The ambulance was out in front along with several police cars, motorcycle
cops, and a surprisingly small group of reporters already clicking away
through the doors. Mal said, “Let's go” to the waiting security people and
they moved out through the doors, pushing reporters back behind the
barricades and making a path to the ambulance. We followed and the crowd of
girls standing in the rain began crying “John! We love you, John!” and
sobbing very loudly.
“Someone tell them I'm all right,” John said.
The ambulance guys lifted the stretcher in, girls screamed, reporters
yelled questions, and cameras flashed. The reporters had elbowed their way
in front of most of the girls, but off to the side, a couple of girls clung
fiercely to a section of the barricade. I went over to them and told them
John wanted me to tell them he was all right. “Tell him we love him!” they
begged.
“He knows.”
I darted back to the ambulance, Brian reached out and pulled me up and in,
the doors slammed and we pulled out. Mal and Tony got in a limo behind us.
As we pulled out of the hotel parking lot I looked back to see the
reporters sprinting for their cars. There weren’t nearly as many of them as
there had been outside the door of the Nicolet Room.
“What happened to the rest of the reporters?” I asked.
“They probably saw “University Hospital” on the side of the ambulance and
are there waiting for us,” Brian answered.
“Shit,” said John.
“We could go to a different hospital. St. Vincent's is close,” I said.
“Do they have ice cream?” John asked.
“Vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate, frozen rock hard in little cups,” I
said. “It's the hospital where I am in training so if you are really good I
can get you a real spoon instead of a wooden one.”
“Training for what?” asked Brian.
“Nursing. I'm a student nurse.”
Brian looked startled. John was not paying attention—we had just hit a
pothole. I reached out and touched his hand and he held on to my fingers
and closed his eyes.
“St. Vincent's has a good orthopedic group. I think that's mostly what we
need,” I said. “and it is closer,” I added, thinking of the number of turns
and potholes between us and the University.
“We're supposed to transport to University,” said the ambulance attendant.
“St. Vincent's,” said John through clenched teeth.
“St Vincent's!” Brian repeated firmly, almost fiercely.
“OK. The customer is always right,” the ambulance man said. He turned
around to the driver's compartment and told his partner the change in
plans.
Brian spent the rest of the trip apologizing to John. He was quite
emotional and John just kept saying “It's all right, Brian.” When Brian
started with “heads will roll” kind of things, John said, “Come on, Eppy.
Bound to happen sometime. Just been lucky so far.” Brian let it go then,
but something in his face told me he was not finished with the topic.
Someone was going to get raked over the coals for this.
We arrived at the hospital with a half dozen reporters on our tail, pulled
into the ER entrance, unloaded John, and rolled him inside. The ER staff
was waiting and things moved quickly. Brian and Tony were dealing with
reporters, so Mal was grabbed by a clipboard-toting desk nurse. Forms
needed to be filled out. John was moved immediately into the trauma room,
and I went with him. By the time the doctor arrived a minute later they had
already done a primary assessment and were cutting John's clothes off of
him. Knowing what to expect, I grabbed a towel and covered him as they
pulled his trousers and underwear away. The doctor went over John, poking
and prodding chest and stomach, arms and legs, and “Hmm-ing”. Nurses
barraged John with questions about allergies, medical history. One of them
took his contact lenses out.
A flash of light from above and to the side startled everyone. I spun
around and looked up to see a man with a camera snapping shots over the top
of the curtain that separated the cubicles. Blinded by the repeated flashes
as the cameraman kept on, I simply reached up and grabbed. I connected with
a strap on the camera and pulled. The man behind the camera hung on, but
because he had the strap around his neck he was pulled forward. He had one
arm over the curtain rod and was trying to pull the camera back from me. I
didn't want to let go, but I really didn't know what I would do with it if
I did get it away from him. I couldn't exactly take it and run, or smash it
on the floor. All I wanted was the film. I began fumbling around trying to
figure out how to open the film compartment.
