Storms (22 page)

The band hadn't come to visit him. There were phone calls and flowers from them, but there was no mistaking the air of resentment that surrounded Lindsey's hospitalization. J.C. had canceled two major shows and no one knew yet how many more dates would be lost because of Lindsey's “problem.” Fleetwood Mac was not happy. Lindsey pretended not to care that the band was staying away, but I knew that it bothered him. It bothered me too, but I was much more worried about his health than I was about the band's not-so-subtle signs of displeasure.

Lindsey now knew that he'd had a seizure. The specialist who'd taken over his care, Dr. Williams, had told him exactly what had happened to him in our hotel room. He took this brutal news with a nod as dark fear shone from his eyes. We didn't speak of it. We waited for the test results. And, just like before, each test was coming back “normal.”

On the third day he was given a spinal tap. It's one of the most brutal tests anyone can have: a large needle is inserted into the spine and fluid is drawn out for testing. It left Lindsey with a bruise the size of a fist on his lower back and a hole in his spine that would take three or four days to close.

On the final day of his stay Lindsey was diagnosed with epilepsy. He'd have to be on medication for the rest of his life. Dilantin—three pills a day, forever. He was ordered to change his entire lifestyle. No drugs, no alcohol, eight hours of sleep a night, and no driving a vehicle for at least a year. If he didn't follow these rules, Dr. Williams told him, then he'd have another seizure. And depending on where he was and who was or wasn't with him when he had it, he might possibly die.

We sat in stunned silence as the doctor gave us the news. Looking at our shocked faces, he went on to explain exactly what epilepsy was. It's not a disease, he explained, but a neurological disorder. The brain cells misfire—and when they do, it causes a blackout, or seizure. His flashes were blackouts. That he'd suffered a grand mal seizure was a worst-case scenario. With medication and vigilant health care, we were told, it was possible that we could keep his epilepsy under control and reduce the risk of his having another one.

“You can leave the hospital today, but you can't travel for at least three more days. You have a hole in your spine and it needs to close before you get onto an airplane. The pressurized cabin of a plane could cause your spine to leak fluid and that would be a very nasty problem.”

“But Dr. Williams”, I interrupted, “we have to leave for Washington, D.C., tomorrow! The band has already canceled shows and there's a huge party being thrown tomorrow afternoon for Fleetwood Mac by Hamilton Jordan. It's a White House affair and the rest of the band has to attend! The Fleetwood Mac plane is leaving at ten in the morning!”

Lindsey solemnly nodded his head in agreement. “Sir, I've put my band seriously behind schedule as it is. I can't ask them to sacrifice anything else. I have to be on that plane—I'll be careful. It's a big plane. I can lie down and Carol will be there to watch over me. I'll be fine”, he finished firmly.

“I think it's an unnecessary risk, but I understand you have commitments. I must warn you, however, it's dangerous. I want you off your feet as much as possible for the next three days. Do what you must, but
at the first sign of trouble, you need to go straight to a hospital in Washington. OK?”

“Thanks, Dr. Williams. I'll take care of him. Lindsey and I won't be attending the party, I can assure you”, I said as I looked meaningfully at Lindsey. “As soon as we get to our hotel, I'll put him straight to bed. I promise.”

The next morning on the plane, Lindsey, looking thin and wan, lay down on a couch under a pile of blankets, his head resting in my lap. Once we were in the air, J.C., Mick, and Christine made a beeline for us.

“Lindsey”, Mick began, “the band has talked about what's the best way to handle the publicity on what's happened to you. We think it's in everyone's best interests to keep it private. We're really concerned about what's best for you, mate. I mean, it's no one's business, is it?” Mick asked with a tone of hearty bluster in his voice.

Lindsey just stared at him, his eyes cold and distant—perhaps thinking of the four long days he'd just spent in the hospital. Days where the band's “concern” would have meant a lot more if only one of them had come by to see him. Inexplicably, none of them had.

Mick cleared his throat and gamely continued. “We'll just tell the press that you were seriously ill with the flu and that you're better now. We'll make up the shows we've had to cancel and, well, everyone's just glad that you're going to be OK.”

