by Nancy Laracy
Inspired by the photos, I came up with a wonderful idea. I chose two beautiful pictures of Bunny Boy, and together we went to CVS to get them printed on a coffee mug and a poster as gifts for Julie. While we were there, I also decided, on a whim, to order a deck of Bunny Boy–themed poker cards.
I broke out the keepsakes after dinner, the weekend before Julie left. Bunny Boy sat on my lap. I waited with bated breath as Julie reached into the colorful gift bag and unwrapped the coffee mug first.
“It’s cute, Mom,” she said in a monotone voice. Then she unrolled the poster. By that point, I would have been screaming, “Oh my god, I love it!” I had to stop trying to turn Julie into me!
“My roommate will think I’m crazy if I hang this!” she exclaimed.
I was heartbroken. “What about the coffee mug?” I managed to ask, through my hurt feelings.
“A beer mug might have been better,” said Ward.
I tried to hide my disappointment, unsuccessfully. Julie handed me the poster and kissed my cheek.
“I’ll use the mug for beer.”
“Let’s play a round of family poker with the cards, Mom,” Chris said, putting his arm around me.
I scooped up Bunny Boy, looking for some affection, while Chris dealt the first hand. Playing poker with fifty-two pictures of Bunny Boy had to make me smile.
On moving day, Julie’s bedroom lights were on by seven a.m. She and Bunny Boy were huddled under her lime-green comforter. Lime green had been her favorite color since she was seven years old, and if she wasn’t dressed in lime-green clothing or lime-green high-top sneakers, she was cropping pictures of her friends into lime-green frames or threatening to wear a lime-green wedding dress when she got married.
As I stared at the teen magazines scattered on her bedroom floor and the celebrity posters on the walls, I wanted to throw my arms around her and tell her how much I loved her, but I was afraid I might cry. I had promised myself—and her—that I would keep it together. Life had passed right before my eyes, and my four-pound, thirteen-ounce baby girl had grown up to be a beautiful young lady. Like a mother bird, I knew it was time to let her fly. Julie was independent, cautious, sensible, poised, and a very intelligent woman ready to go out into the world. I was more worried about myself. My children were my life, and they gave me so much purpose. I prayed that once Chris left for college, too, that God would help me find purpose in the two difficult diseases I had been dealt.
Our fully loaded SUV pulled out of the driveway, sadly without Bunny Boy. It was eighty-five degrees outside, which was too hot for him. Besides, all hands were needed to haul and unpack Julie’s belongings—her entire closet of clothes, two bureau drawers full of dorm wear and undies, and enough health and beauty aids for the entire dorm. We had to tie the trunk shut. I could hear Julie whisper affectionately out the open window of the car to Bunny Boy—“Goodbye, Stupid.”
We drove the country route through the farmlands of central Jersey. You could see the mist coming up from the cornfields as the temperatures rose while the tractors toted their bales of hay. My thoughts wandered back to the days of hayrides or Halloween parties—when I dressed as a witch for Julie’s kindergarten class and ladled blood (i.e., red Hi-C) out of my cauldron or sewed dolphin and Care Bear costumes. In the rearview mirror, Julie was glowing. She looked so ready for the next chapter of her life, with no apparent apprehension. Her natural confidence enveloped her. I knew we had done our job as parents.
Before I knew it, we had settled Julie in and it was time to leave.
Ward hugged her first. “Don’t party too much and study hard, sweetheart.”
Chris slapped her on the back. “Have fun, Sis.”
Then it was my turn. The lump in my throat nearly choked me.
“I love you so much,” I said, hugging her tightly. “I’m very proud of you, Juliebear. Stay safe and have fun.”
And off Julie went, seemingly free as a bird, to join the other freshman students. Watching her retreating figure, I was reminded of her first day of nursery school when she strapped on her Care Bear backpack and walked away, not looking back.
On the ride home, I stared out the windshield for about a half hour and didn’t speak. It was only when I saw the woman in the car we had been trailing since we left campus begin to cry that I started crying myself.
