Storms (21 page)

Richard nodded and we both sat in silence, tears running down both our faces, waiting for the doctor to come out of the bedroom.

Finally the door opened. With a stethoscope hanging around his neck and his sleeves rolled up, the doctor looked fatherly and trustworthy. As I jumped up from the couch and ran to him I trusted that his face would, God willing, give me the reassurances that I so desperately needed to hear.

“How is he? Will he be OK? Can I see him? Are you taking him to the hospital?” I asked in a rush of words.

“He's awake. He's seems to be recovering well. I believe that Mr. Buckingham has endured a grand mal seizure and he's going to be weak
and sore for a few days. We need to run a lot of tests to find out what caused it. I don't want to speculate before I have more facts”, the doctor answered in a kind voice. “He definitely has to be checked into the hospital, but Mr. Buckingham mentioned a big concert that he's supposed to perform in today. He doesn't want to check in until after the show. Maybe you can talk to him. I really don't feel it's wise to wait, but it's up to Mr. Buckingham. I can't force him—his life isn't in immediate danger—but I won't be responsible for what happens if he doesn't go.”

J.C., Mick, and the rest of the band family had gathered quietly in the background as the doctor spoke to me. I could hear a sigh of relief coming from Mick when the doctor said that Lindsey wanted to play the show. A flash fire of anger went through me, but I kept my eyes on the doctor's face and tried not to think about the unseemly lack of empathy and
love
for Lindsey that I felt his “family” had displayed during the past hour.

“I'll talk to him, doctor. I'm going in to see him and then I'll let you know what his decision is”, I replied with a disdainful glance over my shoulder at the band members.

The bedroom was thrown into shadows by the closed drapes keeping out the late summer sun. Lindsey's face was pale against the dark rose color of the sheets and I winced inwardly at the bruises already starting to show on his thin arms as they lay on top of the bedcovers; bruises that he'd gotten as he'd convulsed on the dirty carpet of the living room. His eyes brightened as I sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke his cheek. Pulling me to him, he held me tightly with hands cold as ice. We lay there together for a moment without speaking. “I'm so sorry you had to go through that, Carol”, he whispered into my ear and it was all I could do to keep from breaking into sobs. My mind reeled at his words. I'd just watched the man I loved almost die in a grand mal seizure and he was worried about
me!

Willing my voice to remain steady, I said softly, “Lindsey, please … I'm fine … God, don't even think about me. How are you feeling, baby? The doctor says—”

Lindsey pushed me away from him a little and looked into my face. He said he felt a bit weak and dizzy but otherwise fine. He thought he'd just passed out from a very bad flash. After the show he'd go to the hospital for tests, but with a dry laugh he added that he was sure they wouldn't find
anything wrong with him. The other doctors didn't in L.A., so what was different this time?

I sat in shock as I listened to him speak.
He doesn't remember. He doesn't know what just happened to him! Oh my God, the doctor didn't tell him!
As I looked into his eyes I realized that the doctor didn't want to be the one to tell him. Staring down into Lindsey's wan face, it was obvious how fragile he was—and I knew that if I told him the truth about what he'd just gone through he'd be as terrified and shocked as I was.

But my God! He needs to go to the hospital! If I don't tell him, he won't know that he has to go. Yet how can I tell him the truth when I know it's going to shatter him? He's so sick—but he wants to play the biggest show of the tour. Am I ready to take that away from him?

My thoughts were jangled, confused, and anguished as I tried to decide what to do. If I told him he'd go straight to the hospital—no questions asked. If I didn't, then he'd play the show and at least have those few hours of happiness. I wanted him to have that after what he'd just been through and before he went through the hell of hospital tests. But did I dare?

I needed to talk to the doctor and J.C.—and I needed to do it fast. “Lindsey, honey, will you be all right for a few minutes? I have to go talk to the doctor for a second. I'll be right back, OK?”

“Sure. I want to rest for a little bit. Take your time”, he answered quietly as I leaned over and kissed him.