He roared in protest at that and tried valiantly to pull the camera back
but his struggles only succeeded in knocking over the chair he was standing
on. He clutched wildly to hang on and got both arms over the rod. The rod
began to give. Because it was a U shape, attached to the wall only at the
head of the stretcher, it began to sag at the bottom end. The man began to
slide down the rod. When he reached the point where he could get his feet
back on the ground, he gave a big yank and pulled the camera out of my
hand. He made a beeline for the door, and I let him go—but I had gotten the
film compartment open and grabbed the film. As he reached the door he
realized the film was gone and wheeled around to face me. I held up the
film and tugged, unrolling it and ensuring the entire role was ruined. With
an indignant snarl, he turned and left.
Everyone was laughing and one of the nurses said, “You just ruined that
guy's chance at a Pulitzer Prize!”
“And me big chance to be a centerfold,” added John.
“Maybe your x-rays will make the New England Journal of Medicine,” said the
doctor. “Time to get some pictures and sort what is broken from what is
bruised.” He turned to pick up the chart and began giving orders as he
wrote. “We need skull, spinal—include a swimmer's view in the C-spine—AP
and lateral chest, right forearm, right wrist. Let's do the right hand too
... left shoulder, left clavicle, left knee all views, left hip ... hmm ...
and just to be sure, get film of the pelvis too. I don't think we need to
do a belly tap but we'll get urine for blood. Set up a suture tray. I'll
take care of the laceration after he gets back from x-ray.”
As the doctor went on writing orders, one of the nurses grabbed a stack of
x-ray requisitions and began filling them out. The other went to the phone
and called for an orderly, then called x-ray to tell them what was coming
over to them.
Mal came in with Brian and Tony just then one of the nurses moved to block
them from the room.
“It's OK. They are with John,” I said.
They eyed the curtain dragging on the floor and the bent rod. “Giving them
trouble, John?” Mal asked.
“Nothing Terry can't handle,” he replied.
I still had the film in my hands and I handed it to Mal. He looked
bewildered, but the nurse on the phone was saying to someone “We've already
thrown one reporter out. He came right into the exam room and was taking
pictures!”
“She strangled him with his camera strap, hung him over the pole, and stole
his film,” John said.
Mal looked at me, but I was looking at John. He was trying to smile, but it
was plain he was really hurting. Brian was talking to the doctor, and I
walked over to them and took a deep breath. Student nurses do NOT speak to
doctors unless spoken to.
“Excuse me, Doctor,” I said. “Could you order something for pain before he
goes to x-ray?”
He put the chart down and headed for the door, tossing orders over his
shoulder. “75 of Demerol now, 50 to 75 every four hours PRN, and find out
if Latham is in the house. The ortho boys will be furious if we leave them
out of this.”
“OK,” I said and sent a panicky look at one of the other nurses. I wasn't
allowed to take a verbal order from a physician. Only an RN could take it
and write it on the chart. I couldn't get the medication because it was in
a locked narcotic drawer, and I had no idea how to find out if Dr. Latham
was in the building. Mighty slayer of reporters one minute, lowly student
the next.
The other nurse said “It's OK, I'll write it,” and picked up the chart. She
unpinned the narc keys from her pocket, handed them to me and gestured to
the drawer. “You can get it out but I'll have to sign for it,” she said.
I went to the cabinet, unlocked the drawer, got the Demerol and handed the
narcotic record sheet to her. She finished the order in the chart, then
scribbled her signature on the narc record. She loaded the Demerol into the
syringe and tapped the syringe to move any bubbles to the top.
As she held the syringe up pushed the plunger slightly to remove the air, I
thought “It's a good thing it's not George!” thinking of the needle scene
in Help!. Then I realized how ridiculous that thought was. I had
no idea if George was afraid of needles! It was a movie! I realized with a
little shock that everything I thought I knew about the Beatles as
individuals was based on the naive assumption that they were being
themselves in the movies. Were John, Paul, George, and Ringo anything like
the Beatles in their movies? John the troublemaker, Ringo the sad-eyed
clown, Paul the flirt, and laid-back George. Was any of that real? I
remembered George roaring with anger, Paul seemingly unaware of both Connie
and me, Ringo talking softly to John when John was in pain. And John ...
swearing, sarcastic, with a dirty mind. Troublemaker? No doubt, but there
was so much more in his eyes.
