by Nancy Laracy
Bunny Boy would usually be at the games to watch the slaughter—weather permitting. If it was hotter than eighty degrees, he remained behind. Heat stroke is very common in rabbits. When Bunny Boy was there, we would watch Julie from my camping chair. He would sit on my lap in his “high alert—I’m happy” stance and stare at the court, seemingly interested in what was going on. Bunny Boy taught me you could be an enthusiastic fan by quietly using positive body language—just like the uppity rituals of tennis, which were a new experience. I was used to Chris’s contact sports, where pretty much anything went. Bullhorns and whistles were background noise. Ward was known to run up and down the sidelines on the soccer field or basketball court, pumping up Chris, while I screamed from the bleachers. At least some things still stayed the same. When Ward was able to come to Julie’s afternoon matches, he would pace behind the bleachers and shake his head. “I’m far less tense when I’m working on a multimillion-dollar deal, for Pete’s sake.”
I soon earned my “team mom” status, traveling throughout the state to Julie’s matches and hosting pasta parties, complete with a brilliant cake for dessert—a fluorescent-yellow iced tennis ball designed by our local bakery. I was playfully chastised by the coach for bringing homemade donuts as the girls’ snacks early in the season instead of fruit and granola bars. But I got back in her good graces by listening to stories about “Harry,” her dwarf bunny, and designing a knock-’em-dead poster for the state championships. For the first time in the history of the high school, the girls’ tennis team made it to the state championships. I was enjoying living vicariously through my talented teenage daughter. And so was Bunny Boy, who finally had the chance to become a mascot for Julie’s tennis team—at least in her mind and mine.
• • •
By mid-October, autumn was in full bloom. Fall in the northeast is a spectacle of nature. The fiery blaze of colors from the trees ranges in hues from red to gold, creating a magnificent backdrop for the many lakes and quaint towns. But fall also means traffic jams along most of the northeast coast, and homeowners have to rake or blow leaves constantly to keep their lawns pristine.
I, too, had a new love-hate relationship with autumn. I dreaded the increase in my pain level. Fibromyalgia patients suffer tremendously from barometric pressure swings. Sudden changes in temperature, characteristic of the spring and fall, wreak havoc on our bodies. But I loved the changing landscape as the summer palettes of pink and purple flowers withered away and were replaced by the bright orange, red, and yellow leaves from the majestic deciduous trees that define the Bergen County suburbs. I welcomed the lack of humidity and the slightly cooler temperatures. After a long, hot summer, I looked forward to putting on a sweatshirt and curling up with a good book and a cup of hot tea or relaxing in our outdoor Jacuzzi with the family, chatting and stargazing.
We had scheduled a complete overhaul of our family room, Bunny Boy’s primary place of residence, for October 25. The demolition date crept up on us overnight and we were still scrambling to empty out cluttered bookcases and closets to vacate the lagomorph lounge. Except for Bunny Boy. He was boycotting the whole project, stretched out on the sofa in a “leave me alone, I’m chilling” position. Thirty minutes into the project, Julie and Chris were already bickering over who had done the most work, and Ward was designating anything that wasn’t nailed down to the floors or walls as garbage.
When it came time to tackle the electronic equipment, tensions were high. Ward and Chris struggled to remove the oversized vintage television from the sixties-style bookcase and began maneuvering it on the landing. That got Bunny Boy’s attention. Suddenly, he was nosing around at their feet. It was only when they tripped on the short staircase leading down into the kitchen—crashing into the wall and nearly toppling down headfirst—that Bunny Boy showed an urgency to relocate. He tore back into the room then out again, confused as to what was the best escape route. He overshot the landing and skidded between the guys’ legs.
“Get him out of the way!” Ward yelled. “We’re all going to get hurt.”
I jumped up and tried to grab him as he struggled to get his bearings, but he clawed frantically on each slippery hardwood step and crashed down onto the hard, ceramic kitchen tile. I ran downstairs. Bunny Boy was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, swiping at his jaw with his right paw and sneezing. Ward and Chris sat on the stairs with the television on their lap, breathing heavily.
