Storms (23 page)

“No.” He answered through clenched teeth. “It doesn't feel like that, it's just the pain. My back—my back hurts, Carol—it hurts. It feels like someone is twisting my back hard enough to break it.”

“I'll be right back with help, Lindsey. Hold on, OK? Just hold on until I get back …” With a quick kiss on his sweat-soaked forehead and a last desperate look at his anguished face, I picked up my purse and ran out of the room.

Not wanting to wait on the elevator, I rushed to the dimly lit stairwell that was next to our room and started running down it. As soon as my feet hit the metal stairs, I realized that in my panic, I'd forgotten to put my shoes on.
To hell with it…
I swore as I ran down and down until finally I hit the lobby floor. Racing outside, I looked around expectantly for a black limousine. Nothing. Not one single car from the Fleetwood Mac fleet was parked where it should have been.

I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS! I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT THEY WOULD DO THIS TO US! I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL J.C. WHEN I SEE HIM—I SWEAR I WILL!

Angry enough to tear just about anyone who got in my way limb from limb, I ran back inside to the front desk and tersely asked for the doctor's address.

Seeing that it was, indeed, over four blocks away I knew that I had to make a decision and I had to do it now. There was no way I could get Lindsey out of bed and into a cab. He couldn't be moved and he wouldn't go to the hospital. Precious minutes were ticking by and I had to act—fast. Throwing my purse over my shoulder, I took off through the lobby at a dead run and sprinted down the street. My bare feet burned on the hot pavement, but I kept going. Ignoring the amazed and curious faces that passed by me in a blur, I ran and ran until my breath was coming in gasps and my face was dripping with sweat in the 85-degree humid air of downtown Washington, D.C.

Seeing the door to the doctor's office, I burst through it like a tornado and almost threw myself across the room. A nurse stood openmouthed, staring as though she couldn't believe her eyes. With my Armani dress, Gucci purse, tangled sweaty hair, and dirty bare feet, I looked like a well-dressed lunatic.

“You've got to help me! I need a doctor to come with me right now! It's my boyfriend—he's in agony at the hotel and … Oh, Jesus, I'm scared and I need a doctor!” I screamed at her, ignoring the shocked looks of the seated patients in the waiting room. In my head I started a mental countdown of the time I'd been away from Lindsey.

Ten minutes gone. How is he? What's happening in our room?

A doctor came out of one of the examining rooms, took one look at me, and walked briskly to my side, guiding me gently but firmly back behind the reception desk to his office. The smells of metallic antiseptic cleansers assaulted my senses as I walked down the air-conditioned, white-walled corridor. It was a welcome change from the smoggy, hot air outside. As I looked into the face of the balding, cherub-faced doctor walking beside me, I could feel some of my panic receding, believing that help for Lindsey would soon be on its way.

“Start at the beginning”, he told me as he led me to a chair. Sticking his head back out the door he yelled, “Nurse! Bring a glass of water in here for this young lady. She looks as though she could use one.”

I poured out my heart to him, quickly telling him about Lindsey's seizure, the spinal tap, and the agony he was in back at the hotel. “Can you come with me right now?” I pleaded tearfully. “I'm so scared. He might go into another seizure. I don't know what to do. He doesn't want me to call an
ambulance, and I need help. The band left me alone—I'm all alone
—we're
all alone …
please, please, come to the hotel with me!”

As the doctor reached for his prescription pad, he shook his head no. “I've got five patients left to see. I can't come with you. I'll give you some muscle relaxants and some pain medication for Mr. Buckingham. And then I'll come to the hotel as soon as I'm done here.”

“But you don't understand! You
have
to come! He could be having a seizure! Please,
please come with me!”
I begged.

“Listen, Miss, er …”

“Harris”, I said softly.

“Miss Harris, you told me that he had a spinal tap in Philadelphia four days ago. That's a
very
nasty test. I believe that he has fluid leaking from his spinal cord. I know you're scared, but you've got to get this medicine for him and then get back to him as quickly as you can. I'll come straight there after I see my patients—shouldn't be more than an hour and a half. The hotel called before you got here. I know that your boyfriend is the guitar player for Fleetwood Mac, and I know that you're going to take good care of him before I get there. I'm a fan of the band myself. We're not going to let anything happen to him.”