Opening the door, I saw Mick and J.C. jump up from the couch and almost fly across the room to where I was standing. With my arms firmly crossed in front of me I told them that Lindsey had no recollection of what had just happened and that I hadn't decided if I was going to tell him. “I have to make absolutely sure that he won't be harming himself by playing this afternoon, J.C. Where's the doctor? I need to talk to him.”

J.C. pointed to the hallway and I walked out to find the doctor. J.C. followed, talking quickly and reassuringly to me as I tried to ignore him. He told me that they would arrange for a nurse and ambulance to be backstage at the show, and then he pleaded with me not to tell Lindsey the details about what he'd just gone through.

After a brief conference with the doctor and a promise to take Lindsey straight to the hospital after the concert, it was settled. He'd play the show. Filled with a sense of dread about what
could
happen that afternoon, I
returned to the bedroom and helped him get dressed. He was pale, of course, and a little off balance—but he swore he could make it through the show without having another flash. If he didn't, I'd never forgive myself—or the band. But it was a risk that everyone else seemed willing to take, so with fingers crossed—and fear in my heart—we left for the show.

Feeling as though I'd never smile again—much less laugh—I followed Lindsey across the hotel lobby in a daze. Suddenly a hand pulled insistently on my arm and I looked up to see Stevie Nicks.

“Carol, I heard about what happened this morning and I know just how you must be feeling!” she said in her low, husky voice.

“You do?”

“Of course I do! My poodle Jenny—I just love her to pieces—got shut inside the sunroom of my house in Phoenix and she almost
died!
It was horrible! The room was so hot that she collapsed and by the time I found her she was lying in a little heap, gasping for breath. It scared me to death, you know. I cried and cried. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that.” With a squeeze of her hand to bolster me against the horror of her personal tragedy, she swept away regally and walked out into sunshine.

What? She's comparing what happened to Lindsey to a near-death experience of her poodle?
Standing frozen in my tracks, I tried to make sense out of what she'd just told me.

And I started to laugh, giggling hysterically, as I followed her outside to the limos. I felt like banging my head on top of the car to try to get back to planet Earth.
Jesus! Has the whole friggin' world gone crazy?

Lindsey looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. “What's so funny?” He asked with a puzzled look on his face, unable, I'm sure, to understand how I could be laughing after that morning's events.

“Oh Lindsey, oh Lord, you're not going to believe what just happened!” I gasped, trying to stop giggling long enough to get the words out. His eyes widened in disbelief as I told him the exact words of Stevie's “comforting” story.

Now laughing as hard as I was, he spluttered, “That woman's wacko, I swear. Even for her, that's pretty out there! But seriously, Carol, did she make you feel better?” As I nodded we both broke into fresh peals of laughter and it felt wonderful. “Hey, Carol, you should have asked Stevie if she was sure it was the heat in her sunroom or if maybe ‘little Jenny' had just OD'd on
blow.” And we started to laugh all over again. Stevie's poodle Jenny was infamous for its love of cocaine. Stevie had told many a story backstage of her poodle's fondness for the taste of blow. She said that she couldn't leave a packet on any of her tables at home—if she did, the dog would eat it, paper and all—and then run around in little energetic circles.

After the horrific morning we'd had, we both owed Stevie a solid “thank you” for inadvertently making
both
of us feel better. Even if we were laughing
at
her this time, all that mattered was that she did, indeed, lighten our spirits.
Who knows
, I mused,
maybe Stevie's so brilliant that she knew it'd take a bizarre out-of-left-field story to cut through my shock.
I smiled as I replayed our encounter in my head.

As soon as we arrived at the venue Lindsey and I headed straight for our motor home so that he could rest for the twenty minutes left before the show. The weather was glorious and our camp of seven large trailers was teeming with people and activity.

We hadn't done that many outdoor shows, but I absolutely loved them. There seemed to be more of a sense of theater at an outdoor venue—sitting in movie star motor homes, breathing fresh air that carries the scent of marijuana and cigarettes mixed with grass and flowers. It made me think of newsreels that I'd seen of Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock. That afternoon's show was, in my eyes, almost on the same level. There was an ocean of seventy thousand people in front of the stage, extending back until they were mere dots on the horizon. And they were all there to see not a lineup of huge artists, but just one superstar band: Fleetwood Mac.