I lifted Bunny Boy up gently, supporting his hind legs in case they were injured. I checked his entire jawbone, which was my first concern. He swatted me with his paw, sneezed again, then leapt out of my arms and popcorned playfully toward Julie who was taking a “Red Bull break.”
“Bunny Boy seems fine, but Chris and I hurt our arms,” Ward said. “Just get Bunny Boy out of the way.”
I locked Bunny Boy in his fictitious favorite bathroom to get him out of the danger zone.
Soon, the family room looked like burglars had ransacked it. Wires hung from behind bookcases. Drawers were pulled halfway out. Empty baskets were flipped over. The boys carried out the computer and printer while Julie and I tossed any final items into baskets for the garbage and swept up. Given the deadline, the Laracy family had come through.
When I opened the bathroom door to let Bunny Boy out, I let out a bloodcurdling scream. Bunny Boy was sitting upright on the toilet in a pool of blood, licking his paws. The bathroom looked like a crime scene. Blood was splattered all over the moldings. The toilet. The walls. And the marble floor. Careful not to slip, I edged my way slowly toward him, my heart racing. Fear swept through me. Within seconds, the whole family was squeezed into the tiny bathroom trying to assess Bunny Boy’s injuries. I grabbed a towel and gently wiped his head, ears, face, and body, searching for the origin of the blood. Strangely, Bunny Boy seemed to enjoy the rub down. His big ears were in the “happy” position and his nose was twittering at a normal pace. I lifted him up to check his underside, assuming the worst. Then I saw it.
“It’s a ripped nail!” I announced, like I had just delivered a baby. The stress evaporated from my body. Bunny Boy must have torn one of his nails on his right front paw when he slid down the stairs. It was hanging on by a thread. I couldn’t imagine that such an injury could produce so much blood. He looked up at me as if to say, “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” and resumed his licking.
“Bunny Boy’s a real character, isn’t he?” said Chris.
“We’ll never be bored as long as he’s in the house,” Ward joked.
Then his tone quickly changed to one of concern. “What’s this?”
In case the bathroom wasn’t enough of a disaster, Ward had noticed a puddle of urine behind the toilet.
“It’s his urine. The fall probably frightened him.”
“It’s more than a male sprinkle, Dad. Let’s see if Bunny Boy gets in trouble like we do!” Chris joked, waiting for me to chastise our rabbit.
But I was not convinced Bunny Boy had peed out of fear. He had been through much worse. He had never had another bladder accident since he was a kit. My motherly instincts told me he might have a bladder infection.
I phoned Dr. Welch first thing the next morning. Neither suspicion of a bladder infection nor a torn nail constituted an emergency. We had treated more serious ailments and bandaged a lot more than a torn nail on Bunny Boy. Dr. Welch was out on maternity leave, having given birth to twins. Her partner, Dr. Kozak, agreed to see us that afternoon.
Dr. Kozak was young, like Dr. Welch, with a nice temperament, but she claimed not to be an exotics expert, though she knew enough about rabbits.
“From everything I’ve heard, this little guy has taught Cheryl that some rabbits are stronger and more resilient than what she learned in medical school,” said Dr. Kozak, fiddling with her stethoscope. “She believes Bunny Boy’s heart has grown stronger because he is loved so much.”
“Why, thank you,” I replied in gratitude. “I would like to think so.”
“So, what makes you
think Bunny Boy has a bladder infection, Mrs. Laracy?”
“I know Bunny Boy almost as well as I know my children. But for a few isolated slip-ups when he was a kit, Bunny Boy has had complete control over his bladder. Yesterday he peed in the bathroom, not in his litter pan.”
“What happened to his paw?”
“He slid down a flight of stairs and hurt his nail. We’re lucky that’s all that happened to him.”
She took a close look, then cleaned and rebandaged his paw. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
Bunny Boy licked her hand and lightly swatted her cheek when she leaned down with her stethoscope to listen to his heart. “I see what Dr. Welch means.” She smiled. “He’s very sweet and cooperative.”