When we pulled into the driveway, I ran into the house, grabbed Bunny Boy off the sofa, and sobbed like a baby on Julie’s bed, drenching her pillow and his fur. Bunny Boy stayed tucked under my armpit, intermittently poking his head up to lick my tears off the top of his head. One of the cutest things a rabbit does is when they try to groom their head—they lick their front paws while their ears drop to the side and duck their head down between their paws and scratch their head. It was the right amount of cuteness to plug my tears.
Ward walked by and peeked in. “You’ll drown him, for Pete’s sake, Nance.”
Our bedroom door closed a minute later and the upstairs got quiet. Ward claimed he needed a nap, but I knew better.
Chapter 26
For the first few weeks that Julie was away, Bunny Boy sulked enough for the both of us. And he didn’t hesitate to hop up the stairs to her bedroom, looking for someone he dearly missed. He would peer into her room from the hallway, and then sniff around her belongings and under her bed. He’d hop on the bed and sprawl out with his chin resting on her pillow. Somedays I would join him.
Autumn wasn’t the same without Julie and her tennis matches. I yearned to host just one more pasta party with my silly tennis cake for her teammates. At home, there were no more sibling squabbles. The laundry was cut substantially, but I missed folding Julie’s colorful, whimsical clothes, and Bunny Boy had to miss tossing her bras and underwear across her comforter, which he used to do if she left her clean laundry pile on the bed for too long.
Luckily, in no time at all, Julie was home for Thanksgiving. Bunny Boy seemed confused when she walked through the door. He sat on the kitchen chair for a minute, staring at her. But the moment he heard her voice, he lunged off and started binkying in a circle around her UGG boots until she picked him up and began singing to him.
We had our traditional Thanksgiving family gathering and cut down our Christmas trees on Saturday. The weekend was short and sweet. We drove Julie back to school on Sunday night, and Bunny Boy came along for the ride. He lay on Julie’s lap the entire hour and a half, happy to have his number-two girl back—at least for a short while.
December felt like a whirlwind. Two more fibromyalgia patients were referred to me, this time from a rheumatologist who belonged to our tennis club and who had gotten my name from a friend. Helping these patients with a holistic program took up much of my time that was usually spent on holiday decorating and shopping. Ward was busy managing a new corporate client, and Chris was struggling to find his niche in high school. Was he a brainiac, a jock, or a party animal? He wanted to be all three. One night, to celebrate the end of his final exams, he spent a night out with his friends at a location undisclosed to us, returning home at one in the morning. We quickly established a curfew.
“It’s too bad Bunny Boy can’t bark,” I said to Ward. “Then we could catch Chris coming home if we fall asleep.”
A week before Christmas, the whole family regrouped again, watching Die Hard on our new flat screen television in the lagomorph lounge. It was wonderful to have everyone back together. Julie and Chris lay on the floor on a blanket and Bunny Boy hung out under our ten-foot weeping white pine, which glistened with lights, reflecting off the large picture window.
I wasn’t expecting it to happen. During a commercial break, I went down to the kitchen to make some popcorn, and when I returned, Bunny Boy lunged onto my lap, nearly knocking over the bowl of popcorn. He was clenching one of my favorite Christmas ornaments in his crooked teeth, a hand-painted nativity scene. I cupped his face to pry it loose and instantly felt sick.
“Bunny Boy has two abscesses on his jaw,” I shrieked. “One
on each side.” I could feel they were attached to the bone. They were not surface abscesses. Heartbroken, I phoned the Animal Medical Center’s emergency line and scheduled an appointment for the following morning.
Bunny Boy and I went into the city alone that Saturday. I wanted it that way, though I wasn’t sure why. The news was bad. Both abscesses were already in the bone and there was significant scar tissue on one side. Bunny Boy would need extensive surgery, which meant more anesthesia. My biggest concern was his age—Bunny Boy was seven years old. But after a thorough examination and consultation at the AMC, Dr. Quesenberry, the new exotics veterinarian, assured me that Bunny Boy’s vital signs and overall health seemed good.
“I will draw some blood to make sure Bunny Boy’s organs are functioning properly,” she said, looking at his chart. “I read the notes here and spoke to a few of our veterinarians. It seems Bunny Boy’s well-known around here. I couldn’t wait to meet him.”
It was true. I had just received another call from the hospital requesting permission to use his records for a teaching seminar.