As J.C. promised, a nurse and an ambulance were backstage. Feeling relieved, I surrendered myself to the inevitable and prayed that Lindsey would make it through the show without another horrible incident. Before going on stage he made me promise to stay backstage and rest. As I looked at him standing there with a guitar strapped around a body that looked as fragile as glass, all I could do was nod. I knew if I tried to speak I'd burst into tears.

Feeling dazed and exhausted, I went into the semi-dark interior of our trailer and lay on the small bed in the back. Closing my eyes, I tried to relax. After thirty minutes I heard a break in the music. A sense of panic swept over me, as I knew that an unexpected break in a song could mean that Lindsey was in trouble. Jumping off the bed, I set out for the arena at a dead run.
Please God, let him be OK… please, please, please …

Lindsey was at the back of the stage, head down, leaning against a speaker. The nurse and J.C. were whispering to him and as I watched, he nodded. I knew that he was saying that he wanted to continue the show.

A few minutes later J.C. came down from the stage and put his arm around me. “He just got a little dizzy, Carol. We're taking him straight to the hospital after the show. He's in good hands out here. Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to him. None of us will, Carol.”

As I looked into J.C.'s eyes I was struck once again by the unbalanced world in which I now lived. On stage was the royal family of the court of Fleetwood Mac. To the seventy thousand hungry fans who were worshipping them in front of the stage, they were beloved idols who had few, if any, flaws. As I watched the band play I could see the smiles on Christine and John's faces, the winks that Mick was giving to Stevie, and I heard the roar of approval from the audience as the band members interacted in a public display of affection and love for one another. Thinking back to that morning in our room at the hotel, I knew without a doubt that those smiles and winks covered up hearts that could be cold and unfeeling.

Forget the soap opera of the broken love affairs—that was part of the Fleetwood Mac mythology and though painful, it was beneficial to the band. Lindsey's illness wasn't. Fleetwood Mac was first and foremost a business machine. And as I'd seen with my own eyes that morning, God help any of us that got in the way of that machine—even its crown prince, Lindsey Buckingham.

Blinking back tears once again, I looked up into J.C.'s face and could only shrug; I had no more words left. All I could do was keep praying that nothing would happen to Lindsey. As I watched him playing I started to shiver as a kaleidoscope of images flashed before my eyes. The stage disappeared and in its place I saw Lindsey convulsing on the floor—his eyes pleading for help … blue face … white lips … and the sound of my own voice screaming and screaming for help.

With a gasp I willed away the images as I struggled to keep myself from fainting. A wave of nausea swept over me. Stumbling along the dirt path, I tried desperately to make it back to our trailer before I vomited. Falling to my knees in front of the small toilet in the trailer, I started to throw up bile. I hadn't eaten anything that day, so all I could do was dry heave over and over again until, finally, the nausea passed.

Suddenly J.C. pulled open the bathroom door and picked me up off the floor. Laying me gently down on the bed, he stroked my face and said, “Carol, rest, honey. Lindsey would be very upset if he could see you like this. You need to stay strong for him. I'll watch over him for you out there, I promise.” I nodded meekly and pulled up the cover that he'd thrown over me. As the afternoon shadows lengthened outside, I lay curled up on my side waiting for the show to end and Lindsey to appear. For the first time on the road I couldn't wait for a concert to end.

Finally Lindsey walked into the trailer, ashen-faced, exhausted, and dripping with sweat. Quietly and quickly, he changed his clothes and we walked outside to our limo, where J.C. was already waiting. The drive to the hospital was somber and silent. Lindsey was too sick, I was too drained, and J.C. was too worried about Lindsey and the effect his seizure would have on the tour for any of us to make small talk. Within an hour Lindsey was checked into the best hospital in Philadelphia for four days.

Those days passed by in a blur. The hospital was directly across the street from the hotel and I walked over every morning at eight and stayed by Lindsey's bed until ten each night. He looked defenseless and almost childlike in his blue and white hospital gown. The hours passed by as doctors and nurses came and went, running test after test to try to find the underlying cause of his grand mal seizure and his flashes. I stepped out into the hall while his blood was drawn and waited in an empty room as they took him for MRIs and EEGs.