The nurse was explaining to John about the pain shot and I watched as she
smoothly darted the needle into his thigh and injected. The orderly arrived
to move John to X-ray. As he entered the trauma room, he looked in mild
surprise at the curtain sweeping the floor and the rod hanging at head
collision level. Then he saw his patient. His mouth dropped open and for a
moment he looked really idiotic. I wondered if I had looked as silly when I
first saw John. Geez, I hoped not! The orderly recovered quickly though and
managed to stammer, “Hello John ... err ... Mr. Lennon.”
“John,” said John.
“X-ray,” said the nurse shoving the chart into the orderly's hands.
As they moved the stretcher out the door I grabbed a blanket from the linen
cart knowing that x-ray was a chilly place. Out in the hall, the nurses'
station was full of nurses, hospital security guards, housekeepers, and
anyone else who could make up some excuse to visit the ER that afternoon.
They gawked as we moved past them to the x-ray department Brian and Tony
went off with a hospital supervisor and the head of security to plan the
impending media circus but Mal stayed with John and me. As we arrived in
x-ray, it was pretty obvious the word was out as to who the multiple trauma
was. Every radiologist, tech, receptionist, file clerk and gopher in the
department was waiting and trying to look as though they were busy, not
rubbernecking. It was a relief to get into the privacy of the x-ray room.
The tech lifted the phone and paged overhead “Lifting help in Room 3,
please.” There was a stampede to our door and the orderly and I looked at
each other and laughed, knowing that even a STAT page seldom got that kind
of response. They slid John onto the x-ray table and this time he yelled. I
leaned over him. He was as white as the sheet.
“My shoulder,” he finally managed to say.
“The Demerol will kick in soon,” I promised him. The radiologist arrived
and I put on one of the lead aprons so I could stay in the room. We were in
x-ray for over an hour. The positioning for the various x-rays wasn't too
bad unless they had to move his shoulder, and things got better quickly as
the Demerol kicked in. The lead apron I was wearing felt like exactly that
and my shoulders and back ached by the time they were done. As we waited
for the last x-rays to be developed in case a retake was needed, John
drifted in and out of a hazy sleep. Finally, the radiologist announced we
were done and we headed back to ER. Brian and Tony were waiting. John
listened foggily as Brian told him he would call his wife, Cynthia, as soon
as he talked to the doctor.
“And Aunt Mimi,” John said as he fell back to sleep.
The ER doctor came in and pulled over the tray the nurse had set up to
suture John's head. A brief discussion of how much hair needed to be
shaved, (I was more concerned than John seemed to be!) some xylocaine to
numb the area, and John fell back to sleep while the doctor put in a half
dozen stitches.
Dr. Latham arrived, x-rays in hand. He introduced himself to John and said,
“So you are one of the Beatles my daughter is so crazy about. I'd ask for
your autograph for her, but from the looks of these films, you probably
would rather not.” He put some x-rays up on the viewer and began to go over
the results. “No spinal fractures. Your right lower arm has a break. Not
displaced so no surgery will be needed. We'll just get a cast on that.”
He pulled the sheet back and examined John as he went on. John gritted his
teeth as the doctor prodded and poked and continued, “You've got three
cracked ribs over here, so we'll tape you up. Your left clavicle—collar
bone—is broken. It’s a little out of alignment, but I think a figure-8
splint and arm sling will take care of it. The x-rays show your shoulder
isn't dislocated. I suspect it may have been somewhat, but it slipped back
into place on its own, but you do have a fractured scapula—shoulder blade.
That's what is hurting so bad. There's not much we need to do about that.
It will heal on its own.”
Again a long pause while he looked at John's knee, poked it, lifted it,
turned it. John gritted his teeth again, but this time managed to swear
profoundly. The Liverpool accent was so strong I couldn't make out all of
the words, but I had no doubt of their nature. Dr. Latham went on with his
exam, with a brief, perfunctory, “Sorry.” Finally, he said, “Your knee is
only sprained, nothing broken and I don't believe there are any torn
ligaments. We'll put that leg in an immobilizer for a while, then see if a
knee brace will do. Questions?”
“When can I go home?”