I left the hospital, heavy with dread. I drove across town, going up Fifth Avenue and heading to the Henry Hudson Parkway along the Hudson River for a change of scenery. I was unable to fully appreciate the magic of the city at Christmas time—the horse-drawn carriages filled with tourists, the thousands of white lights that lined the streets, and the spectacular holiday window displays on both sides of Fifth Avenue. Having to make the decision about whether or not to let Bunny Boy have the surgery weighed heavy on my mind.
When I spotted a large clock on one of the Trump towers that said one o’clock, I remembered that Dr. Welch was usually in her office until two on Saturdays. If I picked up my speed, I could make it there before she left for the day. Dr. Welch knew Bunny Boy better than anyone else from a medical standpoint. She would know whether or not he was strong enough for surgery.
We pulled into the mini mall in front of Dr. Welch’s office just minutes before two. The parking lot was jammed with cars, many of them stationed outside of parking spaces. I was puzzled. There were no other retail stores around to attract holiday shoppers. I joined the other lawbreaking citizens, parking alongside a large dumpster. There was a sign on the door of the animal hospital.
“Pet photos with Santa, December 16.”
Bunny Boy and I squeezed our way into the crowded lobby. Every owner of a dog or cat from the county must have showed up. A brown Yorkie was slumped over from the weight of his reindeer antlers, two chocolate Labradors were dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Claus, and a white poodle had a red plaid bow around her neck and bells around her ankles. There was even a giant black Bernese mountain dog dressed as a snowman. Christmas music was pumping through the speakers and the hospital staff was dressed in holiday attire, as were many of the pet owners. I immediately felt happier.
“There’s Bunny Boy!” shrieked Kelly, pushing through the crowd to get to us. Kat and Donna, two other technicians, who were sipping hot cider and policing the long line of pets, also spotted us. “It’s Bunny Boy,” they yelled over the noise of the crowd. He was a celebrity.
Dr. Welch walked over, wearing a red turtleneck and a Santa hat. She threw her arms around me. Her warmth and brilliant smile were just what I needed.
“We’re so glad to see Bunny Boy this year,” she said, playing with his nose.
Careful not to put a damper on the festive mood, I took Dr. Welch aside and told her about Bunny Boy’s situation.
“Bunny Boy’s a very strong rabbit, Mrs. Laracy,” she said, flashing me her most reassuring smile. “His spirit is remarkable.” As always, I knew she was right.
“Let’s wait to see what the bloodwork shows. In the meantime, let’s see if we can get you bumped to the front of the line, Bunny Boy. You’ve both had a rough morning.” She grabbed my hand and gently guided me through the crowd.
Sheepishly, I walked over toward Santa and handed him Bunny Boy.
“Ho ho ho,” Santa rumbled. “I believe you’re my first rabbit this season.”
“Here, put this on Bunny Boy!” exclaimed Kelly, handing Santa a small Santa hat for Bunny Boy.
As the flash went off, I made my decision. Bunny Boy would have the surgery after the holidays, god willing, if all of his blood work came up fine.
Even without a costume, Bunny Boy was a great attraction for the pet owners patiently waiting in line. I stood cradling him, complimenting owners on their pets and costumes while answering questions about lagomorphs and dispelling some myths about the species.
“You should write a book about Bunny Boy, Mrs. Laracy,” said Dr. Welch. “Bunny Boy’s the unluckiest, but luckiest, rabbit in the world. He may have been born with seemingly insurmountable health issues, but he found his way into your family. Your love and strength has kept him fighting. We’ve all been witness to your remarkable journey and the bond you and Bunny Boy have formed.”
“We’ll have a book signing right here!” Kelly suggested.
I looked at the bookshelves filled with pet books for sale and thought, Yes! I will write a book! It would be part of the next chapter of my life. It would be about Bunny Boy and me, and it would inspire people suffering with any sickness or disease. It would be a story of resilience and bravery.
Despite my deep worries, I walked out into the cold, feeling a renewed sense of hope and merriment.
