me.
"You have to keep him very still or the pictures won't be any good," the technician said.
It's noisy inside an MRI machine. It clatters and bangs and burps. When it's doing what it is supposed to do, it sounds just like it's broken. And when it stops, and you think it's over and you're going to be freed, it starts right up again.
Like luck stuck on going from bad to worse, the cycle keeps repeating.
Despite the noise, or possibly because of it, Orwell snuggled down into the cavity in my chest, like a rabbit in a grassy nest in a meadow, and went to sleep.
The Year of the Rabbit
"Rabbits are not put together especially well," the new veterinarian said. "They have very weak backs." A younger man than I'd expected, he had thick, dark hair, a bright smile, and a surprisingly clean-smelling office.
When my grandmother and I had first arrived, there were no other patients in his waiting room. A receptionist not much older than I am, with short red hair and a round red face, had given my grandmother a form to fill out while I looked around the room.
The waiting room was about as big as our family room, but much tidier and more restful-looking, with green upholstered chairs, green-striped wallpaper, and green and tan carpet with no visible stains. On the walls hung two nearly identical watercolors of a country garden in full summer bloom. Beneath them, three brass lamps glowed on dark wood tables. At one end of the room, a people-sized wheelchair was folded up against the wall.
"That's for some of our patients' owners," the receptionist explained when she saw me staring. "They're not all as young as you."
The new veterinarian greeted us warmly. He gently lifted Orwell from the plastic travel cage I'd borrowed from my sister's cat, scratching the rabbit's knobby head, just like I do.
"With such weak backs, hind limb paralysis is fairly common among rabbits," he continued. "Many times, it's environmental. Toxins in their food and water. Viruses. That sort of thing. But we see a lot of trauma, too."
"Orwell got hit by a truck," I explained. "At least, that's what I think happened."
I handed him a brown envelope that was as big as a briefcase. It was labeled MRI FILM PLEASE DO NOT BEND . Inside were six sheets of black film, each about the size of the poster board you'd use to make a science fair display. On each sheet were fifteen different negative images of Orwell's insides. One by one, the new veterinarian held the pictures up to the light.
"The MRI is the single greatest advance in medical diagnostics," he remarked appreciatively. "You can get a 3-D picture of anything!"
"Can you see what's wrong with Orwell?" I asked.
"It looks like there's been a shifting of the vertebra," he said. "See here, where it narrows?" He pointed to a picture on the sheet in his hand, but I couldn't tell exactly what on the picture he was pointing at. "It didn't show up on the X-rays because the muscles had put the vertebra back together. Unfortunately, they didn't do it well enough. The spinal cord is inflamed."
"What can we do?" I asked him.
"We can take the pressure off and we can pin it back together," he said.
"And that will work?" I asked.
"If we're lucky," he replied. "It all depends on how much damage has been done to his spinal cord."
On the way back home, my grandmother stopped to pick up supper for the family at the Imperial Garden. I went in with her while Orwell waited in the car.
Even though everything on the menu at the Imperial Garden has different names, when it is served, it is all pretty much the same food. That's why I always get sweet and sour pork. It's a little different from the rest of the food. It is oranger and it is sweeter.
While we were waiting for the food to be prepared, I noticed a poster announcing a party in celebration of Chinese New Year. It said that the new year was called the Year of the Rabbit.
"Wow! But I thought New Year's Day had already come and gone!" I blurted out.
"There is always
"You have to keep him very still or the pictures won't be any good," the technician said.
It's noisy inside an MRI machine. It clatters and bangs and burps. When it's doing what it is supposed to do, it sounds just like it's broken. And when it stops, and you think it's over and you're going to be freed, it starts right up again.
Like luck stuck on going from bad to worse, the cycle keeps repeating.
Despite the noise, or possibly because of it, Orwell snuggled down into the cavity in my chest, like a rabbit in a grassy nest in a meadow, and went to sleep.
The Year of the Rabbit
"Rabbits are not put together especially well," the new veterinarian said. "They have very weak backs." A younger man than I'd expected, he had thick, dark hair, a bright smile, and a surprisingly clean-smelling office.
When my grandmother and I had first arrived, there were no other patients in his waiting room. A receptionist not much older than I am, with short red hair and a round red face, had given my grandmother a form to fill out while I looked around the room.
The waiting room was about as big as our family room, but much tidier and more restful-looking, with green upholstered chairs, green-striped wallpaper, and green and tan carpet with no visible stains. On the walls hung two nearly identical watercolors of a country garden in full summer bloom. Beneath them, three brass lamps glowed on dark wood tables. At one end of the room, a people-sized wheelchair was folded up against the wall.
"That's for some of our patients' owners," the receptionist explained when she saw me staring. "They're not all as young as you."
The new veterinarian greeted us warmly. He gently lifted Orwell from the plastic travel cage I'd borrowed from my sister's cat, scratching the rabbit's knobby head, just like I do.
"With such weak backs, hind limb paralysis is fairly common among rabbits," he continued. "Many times, it's environmental. Toxins in their food and water. Viruses. That sort of thing. But we see a lot of trauma, too."
"Orwell got hit by a truck," I explained. "At least, that's what I think happened."
I handed him a brown envelope that was as big as a briefcase. It was labeled MRI FILM PLEASE DO NOT BEND . Inside were six sheets of black film, each about the size of the poster board you'd use to make a science fair display. On each sheet were fifteen different negative images of Orwell's insides. One by one, the new veterinarian held the pictures up to the light.
"The MRI is the single greatest advance in medical diagnostics," he remarked appreciatively. "You can get a 3-D picture of anything!"
"Can you see what's wrong with Orwell?" I asked.
"It looks like there's been a shifting of the vertebra," he said. "See here, where it narrows?" He pointed to a picture on the sheet in his hand, but I couldn't tell exactly what on the picture he was pointing at. "It didn't show up on the X-rays because the muscles had put the vertebra back together. Unfortunately, they didn't do it well enough. The spinal cord is inflamed."
"What can we do?" I asked him.
"We can take the pressure off and we can pin it back together," he said.
"And that will work?" I asked.
"If we're lucky," he replied. "It all depends on how much damage has been done to his spinal cord."
On the way back home, my grandmother stopped to pick up supper for the family at the Imperial Garden. I went in with her while Orwell waited in the car.
Even though everything on the menu at the Imperial Garden has different names, when it is served, it is all pretty much the same food. That's why I always get sweet and sour pork. It's a little different from the rest of the food. It is oranger and it is sweeter.
While we were waiting for the food to be prepared, I noticed a poster announcing a party in celebration of Chinese New Year. It said that the new year was called the Year of the Rabbit.
"Wow! But I thought New Year's Day had already come and gone!" I blurted out.
"There is always
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