Storms (20 page)

And he was—for the first few weeks of the tour. I thought the biggest problem he would have to face was exhaustion. Playing a tour schedule of three shows in a row and two nights off, then two or three shows again and one day off, and playing the same set, the same songs, night after night, left every member of the band completely wrecked by the third week of the ambitiously scheduled
Rumours
tour. They were using more cocaine,
more alcohol, more weed, more
everything
to get through the shows with the quality of the music intact. By now Fleetwood Mac had done close to seventy-five shows in the U.S., and the band was booked to be on the road well into 1978. Tempers were shorter, the partying wilder, and the hangovers more severe.

Even so, the show that was next on the schedule had all of us excited. The band was to play in front of one of its largest audiences ever. In Philadelphia, seventy thousand people would be waiting in the hot sun to hear Fleetwood Mac perform in an afternoon festival that was completely sold out. It was just what they needed to shake off the jaded routine that the
Rumours
tour was becoming and bring back the thrill for all of us.

After we'd checked into the huge hotel in Philadelphia, Lindsey immediately set up his portable recording equipment in the living room of our suite. Over the summer he'd ordered a reel-to-reel portable recording machine with a mixer and speakers—the works—to be built into three large anvil cases on wheels. Once set up, it spanned seven feet and stood three feet high. Lindsey loved it. He'd already started to work on new songs for the next album. Every night off that we'd had so far, he spent recording. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with his guitar in front of the red anvil cases of his portable studio, he laid songs down on tape as a cloud of smoke from an ever-present joint hovered around his head.

And this night was no different. I left Lindsey to his music and climbed into bed, knowing that he would probably work for hours. Waking briefly when he crawled in next to me, I looked at the clock and saw that it was almost 4
A.M.
He's going to be tired tomorrow—our wake-up call is for eight
, I thought sleepily as I curled up against his body.

At 8 a.m. the phone rang shrilly and as I lifted it to my ear I heard J.C.'s cheerful voice booming, “Rise and shine, kids!” With a mumbled OK, I hung up and climbed out of bed. Grabbing a long summer dress, I slipped it over my head and clumsily tried to button the bodice as my long hair got tangled in the intricate lace of the fabric. “To hell with it”, I muttered, leaving my dress half unbuttoned as I walked into the bathroom to wash my face. When I came back into the bedroom I was pleasantly surprised to see that Lindsey was awake. After only four hours of sleep, it was a sure sign that he was excited about the show that afternoon. He gave me a quick, glancing kiss, grabbed his robe, and headed into the bathroom. As I heard
the shower turn on I climbed back onto the bed, picked up the phone, and ordered our breakfast.

Room service arrived quickly and as I transferred our plates of scrambled eggs and hash browns onto the dining-room table, I thought idly about what outfit to wear to that day's huge show. Just as I reached for a glass of orange juice, Lindsey came walking out of the bathroom, a billow of steam escaping from the open door.

My welcoming smile froze on my lips when I saw his face. He had the same vacant stare that I'd become familiar with during his flashes. His lips were moving but there was no sound, just horrible silence.

“Lindsey! Baby! I'm here, baby, I'm here!” I cried as I rushed to his side. Taking him gently by the arm, I eased him over to the couch and lowered him onto it.

Before I could speak again, before I could touch him, he fell to the floor and started to convulse. He kicked and thrashed, his eyes beseeching me for help, and I didn't know what to do. I threw myself onto the floor next to him and tried to hold his shaking body still, but he seemed as strong as ten men and I was thrown backward, hitting my head on the edge of the coffee table.

Pure animal fear swept through me as I realized that whatever was happening to Lindsey was not going to stop. It was getting worse and I didn't know what to do to help him.
He's dying
, I thought hysterically. And I started to pray.
Dear God, help me … help Lindsey … help Lindsey …

Out of the red veil of fear that threatened to send me into shock, a voice of reason echoed in my head, speaking to me as if I was a child.
Get help, Carol. Get Richard. Get up off the floor. Go to the door and start screaming for Richard. Richard will know what to do.
Hanging on to the words I was hearing in my head, I struggled to my feet and ran to the door, throwing it open with a force that sent it crashing against the wall.