Chapter 27
The results of Bunny Boy’s blood work came back after the New Year. Our geriatric bunny had the liver and kidney function of a much younger rabbit. The surgery was on. But there was a change in plans. Bunny Boy had several infected teeth near the abscesses that needed to be pulled out, and his molars needed to be trimmed again. The dental work, together with the surgery, would require too much anesthesia over a long period of time. Dr. Quesenberry wanted to do the procedures separately, feeling it was a safer option for Bunny Boy. But I worried that administering anesthesia twice in two weeks would be too much for Bunny Boy. I would turn out to be right.
The snow was coming down heavy by the time I arrived in the city for Bunny Boy’s dental work. Pedestrians pulled their hoods tight as the wind howled and the snow swirled up First Avenue along the water.
“It’s D-Day, Bunny Boy,” I said, pushing the elevator button. “By this time tomorrow, you’ll have a whole new mouth.” The elevator stopped on the third floor and a group of interns stepped in, carrying their trays of coffee.
“Is that Bunny Boy?” one of them suddenly asked, catching me by surprise. Bunny Boy was resting on my chest with his head on my shoulder.
“Yes, he is! I’m Mrs. Laracy.” I reached my hand out to shake one of their hands.
“We just sat through a lecture three weeks ago regarding innovative breakthroughs in animal medicine. Bunny Boy’s records were discussed with regard to bunny dental care.” Of course, I already knew that; I had received the call.
I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment for Bunny Boy. “Bunny Boy helped save my life,” I said, kissing Bunny Boy’s cheek. “I was the grateful recipient of his cutting-edge treatment—the antibiotic beads.”
Their interest was immediately piqued. We got off the elevator together and I quickly told them my story before we checked in.
Coming out of the anesthesia seemed more difficult for Bunny Boy this time. The surgeon used Ketamine for the surgery, and Dr. Quesenberry warned me that Bunny Boy’s body would be stiff for a while. While it was unnerving to see no warmth or movement in his body, his shallow breathing upset me the most. Wrapped in a blanket, Bunny Boy slept in my arms the entire first night home, barely moving.
“Mommy’s here, Bunny Boy,” I kept whispering into his drooped ears. “You’re going to feel better tomorrow.” I almost called Dr. Welch for assurance that Bunny Boy’s reaction to the anesthesia was normal. My gut told me it was not.
By mid-morning the following day, Bunny Boy’s muscles had softened and he was more alert, but he showed very little interest in anything but
resting. And unlike the last few times in the past, he wasn’t the least bit excited to eat his critical care food. My instincts told me he needed more time to recover between surgeries—and if only I had listened to myself.
Bunny Boy went into cardiac arrest on the operating table the following week. For the first time, I wasn’t there waiting in the lobby. Chris had taken a bad fall in the gym at school, and I had been called back to New Jersey during his surgery.
Dr. Quesenberry’s voice was serious but calm over the phone.
“We were able to resuscitate Bunny Boy, but we had to close the wounds up before we could clean out the abscesses. We can rarely resuscitate a rabbit, Mrs. Laracy. His condition is grave.”
I nearly dropped my cell phone. I could barely respond. I felt like I had been hit over the head with a brick. Bunny Boy had survived so much—like a cat. I’d always assumed he had nine lives.
“I’ll do everything that’s possible for Bunny Boy,” said Dr. Quesenberry. “When can I expect you, Mrs. Laracy?” I was filled with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, being so far away. I was also torn about leaving Chris, who, though very shaken up, seemed okay.
“We’ll keep an eye on, Chris,” mouthed the school nurse. “You do what you need to do.”
I called Ward, who agreed without hesitation to join me at the recovery room to be with Bunny Boy. My sister, Carol, would take care of Chris. We made it into the city from New Jersey in less than forty minutes. On the tense ride over, the muscle spasms in my back and neck, which were already painful, intensified. It felt like a vicelike grip was strangling my spinal column. I wished I’d had the time to pick up my battery-operated TENS unit that I had started using the past year under the recommendation of my chiropractor, whom I saw almost weekly. When the back pain was unbearable, I would hook the cell phone–size unit to the waist of my pants, stick the electrodes on, and wear it all day. It dulled the pain significantly, helping me go on with my life. When we reached the AMC, instead of waiting for the elevator, we ran up the stairs. I charged the desk.