Eyes Only
At eleven-thirty on Monday night, I hobbled back to my small apartment and tried to remember the last time I'd been there. I knew it hadn't been the eight hundred years my mind was insisting.
One more problem, I decided, and I was out of solutions.
Rewind to twenty-four hours earlier, when I was collapsed to the floor, fluttering in and out of consciousness and lucky enough to have witnesses capable of calling medical professionals.
Everyone who spends time with me lately has become aware of my intense obsession with actor Michael Weatherly. So I've set about seeing what other work he's done besides NCIS and Cabin By the Lake. Lo and behold, I discovered something I should have known a long time ago--he played gorgeous, awesome cyber-journalist Eyes Only, aka Logan Cale, on James Cameron's short-lived sci-fi Dark Angel. I never watched Dark Angel when it was on the air, but I realize that it's entertaining in a kitschy, 90s sci-fi way, (plus Weatherly, mmmm!) so I'm stoked to begin collecting the second season DVDs, the novels, and to track down the video game if there was one. (I think there was. Anyone know?)
The thing about Eyes Only is that he is in a wheelchair. I knew that already, the first episode of Dark Angel I ever saw on network TV being the famous episode where Jessica Alba's character is in heat due to her "feline DNA". (As much as I love a good reason for smut and romance, especially if Weatherly is involved at all, I really wish Cameron and his writers hadn't done that. I see this so often in bad fanfiction it makes me want to chew through my wrists--cat-based DNA transfusions do not work. The body rejects foreign DNA, like a virus. It would likely only cause infection and necrosis--yum, yum. *eyeroll* Oh well.) But it had never occurred to me to wonder how Cale ends up in the wheelchair--I always figured the whole Eyes Only thing was just to compensate for his lack of mobility.
Not true--in the pilot episode, Cale pulls a deliciously sexy 12-gauge on intruder Max Guavara and spends the majority of the episode dashing around (and I do mean dashing. Have I mentioned I am in love with this man?) until you see a news clip of "two unidentified men" being shot by bad guys while trying to move a woman and her daughter into protective custody. One of the unidentified victims is, of course, Logan Cale, and my heart just skips every time I see him roll over on the asphalt, barely conscious. Later we learn that the gunshot severed Cale's spinal cord, landing him in the wheelchair. At the time, I wondered how that must have felt.
Sunday morning, I felt like I knew.
Saturday night, I had spent a little too much time with our good friend Jose Cuervo. Dancing to "Down In Mexico", I slipped on the slick floor and landed hard, my back banging against the footrail in the speakeasy. I didn't mind at all, letting my friends pull me to my feet and continuing slinking around to the Coasters.
The next morning, I woke up feeling like someone had shoved a red-hot poker into my back. Rolling off the futon my friends had allowed me to sleep on, I crawled to the head and vomited. I assumed it was from the tequila, but the last remaining rational part of my brain reminded me I tolerated tequila much better than this. Crawling back to the futon, I curled up against the pain and tried to go to sleep.
It was Grandparent's Day, and Danielle and her family had graciously invited me to go along with them to the beach and to dinner. We made it as far as Danielle's mother's house. Feeling hot and cold all over, I asked to go to the head and thought I'd just splash water on my face. After I turned the taps, the pain was so intense the room flickered in and out of focus. Pins and needles overtook my left hand, then my right, thrilled up both arms to my face, circled my jaw. My feet slid out from under me and I hit the floor, hard. I felt tangled in spider silk and realized it was my hair; rolling over, all I could think of was my man rolling over on the asphalt, that handsome face, the closed eyes, and how it must feel to be shot in the back.
When I woke up, Danielle's mother was placing a heating pad under my back. Danielle was on the phone. Danny was in the doorway, wide-eyed.
I tried to speak and couldn't; the pins and needles had overtaken my tongue. I couldn't form words. Words like stroke and seizure were scrolling through my misfiring brain. The only thing that I could move with any success were my eyes, and I glanced around the room in total panic.
Someone shoved a painkiller under my tongue and the room mercifully went dark.
An hour later I managed somehow to stand and we tried again. By a miracle, I could sit on the beach, laugh and smile, walk through the surf, enjoy the sunshine.
What I couldn't do was eat. No matter what, the thought of food made me immediately nauseous. I sneaked away to vomit up the painkillers. Nothing else was in my stomach.
By dinnertime, I was feeling confident. Everything would be fine, I reasoned. It had happened once before, back in Norfolk. And I survived it then. Nothing to be afraid of.
The Versa hit a bump. The world flickered in and out of focus again.
"Sorry," Danny said from the driver's seat. "It's hard for me to see the potholes."
"Don't worry, Dan," I said through gritted teeth. "You're getting most of them."