He kept his voice soothing as he continued. “Now get out of here and go straight to the pharmacy. It's a half a block away on the next corner. I'll see you at your hotel soon. I promise.”

I nodded my head numbly, grabbed the prescriptions, and walked quickly out of his office. I felt like screaming and bursting into tears.

But I did neither.

Lindsey needed me and I had to keep it together. I couldn't fall apart. If I did, he'd have no one to help him. For now, I was all he had to get him through this.

I would not, could not, fail him.

Twenty-five minutes gone. Is he as scared as I am?

I started running as soon as I hit the street. I made it to the pharmacy in two minutes flat and paced like a caged animal as I waited under the suspicious eyes of the pharmacist for the pills. Store patrons and clerks alike gave me a wide berth as I glared back and forth from the clock on the wall to the white-jacketed technician behind the counter. I didn't care that I looked like a madwoman with my tangled hair and dirty bare
feet. All I cared about was grabbing Lindsey's medicine and getting back to him.

Finally, my name was called and I rushed to the counter to pay for the prescriptions. Clutching the bag in my sweaty hand, I took off at full speed back to the hotel. As the smell of exhaust filled my lungs and the sound of traffic filled my head, sweat ran down my face, seeping into the collar of my now-ruined dress. The muggy heat enveloped me as I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. I could see black clouds gathering in the sky and knew that a storm couldn't be far off, bringing welcome relief to a stifling D.C. summer heat wave. The soles of my feet were burning and blistering from the red-hot pavement. I tried to close my mind to the torture of it and I kept running.

Run—run—run—just keep going. You've got to get back to him. You've got to get back …

My stride was broken as excruciating pain went through the heel of my foot. Looking down, I saw smears of bright red blood staining the sidewalk. I'd sliced my foot on a shard of glass and I could feel the sharp stabbing edges of it with every step that I took.

Even though I knew that it was insane not to stop and try to get the glass out, I wouldn't do it.

Blaming myself for Lindsey suffering all alone in a hotel room because it had taken me so long to get help for him, it somehow made me feel better that I was bleeding and hurting. It was like a penance that needed to be paid. Hysterical as I was, the blood and pain focused me and I started running even faster.

Fifty minutes gone. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, baby … try to hold on, Lindsey—I'm almost there.

And I was.

As I threw open the huge door of the hotel lobby, relief hit me like a battering ram—staggering me, shattering the false energy I'd used in my hour-long frantic run for help. Used up now—gone. I limped across the lush carpet of the hotel lobby and leaned heavily on the elevator button. I had no choice but to wait for the slow-moving elevators—if I tried to take the stairs, I knew I'd have to crawl. With my feet throbbing in agony and my breath coming in gasps, I stumbled into the elevator car that would take me upstairs to Lindsey.

Using the wall of the hallway as a crutch, I tried to keep my weight off of my slashed foot as I limped toward the door of our room. Blood was streaming from the bottom of my foot, and it seemed as though the last twenty feet back to Lindsey was the longest walk I'd ever taken.

I was terrified of what I might find when I opened the door of our suite.

Had he had another seizure?

Was he unconscious?

Had he been screaming in pain with no one to hear him?

God help me, was he even now lying on the floor, not breathing?

My hand trembled as I pushed the key into the lock and threw open the door. The bedroom was cast in shadows. Through the half-open curtains, the sky had turned an ominous shade of purple and black. Flickers of lightning teased the horizon, followed by the soft rumble of thunder. The summer storm that had been threatening seemed about to break and the air felt thick and heavy with humidity. It seemed to hang like a tangible veil as I made my way across the ominously silent room.

I could make out Lindsey's body lying among the snarled covers of the bed. Afraid to breathe, afraid to look—terrified of what I was about to know—I closed my eyes for a split second, summoning up the courage to look at the deathly still form of the man I loved.

