by Nancy Laracy
Then the house phone rang.
It was a reporter from the Suburban News, a widely circulated newspaper in our area. She wanted to do a feature story on Bunny Boy for Easter. I was flattered and euphoric. It was our first chance to share our story publicly and hopefully inspire those suffering with chronic illness.
“You’re going to be a celebrity, pal,” I told him.
The reporter, Jenny, showed up promptly with her briefcase and notepad. She greeted us warmly but didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see a house bunny. Of course, she had been given the whole backstory. We spoke about rabbits as a species—their habits, food preferences, and traits. We talked specifically about Bunny Boy, his health issues, and his place in our family. Then, we talked about my own health and how it was so intertwined with Bunny Boy’s. Jenny asked pointed questions and jotted down notes while Bunny Boy sat on my lap, keenly interested in her. He kept leaning forward to sniff her blazer. I didn’t find out until after the interview that she had yogurt drops for Bunny Boy in her pocket. Finally, we moved to the sunroom for a couple of photographs.
“Bunny Boy inspires me,” I said at the close of the interview, giving him a look of adoration. “I hope other people will be inspired by and find strength from our story. Bunny Boy has shown me that unconditional love heals. It prolongs life. We have both shown each other that.”
The following week, I stopped by my church for a visit. The assistant at the rectory was holding the Suburban News as I walked in. She looked at me as if she had seen a ghost.
“You’re on the cover of the newspaper, Mrs. Laracy!” she exclaimed.
There we were, on the cover, Bunny Boy and I gazing into each other’s eyes like two lovers. The headline read: “He Makes Her Heart Go Hippity Hop.” The picture and article took up most of the front page, and an interview with Dina, one of the stars of the new upcoming television series “The Real Housewives of New Jersey,” was squeezed to the far-left corner of the front page. I was told that Bravo, the TV series’ production company, wasn’t happy. I should have realized what she meant when she said “feature story.”
The story was beautifully written and informative. Jenny gave a brief overview of the lagomorph species, then focused on Bunny Boy’s health issues and his role in pioneering a medical treatment that helped save my life. Finally, she described my intimate moments with Bunny Boy. “The bond between Mrs. Laracy and Bunny Boy grew in sickness and in health,” she eloquently wrote.
Bunny Boy’s story could now touch many people’s lives. And this was just the beginning.
• • •
One day, when I stopped over unannounced to visit my mother, I found her lying in bed, burning up with a fever. She seemed confused as to who I was. Carol had left her alone at home only the day before to visit friends in South Carolina. The ambulance showed up within four minutes of my frantic phone call.
When she was eighty, my mother’s health had started to deteriorate rapidly. She had high blood pressure, and her potassium, sodium, and calcium levels were fluctuating erratically, often becoming too low, which the geriatrics doctor diagnosed as hyponatremia, a condition commonly seen in the elderly. She was also plagued with urinary tract infections, which were common among the older community. I quickly learned that UTIs could cause delirium in elderly people.
Upon arrival at the hospital, it was confirmed that she was suffering from delirium caused by a UTI that had entered her bloodstream. My brothers Mike and Jack met me in the emergency room. She had septicemia, a bloodstream infection, which was often fatal. Carol rushed home from South Carolina and Tom flew in from Colorado. All five siblings gathered around my mother’s bedside for almost a week as she fought the battle of her life.
One night, Tom and I returned home from the hospital around eleven thirty, tired and emotionally drained. Amid the stress and distractions of the past few hours, I suddenly remembered it was the alternate day—Bunny Boy would need his penicillin shot. It was Ward’s chance to impress my baby brother, who was a nurse, with his injecting skills. We gathered around as Ward placed Bunny Boy on the kitchen counter and inserted the needle, as he always had.
As the needle sunk into the skin, Bunny Boy suddenly collapsed. He slumped down onto his belly, his front paws splaying forward and his back legs trailing out behind him. He looked as if he were about to belly crawl off the counter. I leapt forward and picked him up. His body was heavy, and he hung limp against me, almost dangling.
“Something’s wrong,” I screeched, clutching him against my chest. “Something’s horribly wrong!”
