by Nancy Laracy
One of the first things that went through my mind was that I was temporarily paralyzed from Guillain-Barré, a virus my doctors periodically checked me for. I had seen Guillain-Barré strike a friend a few years back, paralyzing her for days. I pushed away the unimaginable possibility and tried to reach for the phone. My arms and legs felt as though they were tied to cement blocks, but I was able to move the slightest bit.
“Bunny Boy, I need the phone,” I cried out desperately, a little incredulous at my words. I knew a dog might understand what I was saying, but even though Bunny Boy was highly intelligent, I wasn’t sure he would.
“Bunny Boy, Mommy needs the phone,” I repeated anxiously, praying that someone was watching over me. “Let’s play,” I added with great foresight, encouraging him to play with the phone and hoping he would inadvertently knock it in my direction.
Bunny Boy popped onto all fours and leaned back on his haunches. We locked eyes. He stared down at my sweaty face. His eyes spoke to me. I believe he sensed something was wrong. Patches of his fur were moist and matted down from my sweat. He started sniffing my face almost in fast motion, like a dog might. It seemed he was trying to figure out what was going on and what to do.
“Buddy, please, get me the phone.”
By some miracle or amazing coincidence, Bunny Boy reached his front paws down and turned his head toward me, keeping the rest of his body flush against my stomach as if to reassure me that he wasn’t going anywhere, while he nudged the phone closer toward my hand. Tears rushed down my cheeks as I watched this beautiful animal bring me the help I needed. I tried to lift the phone, successfully, but it felt as heavy as a brick. I was blubbering amidst my terror, telling Bunny Boy how much I needed him and how grateful I was.
You’re able to move now, so just stay calm, I tried to convince myself. There’s no need to call an ambulance. It can’t be that bad. But my fear was bigger than me. My father would have never survived his first heart attack had the ambulance not gotten to our home in time.
I dialed two of my neighbors, hoping to get another human being in the house as quickly as possible. Nobody answered. How I ached for my mother or sister, but Mom was in Colorado visiting Tom and Carol was at work. I successfully called a dear close friend, Lisa, who lived about ten minutes away. Then I called Ward. Finally, they were on their way over. I dropped my arm that held the phone to the side out of sheer exhaustion and began to pray. Dear God, I need your help.
Within minutes, Lisa had used the garage code to let herself into the house. When she came into the room, Bunny Boy was lying in the crook of my neck, sensing, the way a steadfast companion might, that he needed to stay close to me. Every few minutes, he would reach his head up to nuzzle my cheek, letting me know I wasn’t alone.
“I am so weak I can barely move, Lisa!” I sobbed. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“I am here, Nance,” she said in that cheerful voice I had come to rely on to keep me positive during difficult times. There was nothing I couldn’t share with Lisa.
“I need to go to the bathroom, but there’s no way I can get there. I don’t have the strength.” I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of my mouth. This was not Nancy. I was stronger than this.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Lisa lifted me up tenderly and carried all one hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight to the bathroom.
“I knew you were sick, Nance, but I’m not sure I really understood just how sick,” she whispered, gently pushing a sweaty strand of hair off my face. My body started to shake and the beads of perspiration dripped down from my forehead.
With no rush-hour traffic, Ward made it home quickly. He ran into the bedroom with a mixture of fright and sadness on his face. I had never called him at work and said the words “You need to come home” before—except for the time Chris fell off the swings and needed stitches while my car was in the shop.
We drove to the rheumatologist. I lay in the backseat of the car. By that point, I was able to sit up, but I wanted to conserve my physical energy. I walked into the reception area at a turtle’s pace, Ward by my side, feeling as though I had run fifty miles with a full load of camping gear on my back.
