Does Bunny Boy seem to be in pain?”
“I found him sitting hunched over from the weight of the thing. It can’t be comfortable.”
I sprang into action. It was Sunday morning and Dr. Welch wasn’t in. I called home to my sister, Carol, and got the name of a twenty-four-hour veterinarian. I called Ward back.
“Please take Bunny Boy to the vet immediately and call me when you get there.” Then, I paced the man cave anxiously, waiting for the phone to ring. I had never anticipated such worrisome medical problems with Bunny Boy.
Though my trip to Denver was on short notice, I thought I had done a stellar job covering all the bases. I had left no stone unturned in my preparations for any eventuality. The refrigerator was stocked and there was a bale of hay and six heads of romaine lettuce for Bunny Boy. Post-its hung on all visible surfaces in the kitchen, and large, colorful signs were taped on each door leading outside—“Don’t do it. Mom will kill you.” I had reorganized the drug drawer, moving my prescriptions to the left and keeping benign items like Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, and cough syrup in the basket to the right, marked with more Post-its—“Stomach aches only. Not dessert. Sweating doesn’t count.” As a joke, I had taped Dr. Welch’s phone number to the headboard to our bed, but I had never in a million years thought that Ward would need to use it.
My mother was mixing batter for pancakes when “Moon River,” my ringtone of choice, finally played on my cell phone. When I picked it up, all I could hear in the background was a terrible, high-pitched, relentless shrilling. I knew it was Bunny Boy. It was the most horrible, terrifying sound I had ever heard. I finally understood why the sharpshooters at Waco, Texas, used audio recordings of terrified rabbits to lure out hostage takers. “Bunny Boy had a huge abscess on his jaw,” said Ward calmly, trying to head off my clear distress. “The technician put him in a headlock while the doctor squeezed the thing like it was a huge pimple right in front of us. It was horrible.”
I instantly felt nauseous. My adrenaline kicked in. What if Bunny Boy died of a heart attack from fear or pain? Rabbits ha
ve weak hearts …
“Thank god you weren’t here,” added Ward, trying to tease me. “You’d be on trial for murder.” With Ward, legal references of one sort or another always cropped up no matter the circumstance. I tried to block out the screaming. It’s an abscess, and Ward has it under control, I told myself. But then I heard the sound of Chris crying.
“Why is Chris crying?” I asked, and Ward hesitated. “Ward?”
“There’s no cure for these types of abscesses, Nancy.”
“But that’s impossible,” I said, trying to compose myself. What was he talking about?
“I can’t be alone with Julie and Chris if this rabbit dies,” Ward said. “Is there any way you might be able to come home tonight instead of tomorrow night?”
“Tonight? I don’t know, Ward. How can I leave Audrey?” I said. “I need to think this through. I’ll talk to Tom and call you back.” As soon as I hung up, Tom came down the stairs and put his arm around me.
“We’ll be just fine; we’re out of the woods now, Nance,” he said. He nodded his head yes and smiled when he saw my uncertainty. “You need to be with them. They need you now. Animals are like a member of the family.” Tom looked over at Jake, who was curled up on Drew’s lap. I knew my brother understood, but I needed to talk to Audrey before I made my decision.
I sat by Audrey on the sofa shortly after dusk and we talked—easily, happily, the way we always do. She was so brave. I thought how lucky we all were that, at least for now, our wonderful Audrey was safe. She reassured me that the worst was over and that they would be all right without us. Thankfully, their church and neighborhood had organized childcare and meals for the next three weeks. She thanked me again for coming and told me she loved me. Still, despite her reassurances, I walked into the kitchen with great trepidation and heaviness, wondering if I was making the right decision, and called Ward. I told him I was coming home.
I knew some people would think I was crazy to leave my sister-in-law to rush home to Bunny Boy, but something told me I needed to do it. If only I had known then how my decision to come home early would come to profoundly affect the rest of my life.
Once again, my poor mother and I boarded a plane on a moment’s notice, taking the red-eye and heading home. A driver was waiting for us outside the departure hall, holding a sign that read “Laracy”—written inside the outline of a bunny. I forced a smile.
My hands shook as I punched in the code to the garage door. The house was eerily quiet. As the cage came into view, I saw Bunny Boy sitting on his haunches in his litter pan. The abscess was painfully visible. I rushed over and picked him up gently. “How’s my little boy?” I said, nearly choking on my words. He looked sad and beat-up. I kissed his droopy ears and sweet little paws, nuzzling him deep in my neck. His nose was dry. His whiskers were at a standstill.
“I’m home now,” I whispered. “Mommy’s home.” Then I felt it. The subtle fluttering of his whiskers. Bunny Boy started to purr.
When I looked up, Ward was standing on the landing of the stairs. We wrapped our arms around each other, cradling Bunny Boy between us, feeling the warmth of his small body, grateful to be together again.
Then I peeked in quietly on Julie and Chris in their beds. I had missed them so much. Julie looked peaceful, curled up in her crowded bed full of lime-green pillows and Beanbo, her old, faded-pink stuffed rabbit. Beanbo, which had arrived the day of her christening wrapped in pink cellophane and tied with a large pink bow, was her lifelong blankie. Chris was asleep on top of his plaid comforter, covered in sweat as usual. He seemed to have been born with a faulty internal thermostat. I breathed a sigh of relief to see both kids sleeping peacefully.
