Alexander Moore (the_desirous) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-01-14 00:12:00 |
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Current mood: | sick |
Entry tags: | alexander moore, emory scott, khaos, the moirae |
Who: Alex and Open
Where: Not far from Three Sheets
When: Ten-thirty Tuesday night
Rating: PG-13 for medical FAIL.
Alex has been taking Dilantin for seven years. For the most part it's worked pretty well, too, but, as usually does happen, it has maxed out its useful life for his body. Think of it like the neighbour you've known for twenty years: after a certain point, you just don't notice when he comes over to borrow something. Then, of course, you go to use it and it isn't there any more.
He kept meaning to see the neurologist and just not having time, or not having inclination, and for the most part it didn't matter too much: he got enough sleep, he didn't drink, he took vitamins, and things were okay.
To-day, though, he's not.
The seizure was sort of threatening all night long, with flurries at the corners of his vision and a vague light-headed feeling, but it wasn't until he got off his shift and headed home that the hallucinations really started in earnest, and then the sort of fade from reality, and then the actual tonic-clonic phase. Right there on the sidewalk, dammit, in full view of the world, shaking and spasming in the cold Manhattan wind. Then he went post-ictal, and when he wakes up his wallet and cell phone are decidedly gone, and he's feeling too sick to move.
He drags himself against the wall of the nearest building and leans against it, shivering and trying not to throw up. Should have called this before it happened. Should have seen the doctor, should have asked Emory to come pick him up (but Emory had work in the morning and was in bed before ten, and Annika had school, and he'd figured he could get home first--), oh God, Jesus--
Closes his eyes and takes a deep swallow of air and ends up on his hands and knees, retching onto the sidewalk. Oh, Jesus, it's so cold.