“Mick”, Lindsey replied in an icy tone, “I'm not ashamed of having epilepsy. It's a big deal, I know—but I'm not going to hide the fact that I've been diagnosed with it. I'm issuing a press release about it in Washington.”

“Why do you want to do that?” Chris asked incredulously. “I'm not saying that you should be ashamed of it, but I'd want to keep it private if it were me. There's no need for the whole world to know our personal business, Lindsey”, she finished with a haughty sniff.

“This has nothing to do with you, Christine. It's
my
personal business—not the band's. You don't really have a say in it. I've made my decision and that's that. If you have a problem with it, too bad!”

Looking sullen and embarrassed at the same time, the band's envoy took an abrupt leave of us and stalked back to the front of the plane. Looking in concern at Lindsey's forehead now furrowed with pain, I murmured, “Hey, I'm really proud of you, Lindsey. You're doing the right thing. It's idiotic to
hide what happened to you in Philadelphia. I don't understand why they would even consider trying to cover it up!”

“Oh, it's the English contingent's old-school belief that one must never air ‘dirty laundry' in public. Well, I don't think my epilepsy is ‘dirty laundry.' They're idiots sometimes.” Lindsey snarled through clenched teeth. Suddenly, his back arched in a spasm and he gasped in pain. “Jesus, Carol, it hurts. I think maybe something is happening with my back. It hurts really bad.”

“J.C.!” I cried out toward the front of the plane. “Can you please come back here?” Grabbing some Kleenex off the side table, I wiped Lindsey's now sweat-soaked face and hair.

Appearing by our side, J.C. took one look at Lindsey's face and turned almost as pale as Lindsey. “Mr. B., are you OK? What's happening? What's wrong?”

“It's my back, J.C., it hurts like hell. How soon before we land?”

“Twenty minutes. Can you handle that?” J.C. asked worriedly. “Do you want me to phone ahead for an ambulance to meet us at the airport?”

“No, I think that I just need to get on the ground. The doctor said the altitude could cause problems for me. I can make it for another twenty minutes.”

“The hotel's only fifteen minutes from the airport, Lindsey. We can have you in bed within the hour. I'll help Carol take care of you until we land. Just hold on, mate”, J.C. said in a soft voice.

With a nod of his head, Lindsey held my hand tightly as I waited for J.C. to bring me a cold washcloth for his face. I spent the rest of the flight wiping his face—trying not to let him see the fear that I was feeling. In the back of my mind, I heard the doctor's warning words about flying.
Could Lindsey's spine be leaking fluid? Just let me get him to the hotel and into a real bed. Once we're off of the plane, he's going to feel better
, I said to myself firmly, unable to let myself think the unthinkable that the doctor's dire words of horrific side effects from flying too soon after the spinal tap could be coming true.

In the limousine on the way to the hotel, Lindsey's pain seemed to ease and a little color came back into his face. Nonetheless, I cornered J.C. in the hotel lobby. “Look, J.C., I know the big party is this afternoon—but Lindsey's obviously not feeling that great. You have to promise me that
you'll leave one of our security guards here and a limo in case we need it. Lindsey didn't want to make a big deal of it with the band, but the doctor in Philadelphia said that Lindsey could have some really bad problems with his spine from being on a plane. I don't want to be here all alone if, God forbid, anything happens to him!”

J.C. listened distractedly as he passed out hotel keys to Stevie and John McVie—rolling his eyes as they impatiently grabbed them from his hand. Patting me on the shoulder, he said cheerfully, “Duly noted, Carol. This is a huge party and everyone wants to go. But after all, we do work for Mr. B. and the band. All you have to do is call my room and someone will be there to help you!”

I should have known better than to believe him. The entire entourage had been looking forward to this event for over a month. Hamilton Jordan, President Carter's chief of staff, was hosting an embassy party in Fleetwood Mac's honor at 3
P.M.
sharp. Jordan—young, brilliant, brash, and famous for wearing tennis clothes in the White House—was, along with President Carter's sons, a huge Fleetwood Mac fan. To say that this party for Fleetwood Mac was an
honor
was a major understatement. It was a rock ‘n' roll coup of the highest order. No one in the Fleetwood Mac family wanted to miss it—and as I would soon find out in the most brutal way—none of them did.