Today would be a difficult day. I was sure of it.
• • •
I phoned Dr. Welch’s office and took an eleven o’clock appointment. Julie and Chris took a day off from school and came along. Nobody had gotten much sleep the night before.
The veterinarian’s office was packed again, standing room only. A rainbow-colored bird that was propped on his owner’s shoulder piqued my interest—and Bunny Boy’s. The bird was peering down into a carrier that housed a beautiful cat with long black hair and emerald green eyes. It uttered a variety of sounds that ranged in volume—all of which had special meaning, according to her proud owner. All of which startled Bunny Boy. He clawed his way up my chest, hanging onto me for dear life.
When we were finally called into the office, Dr. Welch cupped Bunny Boy’s head and examined the abscess. Despite being drained at the emergency vet, it had grown to the size of a golf ball again. Chris couldn’t help himself. He blurted out the grizzly details of their visit the night before.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, honey,” said Dr. Welch, gently pushing the hair back on his forehead. She had a beautiful way about her and an infectious smile. She examined the inside of Bunny Boy’s mouth thoroughly. “The abscess stems from the root of his tooth,” She explained, remarking that his teeth were misaligned—a malocclusion. “Bunny Boy could use some braces,” she said, winking at Chris.
Then she looked at me and became more serious. “These abscesses are common in bunnies and almost impossible to cure,” she said. I saw a glint of moisture in Chris’s eyes. “Hay works well as dental floss for rabbits, but it can also puncture their gums, allowing bacteria to enter. In a healthy rabbit, it’s not usually a problem, but more than likely, Bunny Boy was born with a compromised immune system. I’ll need to draw some blood.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Did she just say that Bunny Boy might have a compromised immune system? How was it possible that I had adopted a rabbit that had similar autoimmune problems I did, and ones that were just as incurable? This was crazy.
“If we can keep the infection out of his organs or bloodstream for six months, we’ll be lucky.” Dr. Welch added sadly.
“But he’s just a baby! What about surgery?” I said, with the same blind determination that had characterized my reaction to my own incurable condition. I had refused to accept defeat for myself, and I certainly wasn’t going to accept defeat for Bunny Boy.
“Debriding an abscess is fairly routine with humans or other mammals, but the anesthesia poses a much greater risk for a rabbit. Their hearts are weak,” she explained.
“Will Bunny Boy die soon without the surgery?” I asked. Dr. Welch didn’t answer me, but she patted my arm gently, the way she had brushed back my son’s hair. That said it all.
“I want him to have a chance at a full life,” I said, fighting back the tears.
“Of course. I understand. We can schedule the surgery for Thursday and see how he does, but I want you to prepare yourself for the possibility that we could lose him.”
I refused once again to let thoughts of losing Bunny Boy enter my mind. I threw my arms around her without reservation, feeling thankful that she was willing to give Bunny Boy a chance. As Dr. Welch hugged me back tightly, I knew in an instant that Bunny Boy would be in the very best of hands. If anybody could help our bunny beat the odds, it was this remarkable doctor.
“One other thing: try applying some hot compresses to Bunny Boy’s jaw. They’ll make him more comfortable and soften the contents of the abscess. It will be easier to drain.”
• • •
Julie and Chris had many questions on the short ride home. Questions I couldn’t and didn’t want to answer. I called Scuffy’s, and Loretta gave me the name of another veterinarian in the area who worked with rabbits. I wanted to be sure we were doing the right thing. The prognosis was just as bleak, but I refused to accept it. Neither veterinarian knew whom they were dealing with. And neither did Bunny Boy—yet.
When I left the cardiac wing of a hospital six years ago in 1995 with a clear diagnosis of acute parvovirus B-19 and was told that there was no treatment for the virus, I did some research of my own. I found two published studies in the New England Journal of Medicine and the Lancet in which doctors in Europe experimented with the use
of intravenous gamma globulin as a treatment for acute cases of parvovirus. The medical community was just beginning to fully discover the devastating effects of acute parvovirus in adults—and women in particular. Parvovirus, previously known at Fifth’s disease, is, under most circumstances, a benign virus that usually strikes children, giving them mild cold symptoms, fever, and a distinct lace-looking rash on their extremities along with bright red cheeks. I immediately brought the studies to my rheumatologist who promptly tossed them and refused to consider the treatment. His ego couldn’t take it. But I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
The next day, I called the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia, and they asked me to send them a sample of my blood. They were researching the prevalence of acute parvovirus B-19 cases in the United States. Within days of receiving my blood sample, they enrolled me in a study and found me a new rheumatologist in New Jersey named Dr. Debra Pasik who ran a more open-minded practice. I became a candidate to receive the cutting-edge treatment. After six months of IV gamma globulin treatment once a month, the virus stopped replicating in my DNA and ceased to wreak havoc on my body, but I was left with the damage it had done to my immune system in the form of a connective tissue disease and fibromyalgia. I also lived with the memories of the muscle cramps, fevers, and severe malaise that I endured during the treatments, along with the anxiety of the possibility that I could go into anaphylactic shock, which was one of the rarer but more serious side effects of that powerful medicine—which could be fatal.
I had demanded so much for my care. So why on earth would I settle for any less for Bunny Boy? Somehow, somewhere, we would find a way to fight this together. And because we were together, I knew we could beat the odds.