“Lay him on the counter,” Tom said firmly but calmly. Trembling, I laid Bunny Boy down on his side. I looked on in horror as Bunny Boy’s eyes closed—and then he stopped breathing.
“My god, what’s happening, Tom?” I screamed loudly.
“The closest vet is over half of an hour away!” Ward told Tom, hovering over Bunny Boy.
“There’s no time for a vet,” said Tom with urgency. I knew instantly that this was a matter of life or death. I laid my head on Bunny Boy’s chest and started crying. Had he had a heart attack?
“I’m so sorry, Bunny Boy. I’m so sorry, buddy,” I blubbered through my tears. “I’m right here.”
“Do you have any oxygen in the house?” Tom asked quickly.
“Why would we have oxygen in the house?” I snapped back, immediately regretting my tone, which I had no control over. “Please, God, don’t take Bunny Boy now,” I prayed, hanging onto his limp body. “Don’t take my boy. I can’t handle anymore right now.”
“Squire, get her off of him,” Tom demanded, using Ward’s nickname. Chris, who had come down from his bedroom after hearing the commotion, stood rigid as he watched the awful scene unfold, not uttering a single word, in total disbelief. For years, Chris had seen his father give Bunny Boy his injections without incident.
I stepped back and let Tom take charge. He grabbed Ward’s elbow. “Stand here. I’ll need you to do the chest compressions.”
Tom placed his mouth over Bunny Boy’s snout and started blowing air into his lungs while using his hands to push lightly on Bunny Boy’s chest.
“Like this,” Tom told Ward.
Together, they began administering CPR.
“C’mon, little buddy. C’mon, little buddy.” Tom blew another rescue breath into Bunny Boy. “Ready, Squire—again.”
Tom blew another breath; Ward did another compression. Bunny Boy showed no sign of life.
“C’mon, little buddy! C’mon, little buddy!” Tom repeated, shaking Bunny Boy, trying to stimulate his heart. Tom blew his fourth rescue breath.
“Hang in there, Bunny Boy!” His voice was getting louder and more stressed. “Again, Squire!” Desperately, Tom breathed more air into Bunny Boy’s lungs.
“Let’s go, Bunny Boy, gosh darnit. You’re not leaving us yet,” Tom yelled, as I cried out again, “God, please don’t take Bunny Boy. I’m not ready.”
Suddenly, Tom signaled for Ward to step back. In a horrible split second, I thought Tom had given up. Instead, he laid his head on Bunny Boy’s chest. Then I knew by the look of sheer relief and emotion on his face that he had heard the first beats of Bunny Boy’s heart. I gasped—Bunny Boy had opened his eyes.
“I can feel his breath against my cheek. It’s shallow, but it’s there.” Tom sighed, his head still flush against Bunny Boy’s chest. “Step back,” he whispered. “Give Bunny Boy some space.” Slowly, Bunny Boy’s chest rose and receded, rose and receded. Tom stood up.
“Pick Bunny Boy up and put him against your chest, sis. We need to keep him warm. Go get a blanket, Chris.”
As Chris scrambled off, I leaned my head on Tom’s shoulder. Beads of perspiration dripped down his temple. “Thank god you were here, Tom,” I whimpered.
Ward didn’t look much better. “I’ve given Bunny Boy that shot on and off for years and—” he started, shaken.
Tom wrapped his arm around Ward’s shoulder. “You gave him a text
book shot, Squire. But the needle must have hit a vein. The penicillin went straight to Bunny Boy’s heart. It can happen to anyone. I’ve seen it happen at my hospital.”
Time stood still for us over the next hour. We sat quietly on the family room sofas, trying to process what had just happened.
“Was he dead, Uncle Tom?” Chris asked, hesitantly.
“Bunny Boy’s heart had stopped beating, Chris.”
“What should I expect now?” I asked my brother.