“You need to stay here for a few days. You are going to be pretty
uncomfortable, and you took quite a knock on the head. We need to keep you
under observation for a while.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” said John tiredly.
It was after 7:00 p.m. before we were finally ready to move John to his
room. His arm was casted, his ribs taped, a splint put across his shoulders
pulling them back, a sling on his arm to keep the weight of his arm from
pulling on his clavicle, and a padded thigh to ankle immobilizer brace put
on his leg. The Demerol had pretty much worn off and John was in a lot of
pain by the time they finished. The orderly was paged once again and we
moved him up to the third floor. Our entourage now included Brian, Tony,
Mal, a hospital security supervisor, one of the Beatles security people,
some hospital bigwig in a suit, and the evening nursing supervisor.
As we entered the nursing unit, we were met by his nurse for the evening.
Marge was a big, middle-aged, motherly woman. I was really glad to see her.
She was one of my favorite nurses to work with.
“He needs another pain shot,” I said instead of hello.
Without batting an eye she handed John's chart to another nurse and told
her to “Bring whatever is on the menu.”
We moved John into the room. Marge herded all but Rob, the nursing
supervisor, and me out into the hall. Moving John from the stretcher to bed
took only a minute, but John was white with pain again when we finished.
Marge briskly went about assessing him. Blood pressure, pulse, temperature,
respirations, breath sounds, abdomen, circulation/motor/sensation of his
right hand and left foot to make certain the cast and splint weren't
cutting off the circulation, pupils, level of consciousness. The other
nurse came in with the pain medication and injected it with a brisk
efficiency I envied. We slipped a hospital gown on him, elevated the wet
cast on a pillow, and cranked the head of the bed up a bit. Finally, Marge
gave him a sip of water, fluffed his pillow, tucked the sheet in around
him, put the nurse call button in his hand and said, “Now you just let that
pain shot work. You'll sleep for a bit, then we'll see if you are ready for
a bite to eat.”
She started to herd us out of the room, but I saw John looking at me and
the look was clear. I said, “I'm staying.”
She looked at me for a moment, then back at John. “She stays, Mum,” he
said.
“OK, CMS checks every hour. I'll bring the chart in to you.”
She bustled out, herding the others in front of her. The door swooshed shut
behind them. Silence. Privacy. John turned to look at me. I stepped up next
to the bed, reached out and touched his hand. “Terry ... " he said softly.
“Yes, John,” I said, gazing into his eyes and thinking “This is the moment
I'll remember forever.”
“Help me up. I really have to piss.”
I went around to the other side of the bed and pulled the urinal out of the
bedside stand. “You'll have to make do with this.”
He eyed it disgustedly for a moment. “Bloody fuckin' hell.”
He couldn't use either hand, and I knew from experience the less fuss the
better. I lifted the sheet and his gown, put the urinal in place and said
“I'll be back in a few minutes” and headed for the door.
“I can't do this lying down!” he said.
I cranked the head of the bed up to forty-five degrees. “Just imagine
you've been drinking beer all day.” He smiled at that and I left the room.
Outside the door, a security person was posted. I went to the utility room
and got a urine specimen container and then to the nurses' station to call
my roommates.
Sandy answered, and when she heard my voice went off with a squeal. “We saw
you on the news! What happened? Is he OK? Where are you? Did you see
Ringo?” (Her favorite.)
“I can't talk now. He's fine, but I'm going to stay with him for a while. I
don't know when I'll get home.” I verbally pried her off the phone and hung
up.
Several nurses gathered around asking questions. I was trying to be polite
but I really didn't want to talk about my patient. If I couldn't maintain
patient confidentiality, they surely wouldn't. One of the nurses who was
actually still working, sitting at the desk charting, had not said
anything. She finally looked up and said, “I think we have other patients
to take care of.”
I was grateful to her for about two seconds, then she stood up, slammed the
chart back into the rack and said, “That man does not belong in a Christian
hospital anyway,” and stomped away.