“We need to talk seriously about starting methotrexate,” said Dr. Pasik in her calm, low-pitched voice, which I had grown to appreciate. Methotrexate was a form of chemotherapy. In the past five years, it had showed great promise treating some autoimmune diseases by suppressing chronic inflammation in the body. At the correct dose and proper monitoring, it was effective and reasonably safe. I had done extensive research on it myself, knowing that, at some point, I would probably have to go on it. But I had hoped to avoid it until it was absolutely necessary. Both of the medicines we discussed can be toxic to your liver, kidneys, and blood, and they alter the proper functioning of the very complicated immune system. In my weakened state, part of me wanted to start one of the medications right away, but the logical part was still fearful and not quite ready to make the leap.
“Let’s give you an injection of steroids and up your oral dose and see how you feel in a few days. If you are not feeling dramatically better, we will start the methotrexate, but in the meantime let’s get some comprehensive blood work.”
I knew that, along with the usual blood work, she had to make sure I didn’t have tuberculosis. We had a plan.
Miraculously, the prednisone did its job. Within a few days, I was feeling somewhat stronger, and by late October I was markedly better. My pain had decreased, even though I had not regained all of my energy.
“We’re going,” I announced emphatically, feeling well enough to continue with our vacation plans to Kiawah Island.
Ward suggested that we invite our babysitter, Kelsey, to help out with the kids. Bunny Boy would be staying at my mother’s house for the first time. My mom’s dog and cat had recently both died within two months of each other, and she and Carol were begging for Bunny Boy’s company.
And so we planned for a smooth, restful week. But we neglected to factor in that our tall, beautiful babysitter, with her flowing sandy-brown hair, striking brown eyes, and knock-’em-dead legs, would be a boy magnet. Kelsey started out the trip as an extra set of hands—and ended up being an extra set of problems. Like any normal seventeen-year-old, she wanted to spend most of her time with the teens at the pool or the beach and not with our run-of-the-mill family of four. Throughout the vacation, Kelsey and her rented bike would be missing for extended periods of time, leading up to an alarming night of frantic phone calls, a discovery of missing alcohol from our stash, and finally a knock on our door at one o’clock in the morning where we found her flanked by two resort police officers.
By the time we returned home from the Deep South, having learned how to “shag” and shuck oysters the proper way and cohabitate with palmetto bugs the size of silver dollars, my mother and sister refused to return Bunny Boy.
“He was such wonderful company and barely any work,” my mom marveled. Throughout our vacation, I had, of course, called my mother several times to check on him, and my cell phone was filled with pictures of Bunny Boy enjoying his new playground. I was not sure who looked happier, him or my mother.
“Can we keep him one more day?” she begged.
“Please bring him back tonight. Julie and Chris are anxiously awaiting his return.”
“Just Julie and Chris?” she teased.
My mother came over toting a sack of new toys for Bunny Boy. At home, our lagomorph was welcomed and greeted with more pomp and circumstance than the president. We had all missed him.
“Bunny Boy is so special,” Mom said with a glimmer in her eyes that told me she yearned for another pet of her own. “Some animals come to us for a reason.”
“I believe he did,” I replied. “Bunny Boy and I were meant to find each other. I cannot remember life without him.”
I tucked him close to my chest and told him how much I missed him and how happy he made me. Sweetly, Bunny Boy nudged my
chin with his twittering nose and rested his head on my shoulder, like a toddler glad to see its mommy.
“He’ll continue to keep an eye on you, honey, much like Flop did with your father,” Mom said.
“He already does,” said Ward without a moment’s hesitation.
Chapter 13
Soon, the holidays were upon us. Fall was my second favorite time of the year, after Christmas, for decorating and homemaking. A fire burned in our hearth and the smell of embers and a pumpkin candle permeated the air. Bunny Boy’s fur was actually a combination of beautiful autumnal shades, and I found the warm colors soothing. Fall was also a time for cooking hearty meals, and just about every meal in our house had something made from pumpkin or apples!