His eyes were closed in a face that was slack and white. I felt my stomach twist into knots as I sank down beside him on the bed.

“Lindsey, baby …
Lindsey. Wake up, please, please wake up …”

He moaned as his eyelashes fluttered open, giving me a look that was both dazed and bewildered. His eyes were midnight blue in the semi-darkness of the room, pain lines reaching out from the corners and etched across his forehead. Trying to keep the panic out of my voice, I brushed his sweat soaked hair out of his face.

“I brought you pills, baby. The doctor is coming—he's on his way. How do you feel?”

Trying to smile with bloodless lips, he whispered hoarsely, “It hurts so fucking much, Carol. I've never hurt like this before. It won't stop. The pain won't stop. Can you help me up? I'm going to be sick.”

He held out his hand to me and I grabbed it, struggling to bear his weight as we made our way to the bathroom. Holding his hair back, it took all of my strength to support his body as he threw up violently into the
toilet. With his arm over my shoulder, I strained to get him back into bed before he collapsed. As terrified as I still was, I breathed deeply with relief.

Because my prayers had been answered.

He hadn't had a seizure. He wasn't unconscious. It broke my heart to see him in so much pain, but I knew that we'd been very, very lucky—and very blessed. This time. It could have been so much worse. An image of Lindsey on the floor in Philadelphia flickered in my mind and I forcefully pushed it away.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, God.

“You're going to feel better in a minute, Lindsey. I'm just going to leave you for a second to get you a glass of water. You have to take your pills right away. Soon you're going to feel better, I promise.” Jumping up from the bed, I ran to the bathroom for water and then dumped the pills into his hand. I held his head as he choked them down and I climbed into bed beside him. Relief and worry waged war inside my dazed mind as I studied his face.

He looked like death. Only twenty-nine, Lindsey looked at least fifteen years older than he had only a week before. His face was so thin and lined that to me it looked as through he'd walked through the fires of hell. And I knew that he had—with me right by his side.

I tried to keep my voice strong and positive as I stroked his hair, telling him of the hour I'd just spent running through the streets of Washington, D.C. Barefoot. He tried to smile as he listened—the image of me running, sweat-soaked in my designer dress with no shoes and snarled wild hair, was so incongruous to us both that in any other circumstance, we would be laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it. Not so much at the fact that I could look like shit, but at the mere thought of me running anywhere. I was an L.A. girl and only walked when I had to. If a car could take me where I wanted to go, even if it were only half a block away, then I took the
car.
Grateful for the smile that I'd been able to bring to his pain-lined face, I sat and watched over him, counting the minutes to the doctor's arrival.

Just as the storm broke, unleashing its fury on the streets below, I heard a soft knock on the door. Ignoring the stabbing pain from the cut on my foot, I leaped up and crossed the room in two seconds flat. Opening the door for the doctor who'd come to help us, I felt a surge of relief so strong that I almost collapsed under the weight of it. As the doctor examined Lindsey, I
limped over to an armchair and curled up into the red velvet cushions, my eyes not really seeing what was playing out in front of me.

For now, I was able to turn the heavy responsibility of Lindsey's safety and well-being over to a professional and I was profoundly grateful for it. I passed the time easing the glass out of my wrecked foot and limped to the bathroom to wash and bandage it in a towel. Behind me, the doctor was giving Lindsey a shot of Demerol. I could hear him telling Lindsey that he had to stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours. In a slurred voice, Lindsey assured him that he would and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was OK, for now.

Telling the doctor thanks and to send a bill to the hotel, I let him out of the room and returned to the velvet chair. I watched as heavy rain spattered the window glass, the drops glowing red from the passing cars on the street below us. I sat and gazed at Lindsey, sleeping deeply—finally at peace after ten hours of agonizing pain. And I realized that I felt much, much older than I had a week before and I didn't think I would ever feel safe again.

I knew that this was only the beginning. The doctors had warned us in Philadelphia of the impact Lindsey's epilepsy would have on our lives. And I knew in my heart that their orders for life changes would be a warning soon forgotten by Lindsey once he'd recovered from this episode.