The rest of us looked at each other in amazement. Someone giggled and said,
“Not a Beatles fan I guess!” The conversation turned to John's “bigger than
Christ” remarks that had made headlines just a couple of weeks earlier and
triggered tirades from pulpits, banning of their music on some radio
stations, burning of Beatles records and pictures. I slipped away from the
group and went back to John. I took the urinal, filled the specimen cup,
relieved to see that it was not blood-tinged. I went out to the nurses'
station and gave the cup to a nursing assistant to take to the lab.
When I got back to John, he wanted to call Cynthia, so I checked to see if
he could make a transatlantic call. The hospital operator put the call
through, then rang the room. I spoke to Cynthia and explained I was John's
nurse. Brian had already called her she said, but she sounded so upset, I
went over everything with her again, what had happened, what was broken,
bruised, what the doctor had said, and tried to reassure her. When I held
the phone for John, he reassured her he was all right. She apparently
wanted to fly to the States, because he said, “There's no point, Cyn. I'll
be out of here and back home in a couple of days.” He asked about their son
Julian, laughed about something she told him. Then, “The tour is over. As
soon as they let me out of hospital I'm coming home ... No, really ... I
hurt all over but they just gave me a shot and I feel pretty good ...
getting sleepy ... Call Mimi and tell her I'm OK? ... yeah ... Goodnight
Cyn ... yeah ... Ring you tomorrow ... goodnight, Cyn.”
Brian came in about then. I had felt like an eavesdropper during the
ambulance ride so I quickly left to wait out in the hall. Brian came out
after just a few minutes, said he was returning to the hotel, and gave me
instructions to contact him immediately if anything came up. After I had
reassured him three times I would do exactly that, he headed off down the
hall with a determined stride. I figured that whoever had arranged security
at the hotel was about to get his walking papers.
I went back in to John, did a quick check of the circulation to his right
hand and left foot and turned off the over-bed light thinking he would fall
asleep. The late evening sun was coming in the windows so I went over to
close the curtains. “Oh my God,” was all I could say.
Fans packed the grassy area in front of the hospital and spilled out into
the street. The little park across from the hospital was filled. Police
were directing traffic and trying to keep the fans behind barricades.
Reporters were filming everything in sight. I turned back to John.
“How many?” he asked, knowing without asking what I was seeing.
“I don't know. Hundreds, maybe thousands.”
“If they get out of hand you'll get the boot for bringing me here.”
“No, listen.” I opened the window. There was a constant hum of noise from
the crowd, but no screaming, no singing, just an occasional small outburst
of noise from a group here or there.
John closed his eyes. “God, they must think I'm dead.”
“No, they have all kinds of signs. “Get well soon” and “We love you, John”
stuff.”
“I need a cigarette. In me shirt pocket.”
“Well, your cigarettes are here but your shirt is in a trash can in the
ER.”
I lit one up and held it for him. Big drag, big sigh. “I expect that shirt
is now snipped into bits and being sold out front. Someone will make a
fortune.”
“Imagine what your underwear is selling for!”
John started laughing, and couldn't stop even though it hurt. “God, I hope
it was clean!” he managed to say, and we both were caught up in one of
those post-crisis laughing fits, unloading all the tension of the long day.
After that, we sat quietly in the darkening room while John smoked. He
managed to hold the cigarette in his left hand and I sat on the side of the
bed holding the ashtray out to him as he needed it. He finished the
cigarette and I asked if he wanted anything to eat. He said no, and in
another minute he was asleep.
I sat quietly next to him for a long time, just watching him breathe,
watching the setting sun pick up the red highlights in his hair, wondering
why his hair never looked that color in pictures, thinking he was even
better looking in person than in pictures, noticing that he looked a lot
thinner than he had in Help!. Wondering if he would wake up if
touched his cheek. Finally, hunger and the need to use the bathroom got me
up and moving.
I asked the security guard to sit with him while I got something to eat and
told Marge where I was going. I went to the bathroom, then to the
cafeteria. When I got there, I realized I had no money. My purse was back
at the hotel, locked in my car. Luckily, my student uniform got me a
sandwich on credit. When I saw the congregation of reporters in the
cafeteria dining area, I went back upstairs where I ate my sandwich in the
nurse's locker room while I tried to figure out how I was going to get back
to the hotel to get my car. I didn't have the money for a taxi. I hoped
that if I left when the evening shift got off at midnight someone would
drop me off at home or take me over to the hotel.