In the parking lot of the restaurant, it happened again. I stepped out of the Versa with the intent of hitting the head to vomit again, and as soon as I was upright, my legs gave out. My back was on fire, but I rolled onto it anyway, blinded by pain. I held my hand up in front of my face, horrified at the pins and needles overtaking again. Everything flickered and once more my tongue would not work.
Someone tried to lift me, and I suddenly found my voice--I screamed.
Everyone stopped moving.
Phones were whipped out, and doctors were called. I began to force my tongue to curl around words like I'm sorry and no hospital.
Everyone was really upset about my insistence on not going to a hospital. But the last time I set foot in a hospital, I nearly got committed to the psychiatric ward. I refuse to voluntarily enter a place where you slowly die while waiting for help.
Somehow, we managed to make our way to the home of my old boss, the chiropractor, who I'd been too panicked to remember to call. He made some adjustments to my spine with a hammer while his wife soothed me and a chocolate Labrador pushed its nose beneath my hand, asking for pets. A little girl showed me her medal of the Blessed Mother, and I closed my eyes, exhausted.
They brought me to my father's house, and all I could do was mumble apologies for ruining everyone's outing and collapse on the sofa I'd slept on in Norfolk while they placed ice on my back and soothed me and shoved more painkillers under my tongue.
They kept telling me not to be silly, that they were refusing to leave me alone. They held my hand. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Danielle's mom and Danny went back to the restaurant and brought in dinner. When I felt well enough to sit upright, we all ate together in my father's kitchen, everyone laughing like hell at the idea of a family eating in the kitchen--but not the family who lived there.
By ten PM, I fell into an exhausted, painful sleep.
In the morning, my youngest sister drove me to the doctor and had a blast telling everyone that for once, she wasn't the one that was injured. I spent the entire day laid up at my father's. My supervisor called late in the day to check on me--and to warn me that if I was only going to be at 80% and cranky on Tuesday, not to bother coming in, just to take another day off. I frowned. This was really unbelievable. It's never enough for some people, it really isn't.
The doctor wasn't happy about me insisting on working Tuesday or driving at all, but I can't afford to miss any more work. I decided to leave out the part about Allentown on Saturday but accepted his orders not to dance Tuesday. Oh well. I should probably rethink all of that for financial reasons anyway.
The slightest pressure against my back makes me hiss in pain. My right shoulder and neck are tight. There doesn't seem to be any explanation for the sudden numbness except panic. The internet was down tonight so I couldn't even catch up on any work. But I'm honestly beginning not to care.
I'm really getting tired of all this outlandishness. Why can't I just sit down and refuse to play? I'd really just like to pack up my toys and go home.
My life. Painkillers at the speed of candy.
One more problem, I decided, and I was out of solutions.
Rewind to twenty-four hours earlier, when I was collapsed to the floor, fluttering in and out of consciousness and lucky enough to have witnesses capable of calling medical professionals.
Everyone who spends time with me lately has become aware of my intense obsession with actor Michael Weatherly. So I've set about seeing what other work he's done besides NCIS and Cabin By the Lake. Lo and behold, I discovered something I should have known a long time ago--he played gorgeous, awesome cyber-journalist Eyes Only, aka Logan Cale, on James Cameron's short-lived sci-fi Dark Angel. I never watched Dark Angel when it was on the air, but I realize that it's entertaining in a kitschy, 90s sci-fi way, (plus Weatherly, mmmm!) so I'm stoked to begin collecting the second season DVDs, the novels, and to track down the video game if there was one. (I think there was. Anyone know?)
The thing about Eyes Only is that he is in a wheelchair. I knew that already, the first episode of Dark Angel I ever saw on network TV being the famous episode where Jessica Alba's character is in heat due to her "feline DNA". (As much as I love a good reason for smut and romance, especially if Weatherly is involved at all, I really wish Cameron and his writers hadn't done that. I see this so often in bad fanfiction it makes me want to chew through my wrists--cat-based DNA transfusions do not work. The body rejects foreign DNA, like a virus. It would likely only cause infection and necrosis--yum, yum. *eyeroll* Oh well.) But it had never occurred to me to wonder how Cale ends up in the wheelchair--I always figured the whole Eyes Only thing was just to compensate for his lack of mobility.
Not true--in the pilot episode, Cale pulls a deliciously sexy 12-gauge on intruder Max Guavara and spends the majority of the episode dashing around (and I do mean dashing. Have I mentioned I am in love with this man?) until you see a news clip of "two unidentified men" being shot by bad guys while trying to move a woman and her daughter into protective custody. One of the unidentified victims is, of course, Logan Cale, and my heart just skips every time I see him roll over on the asphalt, barely conscious. Later we learn that the gunshot severed Cale's spinal cord, landing him in the wheelchair. At the time, I wondered how that must have felt.
Sunday morning, I felt like I knew.
Saturday night, I had spent a little too much time with our good friend Jose Cuervo. Dancing to "Down In Mexico", I slipped on the slick floor and landed hard, my back banging against the footrail in the speakeasy. I didn't mind at all, letting my friends pull me to my feet and continuing slinking around to the Coasters.