Bunny Boy was lying on my chest, wrapped in the blanket. His ears were ice cold and lying flat on top of his head. He seemed spooked. His head flicked from side to side, but his body remained perfectly still. I was concerned that he had sustained brain damage from the lack of oxygen for what had seemed to me like an immeasurable amount of time, though it had probably been only about two minutes. Tom had worked fast, with Ward playing a vital role. I, on the other hand, had been useless. And I wasn’t proud of that. It wasn’t like me to panic under stress. When a crisis arose or an accident happened involving the children—and there had been many over the years—I had always kept my cool and worked quickly to get the necessary help or solve the problem myself.
“These next few hours are critical,” Tom said in a somber tone.
None of us left the room. We sat quietly with Bunny Boy, listening to soft, relaxing music on the television for about an hour. Finally, Tom told us to put Bunny Boy down on the floor. I watched in anguish as Bunny Boy struggled to stand up.
“It’s okay, pal.” I said, bracing his hips. “Everything is going to be fine.”
When he tried to hop, his hind legs dragged behind him. I thought I might get sick. “Is he paralyzed?” I asked.
“More than likely it’s temporary, Nance.”
I lay down on the carpet and started coaxing him. “Come on, Bunny Boy,” I said, reaching my arms out. “You can do it.”
As if he didn’t want to let me down, Bunny Boy crawled painfully toward me and climbed onto my torso, his legs trailing behind him, jerking involuntarily.
Tom finally let it all out. “In all my years of medicine, I’ve rarely felt as stressed as when I performed rescue breathing on Bunny Boy. I’d like to go out to the garage to have a cigarette now, if nobody minds. Actually, maybe two or three.”
“I’ll join,” said Ward, though he was not a smoker.
When they returned, Ward tried to break the somber mood. “I should have insisted on the CPR demonstration at the Animal Medical Center, Nance.” He turned to Tom to explain. “Bunny Boy’s had CPR before. We almost lost him on the operating table during his last surgery.”
By around two in the morning, Bunny Boy had regained full use of his hind legs, and his involuntary jerking motions subsided.
“Go try to get some rest, Tom,” I said, giving him a big hug. “You have an early flight out tomorrow. We can handle things from here.”
My baby brother walked up the stairs toward the guest bedroom, then stopped in the hallway and looked back at me. “By the way, sis, did I earn a chapter in your book?”
“My god, of course you did!”
Chapter 30
After six long, grueling weeks in the hospital, our matriarch, who was now bedridden and had to be fed through a gastric tube, was finally transferred to a rehabilitation facility. Despite surviving septicemia, she had suffered mini strokes and developed several dangerous infections, which had damaged her aging brain and prolonged her hospital stay. But Mom was a fighter.
The rehabilitation center was two miles from our home and five miles from Carol’s. We wanted our mother nearby so one of us could be there every day to monitor her and help with therapy. Mom couldn’t even sit upright without support, and she could not control many of her bodily functions. She also could not swallow safely without aspirating.
Her life had changed so dramatically that it was almost impossible for us to comprehend or bear. But my mother fought desperately to regain her physical strength and control over her body through endless hours of physical, occupational, and speech therapy. Her sheer determination practically wore out the staff. And when the therapists finished their work, I would start mine—having my mother repeat everything she had just done. Some of the exercises to help restore her swallowing reflex were belittling for her, and she would complain when I made her stick out her tongue and wag it from side to side. It would tear at my insides when she begged me for just a drop of water or Italian ice on her tongue. I couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like to not be able to drink liquids or eat even a morsel of food. After those sessions, I would go home and clutch Bunny Boy and pray. And sometimes cry. Amazingly, the mouth therapy worked. After six weeks, Mom could eat pureed food and enjoy her favorite drink, a chocolate milkshake.
With all the Buchalski family, our mother had more visitors than any other patient, according to the staff. But we weren’t enough.
“When will you bring my grandson over?” she asked one day. She had many grandsons, but I knew who she was talking about.
I thought she was kidding. But then I thought, Why not?
I brought Bunny Boy over one afternoon. Mom was sitting in her wheelchair outside, under the gazebo with some other patients. By now, she could sit up without any help. As I wheeled Mom around the gardens with Bunny Boy on her lap, the amazing reaction we received from many of the patients was so heartwarming that it occurred to me that I might be onto something. I knew about therapy dogs, but had there ever been a therapy rabbit?