She reached under Bunny Boy’s butt, squeezed his bladder, and then opened the cabinet above the exam table and took out a test strip. “This will be our answer.” She dipped the stick into the pool of urine on the paper lining of the table.
Dr. Kozak returned ten minutes later, holding the results. With a twinkle in her eye she said, “You have a very intuitive mommy, Bunny Boy. You have a bladder infection.”
She handed me a prescription for an antibiotic cream for the torn nail, as well as Baytril, an oral antibiotic for the bladder infection.
“Nice to have met you both.” She reached her hand out to shake mine. “Bunny Boy is lucky to have you as his owner. Sadly, we don’t see rabbits getting the best care. Owners give up on them quickly, unfortunately.”
“The luck of the bunny is how we found each other,” I said. “And some divine intervention.”
Chapter 20
Shortly after his bladder infection, Bunny Boy contracted “snuffles,” an upper respiratory infection from the bacteria Pasteurella, which is common in rabbits and very resistant to antibiotic treatment. The bacteria had caused a systemic infection in Bunny Boy, one that he would battle for the rest of his life.
Around the same time, a serious influenza virus struck our town early in the new school year. Flu shots had just become available. At one point, so many children were absent from the middle school that they considered closing for a day or two.
The children and Ward got sick first. For almost three weeks, I went into nursing mode, knowing fully how dangerous it might be if I got the flu. I washed my hands so much they became chapped and turned bright pink. “When people are sick, that’s when they need you,” my mom would always tell me, whether she was talking about complete strangers or family members.
When I finally got the respiratory influenza, Ward and the children had thankfully recovered. I was so sick I barely left my bed for days. While the fever subsided after a week, the cough continued for close to a month and some old but familiar symptoms returned with a vengeance. My immune system refused to shut down like a normal person’s and reactivated some of my dormant viruses, namely parvovirus B-19. It had been ten years since my life had been turned upside down by that virus.
I met with Dr. Pasik, who had overseen my first round of intravenous gamma globulin many years back when I was first diagnosed. After extensive blood work, DNA PCR testing, and medical paperwork, Ward drove me to Princeton, New Jersey, to meet with a committee of physicians from our insurance company who would decide whether or not I could receive the treatment. I was approved before we made it back to our car, despite the fact that there was a worldwide shortage of the product. Intravenous gamma globulin is a blood transfer product that is made up of hundreds of people’s antibodies to infections that can help the compromised immune system of the patient to fight back. But mad cow disease had just been discovered in Europe, and the vials of IV gamma globulin in circulation had not been screened for it and were possibly contaminated. Every vial was pulled off the market. It takes about nine months to make a new supply, and so until more IV gamma globulin became available, doctors and insurance companies used extreme caution, prescribing it on a severity of need basis. Each infusion was eleven thousand dollars, and I would need six treatments, once a month.
The timing could not have been worse. Ward had recently been appointed to sit on the board of directors for one of his largest clients, and we had proudly offered to host a holiday party for the executives and their spouses. We had both assumed the renovation of the family room would be finished in time, which was a pipe dream.
Julie wanted to go with me for my first IV infusion at the Carol Simon Cancer in Morristown. When she and Chris were younger, I went to great lengths to shield them from the more serious aspects of my illness. But as they grew up and matured, I decided that having them know I was sick was not necessarily a bad thing; it could also teach them to be more compassionate, caring human beings. Living with joint and muscle pain around the clock was disheartening and frustrating, and I needed their patience, much like my mother needed ours when I was growing up. When my mother lost twenty-five pounds from the stress of working as a nurse and caring for Dad, the house, and us, we took on more household responsibilities and tried to be there for her emotionally. Having a sick father was challenging. Though Dad rarely looked sick, we knew that his heart and body were struggling on the inside. We did our best to treat him with love and kindness even on the days when he was grumpy. Without prompting from my mother, we rearranged our busy schedules to make sure Dad was never left alone. He would not have survived his first heart attack if someone had not been home to call for help.