The next morning, I woke up feeling like someone had shoved a red-hot poker into my back. Rolling off the futon my friends had allowed me to sleep on, I crawled to the head and vomited. I assumed it was from the tequila, but the last remaining rational part of my brain reminded me I tolerated tequila much better than this. Crawling back to the futon, I curled up against the pain and tried to go to sleep.
It was Grandparent's Day, and Danielle and her family had graciously invited me to go along with them to the beach and to dinner. We made it as far as Danielle's mother's house. Feeling hot and cold all over, I asked to go to the head and thought I'd just splash water on my face. After I turned the taps, the pain was so intense the room flickered in and out of focus. Pins and needles overtook my left hand, then my right, thrilled up both arms to my face, circled my jaw. My feet slid out from under me and I hit the floor, hard. I felt tangled in spider silk and realized it was my hair; rolling over, all I could think of was my man rolling over on the asphalt, that handsome face, the closed eyes, and how it must feel to be shot in the back.
When I woke up, Danielle's mother was placing a heating pad under my back. Danielle was on the phone. Danny was in the doorway, wide-eyed.
I tried to speak and couldn't; the pins and needles had overtaken my tongue. I couldn't form words. Words like stroke and seizure were scrolling through my misfiring brain. The only thing that I could move with any success were my eyes, and I glanced around the room in total panic.
Someone shoved a painkiller under my tongue and the room mercifully went dark.
An hour later I managed somehow to stand and we tried again. By a miracle, I could sit on the beach, laugh and smile, walk through the surf, enjoy the sunshine.
What I couldn't do was eat. No matter what, the thought of food made me immediately nauseous. I sneaked away to vomit up the painkillers. Nothing else was in my stomach.
By dinnertime, I was feeling confident. Everything would be fine, I reasoned. It had happened once before, back in Norfolk. And I survived it then. Nothing to be afraid of.
The Versa hit a bump. The world flickered in and out of focus again.
"Sorry," Danny said from the driver's seat. "It's hard for me to see the potholes."
"Don't worry, Dan," I said through gritted teeth. "You're getting most of them."
In the parking lot of the restaurant, it happened again. I stepped out of the Versa with the intent of hitting the head to vomit again, and as soon as I was upright, my legs gave out. My back was on fire, but I rolled onto it anyway, blinded by pain. I held my hand up in front of my face, horrified at the pins and needles overtaking again. Everything flickered and once more my tongue would not work.
Someone tried to lift me, and I suddenly found my voice--I screamed.
Everyone stopped moving.
Phones were whipped out, and doctors were called. I began to force my tongue to curl around words like I'm sorry and no hospital.
Everyone was really upset about my insistence on not going to a hospital. But the last time I set foot in a hospital, I nearly got committed to the psychiatric ward. I refuse to voluntarily enter a place where you slowly die while waiting for help.
Somehow, we managed to make our way to the home of my old boss, the chiropractor, who I'd been too panicked to remember to call. He made some adjustments to my spine with a hammer while his wife soothed me and a chocolate Labrador pushed its nose beneath my hand, asking for pets. A little girl showed me her medal of the Blessed Mother, and I closed my eyes, exhausted.
They brought me to my father's house, and all I could do was mumble apologies for ruining everyone's outing and collapse on the sofa I'd slept on in Norfolk while they placed ice on my back and soothed me and shoved more painkillers under my tongue.
They kept telling me not to be silly, that they were refusing to leave me alone. They held my hand. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Danielle's mom and Danny went back to the restaurant and brought in dinner. When I felt well enough to sit upright, we all ate together in my father's kitchen, everyone laughing like hell at the idea of a family eating in the kitchen--but not the family who lived there.
By ten PM, I fell into an exhausted, painful sleep.
In the morning, my youngest sister drove me to the doctor and had a blast telling everyone that for once, she wasn't the one that was injured. I spent the entire day laid up at my father's. My supervisor called late in the day to check on me--and to warn me that if I was only going to be at 80% and cranky on Tuesday, not to bother coming in, just to take another day off. I frowned. This was really unbelievable. It's never enough for some people, it really isn't.
The doctor wasn't happy about me insisting on working Tuesday or driving at all, but I can't afford to miss any more work. I decided to leave out the part about Allentown on Saturday but accepted his orders not to dance Tuesday. Oh well. I should probably rethink all of that for financial reasons anyway.
The slightest pressure against my back makes me hiss in pain. My right shoulder and neck are tight. There doesn't seem to be any explanation for the sudden numbness except panic. The internet was down tonight so I couldn't even catch up on any work. But I'm honestly beginning not to care.
I'm really getting tired of all this outlandishness. Why can't I just sit down and refuse to play? I'd really just like to pack up my toys and go home.
My life. Painkillers at the speed of candy.