The most adorable thing I’ve ever seen in a hospital gift shop.
The ceramic bunny with powder blue overalls, paws tucked in the pockets, long- ingly looked at me each day from the glass display shelf.
No words were needed. We were just two innocent figures in an odd place sharing a kindred desire to escape the confines of the hospital.
Neither of us knew when and if that would happen.
Maybe he was jealous of me as he stood motionless among the other ceramic rabbits, after all I was in the lobby area and my feet moved swiftly.
To be fair though, I was envious of him also.
He was in a gift shop, he made people smile and he was among other pretty ceramic friends.
Last pic of the bunny and me
I felt uglier and older every time I walked into the hospital.
Only once did I venture into the gift shop to lift him up to see if I had the cash to get him sprung.
He was $38 and I gently set him back down to return to his post.
Each day for ten days prior to seeing my mom, I’d go and check on the ceramic bunny with the powder blue overalls.
And each time, an internal battle would loom within as I pondered taking him home with me.
Did I really want an emblem of my mom’s turmoil?
What if my mom died here?
And even if she didn’t, could I one day gaze at the ceramic bunny dwelling in my home and conjure up good sentiments about the whole experience?
And this is what I saw an hour later
Alas, the decision was taken from me. Here’s what happened.
I had briefly visited the ceramic bunny and gone to my mom’s room.
She was a disheveled mess and it was as if she had completely given up.
Honestly it ticked me off and left to my own druthers, I would have stormed out of the room leaving her to feel sorry for herself.
Yet I couldn’t do it.
Call it pride that I didn’t want people to think I was a bad daughter.
Call it love because I truly love the woman.
Call it Jesus because He alone gave me strength.
But I stayed and I got a stupid wheelchair and pushed my mom down the hallway. I told her we were going to go to the courtyard and I was going to introduce her to my friend at the gift shop. She was nonplussed.
While on the way, I reminded my mom to lift her head up, open her eyes and speak in full sentences. She needed to engage the world in order to get better. My words were met with limited compliance…I pushed her eagerly to the lobby right up to the glass window.
“Mom, I want to show you the ceramic bunny I’ve been visiting every day,” my voice and pace quickened in excitement as we pulled up to the display.
Nothing – and the other ceramic bunnies were mum about my special friend’s sudden disappearance.
The cer- amic bunny with powder blue overalls was gone.
Someone had taken him.
How could that be? I had just seen him less than an hour ago!
Why did someone steal my joy?
Why was he getting to go home and I was still stuck here?
Did the ladies in the gift shop think I was such a creeper for taking so many pictures of him that they withdrew that bunny from the stock?
Where did he go?
Did someone get him for me?
Numb would best describe my feelings and I’m being totally honest even if it sounds weird. I am home now and the visits to the hospital have stopped.
My mom left the hospital a few days later to continue her recovery.
I tried attaching myself to another ceramic bunny in the gift shop, one that was more in my price range but it just didn’t feel right. I did, however, find another little friend in the hospital which I will soon share with you but there is something I need to learn from this experience.
Albeit wistfully, I now see that the ceramic bunny in powder blue overalls as a welcome, temporary diversion to strife.
He provided me a creative, silly outlet to express myself each day. We weren’t meant to be together but only for a short season of life.
The bunny, my mom and I all needed to go to our respective homes and leave this place behind. My mom is getting better and healing in a variety of ways.