By the time Thanksgiving came each year, we were all tired of eating pumpkin muffins, apple pancakes, and other assorted seasonal items. This year’s holiday was no different. We hung out in the family room, still feeling the effects of the tryptophan from our Thanksgiving turkey the day before, relieved that the last pumpkin had been tossed in the garbage. In keeping with tradition, I had prepared our usual Thanksgiving feast for my small extended family of twenty. Ironically, it seemed like less work with the added fun of watching Bunny Boy knock things out of cabinets as I reached for the mixer or as he slid around in bits of flour or sugar that I spilled! Like most years, we had much to be grateful for, and Bunny Boy was the focus of our gratitude this year.
I looked up from my magazine. Ward was relaxed on the sofa while Julie and Chris huddled over the computer playing “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?” I felt a peacefulness and closeness with my family. Daily life was often hectic, and I relished our quiet time together. Bunny Boy was stretched out on top of the air duct next to the fireplace, his whiskers fluttering rapidly from the heat. Ward flashed me a playful look of envy when he saw my facial expression of pure adoration for Bunny Boy.
“Why don’t we take some pictures of Bunny Boy with the children for the annual Christmas card?” he said.
Even the kids looked up in surprise. Our annual Christmas card was a controversial issue every year. I always wanted a family photo, but no one else did. I had already planned to bring up the topic in early December, hoping that, with a bunny on board, I would get greater cooperation. But Ward had beat me to it.
Ward enthusiastically pulled out his new digital camera from the drawer, a gift from a client. For a moment, I wondered if the spirit of my father had entered Ward’s body. My dad loved sending and receiving Christmas cards, as well as bringing in the mail during the Christmas season. When Flop was alive, we would hear him tell her how many cards he thought were in the pile. Every year, the Buchalski family pitched in to write and send out a hundred Christmas cards while sipping hot chocolate and eating Twinkies or Ring Dings as the yule log burned on the television set. Ward, on the other hand, had not grown up with the tradition of Christmas cards, and he hated the bickering that took place in our household when Julie and Chris were old enough to voice an opinion on the matter.
“We don’t like ‘being on display,’ or dressed in matching Christmas outfits for all our relatives and friends to see,” they would complain.
But this time was different. There was a unanimous burst of excitement and genuine interest. Chris whisked up Bunny Boy and brushed his fur—which had been blown in a million directions by the air vent. Julie raced up to her room and returned wearing a different shirt and light-pink lip gloss. Her light-brown hair cascaded down her back instead of being held up in her usual ponytail, which made her look naturally beautiful. I gave up on the notion of waiting to have a Christmas tree in the background, welcoming our positive, spontaneous family spirit instead.
With our new digital camera, we could take as many pictures as we wanted without worrying about the cost of developing the film. Bunny Boy and the kids had a ball arranging themselves in various poses. When it came time to choose from the forty or so pictures, we inspected each photo like we were Scotland Yard, searching for a pivotal clue in a murder case. Faces lit up, eyebrows furrowed, and jaws dropped!
“We like this one,” Ward and Chris cried simultaneously. Out of all of the photos, they had zeroed in on a picture of Julie and Chris holding Bunny Boy in front of the living room fireplace. The lighting was perfect. The setting was lovely.
“But it’s X-rated!” I said, half joking. Julie had her arms around Bunny Boy’s torso while his thumper legs hung low, exposing his jewels. “No way!”
“Watch this!” said Ward, winking at the kids. He popped the chip back into the camera, tweaked a few buttons, and in a matter of seconds, Bunny Boy was electronically neutered and patches of soft white fur covered his splendid male anatomy. Technology was amazing.
In keeping with our theme, we enjoyed a very “bunny” Christmas, too. Our lagomorph had his own red velvet stocking with white fur trim on the fireplace next to ours, full of edible seasonal treats. Julie and Chris had picked out everything. It warmed my soul watching them experience a different kind of love—the love for a pet. I had bought a few rabbit ornaments for the Christmas tree and a bunny doorknocker. Bunny Boy wasn’t sure what to make of our two Christmas trees. He gazed at the twinkling lights from afar, hesitating to investigate them further. I worried he might chew the needles or tug at the lights and ornaments, but my fears—at least for this first year—were unfounded. For my Christmas gifts, Julie bought me a black T-shirt with a picture of a bunny dragging a Christmas tree by his teeth, and Chris bought me a package of bunny socks with six different neon color combinations.