“Richard! Help us, Richard! Richard, help! Lindsey's dying! Richard, help me!”

Down the endless corridor I saw a lone security guard staring at me as though he were seeing an apparition. In a heartbeat he started running toward me, and my screams continued as I watched him coming closer.

“He's dying!
Please help us …
Lindsey's dying …”

Breathing hard, the security man rushed past me into the room and knelt by Lindsey's still convulsing body. I looked in horror at Lindsey's face.
It was turning shades of gray-blue and his lips were colorless. “Get me a spoon!” the guard shouted over his shoulder. “We've got to keep him from swallowing his tongue!”

I grabbed a teaspoon from the table and handed it to him as I knelt down beside him and Lindsey. “Hold his head”, he continued, “I have to get this into his mouth.” I watched as he slipped the silver spoon between Lindsey's bloodless lips, and my hands shook as I tried to keep Lindsey's head still, but his convulsions were so violent that I couldn't hold on.

The phone started to ring and with a desperate look at Lindsey, I jumped up and grabbed the receiver. It was Greg Thomason with our second wakeup call.

“Are you guys up—?” Greg began as I cut him off and started screaming into the phone.

“Greg! Get help—Lindsey's sick—he's bad. Get J.C. down here now!” With a shocked gasp, Greg mumbled “OK” and I hung up and immediately called the front desk.
Answer the damn phone!
I thought desperately as I listened to the rings going on and on, waiting for someone, anyone, to pick up.

After what seemed an eternity I heard a voice say “Front desk”, and I yelled shrilly into the receiver, “Get an ambulance for room 7322! Lindsey Buckingham needs paramedics and an ambulance. Now!”

After a short silence the horrified desk clerk answered, “Yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am!” I threw down the receiver and rushed back to Lindsey.

My feeling of helplessness seemed to have left me. I no longer felt hysterical. I felt a great sense of calm and purpose, my mind locking away the terror and fear for Lindsey and replacing it with a resolve so strong that I felt completely focused as I returned to his side.

Whatever it takes, Lindsey is going to get through this. I will get him through this. I will get him through this
, I kept saying over and over in my head as I knelt by Lindsey.

“Carol, what's happening? What's wrong with Lindsey?”

I looked up to see Richard standing shirtless in the doorway, staring in horror at Lindsey twisting and turning on the floor. “My God! Lindsey! Carol, I heard your voice. I thought I was dreaming, but when I woke up I could still hear you screaming! What's happening to him, Carol? What's wrong with him?”

Not willing to leave Lindsey's side again, I reached my hand out to Richard as he crossed the room and, grabbing it, he sank down on the floor next to me.

“I don't know what's wrong. He's had flashes and I thought it was just another one and then he fell, and he started shaking and I can't make it stop, Richard. He won't stop—and I think he might die and I need help, I need help for him …”

In the background I could hear the security guard on the phone talking, making sure that paramedics were on their way to our room. And then the room filled with people. J.C., Mick, Greg, Dwayne, and Christine rushed to our side, staring in stunned silence at Lindsey's convulsions. Behind them three paramedics rushed in, ordering everyone out of their way so that they could get to their patient.

Everyone moved back except for me. I didn't want to leave him. I couldn't leave him. In my head I could hear Lindsey's voice pleading with me, “Carol, don't leave me. Stay with me. Don't leave me alone.”

I just could not—and would not—move away from his tortured body lying on the floor. I kept stroking his forehead, willing his eyes to open in his contorted face as I murmured over and over to him, “It's OK, Lindsey, I'm here. It's OK.”

Then I felt two hands reaching under my arms, pulling me to my feet. As I struggled against them J.C. spoke urgently into my ear. “You have to let them help him, Carol. You have to give them room. Come on now, come on.”