One afternoon, a woman who had not uttered more than one word at a go since her three months at the center strung together four words when I put Bunny Boy on her lap. He licked her hand. “I waaaant thaaaat buuunny,” she managed to say, slowly and painfully. It was an amazing moment I will always remember. The staff nearby cheered, amazed by her accomplishment. During another visit, a young gentleman with Down syndrome in a wheelchair touched Bunny Boy’s nose and said, “Buuunnny here!” while pointing to his lap. Bunny Boy curled up on his knees, completely trusting the stranger.
Bunny Boy’s informal visits quickly became a welcome treat for everyone. Our lagomorph had won the hearts of the patients and the staff. Ultimately, whenever we prepared to leave, someone begged us to come back. And often we did. Not a single member of the staff asked me for any identification or papers showing that Bunny Boy and I were a certified therapy team. They turned a blind eye, grateful for our visits. Somehow, I felt like I had always known that Bunny Boy was meant to bring love and inspiration to many people—not just to me.
By the end of June, my mother had regained control of her bladder and bowels and was able to eat normal food, but even after two months of intense therapy, she failed to meet certain physical therapy requirements. She was deemed “physically non-rehabilitative”—what a horrible word! We were devastated, and we couldn’t imagine how Mom felt.
We brought our mother back to the home she loved so much to live out the rest of her days with dignity. Our childhood home became a revolving door as my siblings and her grandchildren visited regularly, a true testament to her well-lived life. My older nieces and nephews would bring along their college-age friends, and Mom would quote Shakespeare, which kept their attention.
In the weeks and months that followed, I spent time with my mother almost every day. On Sundays, Carol and I would wheel her to church for the afternoon mass, weather permitting. About once every two weeks, I would drive Mom up to Mount St. Francis in Ringwood, New Jersey—the summer retreat for the clergy of the Archdiocese of Paterson. Bunny Boy would come along for the ride. For as long as I can remember, my mother found peace and solace strolling the parklike grounds where magnificent four-foot-tall limestone Stations of the Cross stood. The nineteenth-century brick castle sat at the top of a long hill that shadowed Ringwood Manor, the old summer residence of the Cooper family of Cooper Union in Manhattan. Being there brought back wonderful memories from when I was a young girl, when our family used to picnic on the grounds every summe
r. Bunny Boy would sit on Mom’s lap as I pushed her wheelchair along the paths. We’d say the Stations of the Cross as we went along and admire the lush gardens full of day lilies, lavender, azaleas, rhododendrons, and, as summer arrived, annuals like petunias and geraniums. Mom’s faith was strong.
Somedays, I would lie next to my mother in her hospital bed and gently massage her pain-ridden back and hip or read to her and tell her how much I loved her. Other times, we would listen to soothing music until she fell asleep. In a strange way, Mom had become like a child. And the more she needed me, the more I wanted to care for her. I simply couldn’t imagine life without her. My mother had showed me how to love and care. She taught me how to live a good, faith-filled life. She was everything I strived to be, and over the years, I had tried to follow in her footsteps and give back to the community.
Bunny Boy, too, was showing more apparent signs of aging at a quickening pace. I worried that his second episode of cardiac arrest had sped up the aging process somehow—or maybe I had just been so busy caring for my mother that I had missed the signs. I searched the Internet for “Signs of an Aging Rabbit.” Bunny Boy had them all. His appetite was still voracious, but my little buddy looked tired. He had started to sit hunched over while staring into space for short periods of time, instead of sitting upright on his haunches. His skin was starting to sag. He seemed to be losing muscle mass. His activity level had also decreased. The days of bunny NASCAR around the rooms were a distant memory, and the “King of the Castle” chair lay vacant as he spent more of his time hanging out on the floor. He was using his litter pan sporadically. My heart broke when I watched him try to hop in—after failing, he would give up and relieve himself around the perimeter of the pan instead. Bunny Boy had also stopped spraying me. It was heart-wrenching for all of us to watch him—and my mother—slow down.