• • •
Throughout fall and winter, we had also been enjoying the children’s sports season. Because I grew with an athletic mother and a father who coached my brothers’ Little League teams, sports had always been an important part of my life. As a young girl, I joined Memorial Cadets, the town color guard—first as a flag girl and then as a proud rifle twirler. I quit track tryouts the second week when I jumped over our boxwood hedges from the grass to the driveway practicing hurdles, instead of the reverse, breaking my two front teeth on the concrete. In high school, I wanted to try something new. I joined the dance club and cheerleading. I also made the gymnastics team. Though I had never had formal gymnastics training, I was naturally flexible and eager to put my backyard tumbling to work. And, with the prodding of my five-foot-short, one-hundred-pound mother who played field hockey and basketball in the late 1940s, by junior year I had overcome my fear of the bigger athletic girls and played field hockey for one season. Looking back, I wonder how my parents found the time, let alone the discretionary income, to always support us children in our endeavors.
And now at this point in our family’s life, Ward and I were experiencing similar pleasure and fulfillment through our children. Sitting at Chris’s soccer games on crisp, sunny days so typical of fall brought me great joy, as did watching Julie progress at her gymnastics and dance lessons. And seeing Bunny Boy learn new tasks like climbing the stepstool or prying open the cabinet door where I kept his corn sticks and other snacks was the icing on the cake!
Basketball season that year was a special one for the Laracy family. Letters had been sent out from the Franklin Lakes recreation center—they were in desperate need of coaches for the grammar school boys’ teams. With Chris’s help, I set a plan into motion one night, and poor Ward walked through the door right onto a land mine.
“Hey, Dad, Johnny’s father says he’ll coach our basketball team this year if you’ll be his assistant.” He gave Ward a hearty slap on the back. “What do you think?”
“Is that right?” Ward replied nonchalantly, opening some of the mail he had brought in. Jonathan was Chris’s best friend, and his father, Dan, was an attorney who had the same demanding work schedule as Ward. Neither man had ever played an organized team sport and yet were to coach the boys’ teams.
As we sat down for dinner, the phone rang. As part of our brilliant plan, I let Ward answer it. Jonathan had been instructed to tell hi
s father that Ward was interested in coaching this year and was hoping Dan would be his assistant coach. No more than a minute into their conversation, Ward looked right at me.
“Well, Dan, I think we’ve just been set up. Chris told me that you were coaching the boys, not me, and that you were looking for an assistant. I smell a rat, my friend.”
Chris kicked me under the table. “Bunny Boy can be the team mascot,” I whispered to him. The idea had just come to me.
“If we coach together, we’ll make sure we have the boys on the same team, Dan,” Ward said, with resignation. But the excitement I sensed in his voice told me that he was ready to be Chris’s coach, regardless of how difficult it might be. “With our busy schedules and lack of experience, we can make it work.”
While Dan and Ward had a keen interest in watching the NBA basketball games and often made it to the last half of their son’s games after work, their coaching credentials were seriously lacking. Most of the dads who coached had been college players themselves and were all trying to relive their youth, it seemed. Dan and Ward just tried to show up on time.
By late January, basketball season was in full swing, and the city lawyers’ boys’ team, the Mohawks, had a wealth of talent. Dan and Ward had either gotten lucky in the draw or they knew more about basketball than I thought. Or, perhaps it was the luck of our furry mascot, who came to the games.
We had record-breaking snow that winter. Luckily, Bunny Boy loved a good snowstorm. He developed an infatuation with the magical white powder, which made him even more irresistible. He’d lie on his belly with his nose up against the French doors in the sunroom and gaze at the snowflakes as they fell—in awe of their natural beauty. Sometimes, he’d glide his front paws along the glass panes on either side of the front door, as if trying to feel one of the fluffy, white flakes, or he’d popcorn out of sheer excitement, leaving paw prints on the moist glass.