Blinking back tears, I nodded and numbly stepped back and leaned against him as I watched the paramedics working over Lindsey's still convulsing body. One of them filled a syringe and shot it into Lindsey's arm. Lindsey slowly stopped moving and lay there, still as death. Talking urgently to each other, the paramedics began to hook up monitors and tubes and I couldn't bear to watch.

I let J.C. guide me into the bathroom and leaned over the sink as he turned the faucet on. “You have some blood on the back of your head. Give me a washcloth, I'll wash it for you, sweetie. Doesn't look too bad. Button the front of your dress—we have enough excitement going on … put some cold water on your face, honey, and tell me what happened”, he said as he dabbed the back of my head with the washcloth.
He then tenderly held my hair back from my face for me as I splashed the freezing water over my burning skin. Turning to face him, I haltingly told him everything, starting with the minute Lindsey came out of the shower and finishing with the attacks that he had gone through over the summer.

J.C. listened without speaking and then told me to stay in the bathroom—which I didn't—and walked out into the living room. Following on his heels, I rushed over to Lindsey's silent form still lying on the carpet and looked up at the paramedics. “What happened to him? Is he going to be OK? Are you taking him to the hospital now?”

“Ma'am, we've been told that a doctor has been called. We want to take him to the hospital—it's just across the street—but Mr. Fleetwood says to wait for the doctor, so that's what we're doing.”

I stood up slowly, looking at the faces of Mick, Christine, and J.C. They all looked away from me guiltily and I knew in a heartbeat what was going on. “You're thinking about the show today! You don't want to cancel the show! My God! Lindsey almost died! Are you insane? Mick, Chris, you saw how bad he was—
is—he has to go to a hospital right now!”
I stared in disbelief at everyone in the room and I suddenly felt very, very cold.

Stunned, my mind raced.
They don't care about Lindsey! They don't care about what just happened! All they care about is saving the damn concert! How can that be? How can they not care about Lindsey—about what they've just seen with their own eyes?

Looking at Richard for help, I started to plead. “Richard. Tell them he has to go to the hospital—you saw how horrible it was! Richard, tell them!” Richard looked about to speak but then shook his head and stared at the floor. His face was almost as white as Lindsey's and I knew that he, too, couldn't believe that the band and the powers that be were putting the show first over Lindsey's ghastly attack.

Taking a deep breath, I whirled to face Mick and J.C. “We have to take him to the hospital. There's no way he can play today. He almost died! His face was
blue
, J.C.! He couldn't breathe and if the security guard hadn't gotten here in time, I can't even think about what could have happened. You don't know… you weren't here … I almost lost him and I'm not going to let you hurt him.” I could hear the hysterical tone to my voice but I couldn't help it.

I felt like I was in a nightmare as I looked desperately at Mick. Why was this happening? What was wrong with them? How could they not care? I thought they loved Lindsey.

Without meeting my eyes, Mick told me that it was best to wait for the doctor. Talking to me like I was a child, he said that the show was huge and it was too late to cancel it. And anyway, maybe Lindsey would be “fine” when he woke up. He wanted to ask
Lindsey
if he thought he could play the show after his “little attack.”

“A ‘little attack', Mick? Have you lost your mind? He was in convulsions for almost ten minutes! He turned blue from not breathing! I won't let you do this, I won't … Lindsey won't let you. You'll see. He can't play, and that's that!” I shouted, and Mick hastily stepped back from me.

Behind him the crowd parted as the hotel physician rushed into the room. Taking one look at Lindsey, he barked orders at the paramedics to carry him into the bedroom. He then brusquely asked me to tell him exactly what happened. He listened, nodded once, and then walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Richard crossed the room and put his arm around my waist, guiding me to the couch. “Sit here with me, Carol. I need you to sit with me, OK? Lindsey's with the doctor—he's safe for now. You need to sit down, honey.”

Sitting together holding hands, we waited for the doctor to come out of the bedroom. I looked out into the hallway and saw J.C. huddled with Mick and Christine. I could see that John McVie had now joined the crew and I knew that they were desperately trying to figure out how to do the concert. Feeling disconnected from them, I leaned my head back and said in a low voice, “Richard, we almost lost him.”