Putting Lindsey to bed immediately, I watched with relief as he fell into a restless sleep. I was sure he'd feel better when he woke up.
Thank God the flight was so short
, I thought as I kicked off my heels and curled up into an armchair next to him. Turning on the television, I changed the channels listlessly, unable to focus on any one program for more than five minutes.

In less than a week's time, our world had turned upside down. Sitting there as Lindsey tossed and turned in his sleep, the reality of the past days went through my mind like black shadows. For the first time in my young life I had watched the extreme physical suffering and torment of someone I loved. Seeing Lindsey endure his grand mal seizure—watching him convulse and suffer while I stood by helplessly—made me feel completely inadequate. I knew that logically I was not to blame for his seizure—but the intensity of that morning revealed a shocking side to human suffering beyond anything I could have imagined. A suffering that was almost pure
in its nakedness. I never wanted to see it again—and I never, ever wanted to feel that
helpless
again.

Since that horrible morning in Philadelphia, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking around in a living nightmare. Alone. Lindsey didn't remember anything about his seizure. I was the only one among the Fleetwood Mac family who had witnessed it from the beginning. The others had arrived almost fifteen minutes after it started—and after the first few seconds, they had turned away from what was happening. Rightly or wrongly, I felt that I was the only one who truly knew the terror of it.

But the nightmare was about to continue.

An hour passed.

Lindsey snapped awake, crying out in pain and thrashing about on his pillow. My heart stopped as I looked in shock at his frenzied movements.
No, NO, NO, NO! NOT AGAIN… PLEASE GOD, NOT AGAIN!
I thought as I rushed to his side.

“Carol, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts!” Lindsey moaned as I leaned over him. Grabbing my arm, he squeezed it painfully as his back arched off of the bed in a spasm. He cried out again. He was in agony and we needed help. Now.

“I'm here, baby, I'm right here.” Reaching for the phone, I knocked it to the floor and had to drop onto my knees to grab the angrily buzzing receiver. Pulling the Fleetwood Mac room list out of my pocket, I dialed J.C.'s room. The rings seemed to mock me as they went on and on and on.
Oh my God, there's no one there!
Cursing J.C. under my breath, I clicked off and immediately dialed the front desk.

Trying to stay calm, I told them that I needed a doctor for Lindsey ASAP. I was stunned to hear the harried voice of the desk clerk telling me that they had no doctor on staff or call. “You'll have to take him to the closest doctor. There's one about four blocks away. I can get the address for you and call ahead. That's all we can do, I'm afraid. Unless, of course, you wish for us to call an ambulance.”

“Yes! Call an ambulance!” I shouted into the phone.

Beside me on the bed, Lindsey tearfully pleaded, “No, Carol, no ambulance, please. I can't stand going to another hospital. Please, just get me a doctor. I don't want to go. I don't want to move.”

Looking at a face that had now taken on the qualities of what Lindsey must have looked like at the age of ten, my heart broke. “Cancel the ambulance.
Call the doctor's office. I'll be right down for the address”, I told them. My instincts told me to call the paramedics, but Lindsey's pleading, trusting eyes convinced me that I had to find another way to help him. Knowing the horror of the tests that he'd already been subjected to in Philadelphia, I knew that I had to at least try.

With Lindsey uttering painful cries behind me, I desperately picked up the phone one last time to find the Fleetwood Mac security that J.C. promised to leave behind for us. I dialed his room—no answer. Frantically dialing room after room, I realized with a sinking feeling of despair that I was totally alone.

What was I going to do? I couldn't leave him alone, he might have another seizure! But I had to get help for him. I'd have to leave him for a few minutes to go downstairs to find the limo driver. I could be at the doctor's office in five minutes and bring him back with me. I was going to have to risk leaving Lindsey alone. I had no choice.

Trying to keep the terror out of my voice, I leaned over him. “Lindsey, I have to go downstairs for a couple of minutes. Do you think you'll be OK? Do you feel like you're going to have a flash?”