And now, Julie was there for me. I was proud and thankful to have her company for what would be a long, arduous, uncomfortable day.
Ward dropped us off at the center around nine in the morning. A volunteer escorted us upstairs to the third floor. Leather recliners lined the perimeter of the treatment room. Large windows on the north side of the building allowed plenty of sun to pour in, and soothing artwork—ocean scenes and garden landscapes—hung on the sage-green walls. Brightly colored and striped afghans were folded neatly on the vacant chairs, and there was a small coffee bar in a corner. Despite the welcoming accoutrements, it was hard to overlook the dreadfully ill-looking patients and all of the medical equipment.
A burly nurse, carrying my million-dollar medicine, walked us over to chair number nine. “Did you take your prednisone this morning?” she asked while she set up her supplies.
“I did.”
In this treatment, the steroids were supposed to suppress my immune system enough to allow my body to accept the antibodies to the many viruses and bacteria that make up gamma globulin. Prednisone also decreased the chance of me going into anaphylactic shock, a possible effect of the treatment. There was nothing about anaphylactic shock that I didn’t understand or fear. At times, it could be fatal.
With very little effort, the nurse found my veins. I settled into my chair, wrapped in my comfy afghan, Julie by my side. Every fifteen minutes, the nurse would come over and check my blood pressure and temperature and ask me if there was anything I needed. A slight rise in blood pressure and body temperature is expected during the course of the treatment, but anything more than slight would be a concern.
About an hour into the infusion, my temperature went up to 100 degrees, which felt like a real fever compared to my average body temperature of around 97. A low body temperature is typical of many people suffering from autoimmune diseases. I asked for an extra blanket and some chamomile tea to ward off the chill deep in my bones. By that point, the muscle cramps and chest pain were becoming uncomfortable. Julie switched off the television, showing concern.
“It’s completely normal, Jules,” I said, trying to reassure her that I was fine. “When you or Chris have an infection, you run a fever, right?”
“Uh huh,” she said, in a way that told me she wasn’t convinced.
“Your immune system is fighting off the infection and produces certain chemicals that raise your temperature. Right now, my body’s natural response is to fight off the antibodies in that small bottle.” I pointed to the IV pole. “It’s the same concept.”
She nodded slowly as if sh
e understood. If she was pretending, I didn’t pick up on it. Hoping to change the topic, I barged in on the conversation between the two women to my right.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you have a little Westie,” I said. One woman wore a brightly colored bandana tied around her bald head. She didn’t have eyebrows or eyelashes. I assumed she was undergoing chemotherapy. The other woman, who I later found out had lupus, was receiving methotrexate, which I was very familiar with.
“But she’s no ordinary Westie!” Jennifer, the woman with the bandana, exclaimed, almost bouncing up in her recliner. Boy, did her tone sound familiar! She whipped her billfold out of her purse, which was full of adorable pictures of Biscuit, her once-drawn face suddenly lit up with a smile. For the next half hour, we listened to one endearing, silly story after another about Biscuit, the not-so-ordinary Westie.
“I have a not-so-ordinary rabbit,” I said finally, when there was a significant lull in the conversation.
“OMG—don’t get my mother started on our rabbit,” said Julie. I saw their puzzled looks.
“Oh-em-gee means oh my god,” I explained to them. “It’s teen language.”
Lacking a billfold to unleash, I reached for my cell phone. My wallpaper featured Bunny Boy wearing his Santa hat.
“Bunny Boy has free run of our house and loves riding on the front seat of the car. He also loves playing poker with the family.”
Now that I had started, it was hard to stop. “He’s the love of my life,” I sighed, wrapping the blanket tighter around my chilled body. “Bunny Boy licks me and kisses me on the lips,” I continued, shamelessly. I couldn’t help myself. When it came to Bunny Boy and my children, I felt happiness down to my soul. “And he purrs like a cat.”
Julie looked at me with great trepidation and slouched down in her chair, as if she could sense what I was about to say next.