John was sleeping soundly when I got back. I spent a few minutes writing
notes in his chart, then sat by the window watching the crowd. Marge was in
and out a couple of times in the next two hours checking on John but mostly
delivering bouquet after bouquet of flowers. Mal came in, and after I
reassured him that John was fine, he said he was headed back to the hotel.
There would be one of his people outside the door and one downstairs
working with hospital security and the police. If John needed anything,
they could reach him or Brian.
At 10:00 p.m. John woke up as I was checking his cast and fingers. He asked
who the flowers were from and I read the tags to him. There were small
bouquets from fans, big ones from Capitol Records, Murray the K, and
several of the tour promoters.
Marge came in and said, “You're on TV!” and flipped it on. The report
showed film of the scene at the airport, at the hotel as they arrived, and
a mercifully brief interview with a hysterical fan who had been in the mob
right behind John when he fell. Apparently, she had gotten inside the door
for a few minutes before being pushed back out, long enough to see what
happened to John.
“He was just lying there!” she sobbed over and over. That was followed by
scenes of the ambulance arriving and John being brought out to the
ambulance and a closing shot of my backside as Brian pulled me up into the
ambulance. John and Marge laughed as I squirmed with embarrassment.
“Your best side!” Marge teased.
The TV newsman went on to say that John had been taken to St. Vincent's
hospital. “A hospital spokesperson denied that the en-route change in
hospitals was because he was in critical condition and said that St.
Vincent's was simply closer.”
“They obviously don't know about the ice cream,” John commented.
“Brian Epstein, the Beatles manager, met with reporters this evening,”—film
of Brian appeared in the background—“and stated that the Beatle was in good
condition but had sustained a fracture of the right arm and left collar
bone. He is being hospitalized overnight for observation.” Brian
disappeared and footage of the scene on the hospital grounds at about 8:00
p.m. came on. “Hundreds of Beatles fans are waiting outside the hospital
tonight. The question of whether these fans will still have the opportunity
to see their idols tomorrow night remains to be answered. Their manager
stated no decision had yet been made as to whether the concert will go on
as scheduled without John Lennon.”
The news moved on to sports and Marge brought in a big stack of towels and
the tray we use to shampoo hair when the patient can't get out of bed.
“You've got dried blood all over your hair and the back of your neck,” she
explained as she lowered the head of the bed. John didn't object,
apparently knowing it wouldn't do any good. I poured water while Marge
shampooed, working carefully around the stitches. When we finished, I tried
to towel dry his hair. Marge got a comb out of his admission kit and
slicked it back. I started laughing and took the comb away from her, combed
it forward, ran my fingers through it to fluff it up a little.
“This is how it's supposed to be.”
“Needs a haircut,” Marge pronounced and John laughed.
She encouraged John to try to eat something. He agreed to a cup of tea and
she insisted on toast also. He gave in and she went out to fix it for him.
I asked John if he wanted to watch TV and he said, “No, it makes me head
hurt.”
“You can have another pain shot in about a half-hour.”
“Good. Ciggie?”
I helped him with the cigarette, and when Marge brought in a tray of tea
and toast and I helped him eat. He took only a few bites of toast and
sipped a little tea through a straw. He was in obvious pain by then.
“How bad is the headache?” I asked.
“Bad,” he said.
“Shoulder?”
“Bad.”
I went to find Marge. The unit was quiet, hall lights turned down reminding
me how late it was. I found Marge and told her John was getting quite
uncomfortable. She signed out another dose of Demerol and asked if I would
give it so she could finish her charting. I went back and gave it, hoping
to imitate a smooth technique and settling for just not shaking as I
injected. I turned off the light over the bed and sat down to record the
medication and circulation check in his chart. When I looked up, he was
looking at me.
“You must be tired,” he said.
“Yeah, it's getting late, and it's been a very unusual day for me,” I said
laughing.
“Me too, though the way this summer has gone, this could be considered one
of the better.” There was something tight in his voice. Angry. Hurt. I
didn't know what to say, so I just got up and walked over to the bed and
touched his hand. He smiled a little. “You have a ticket for the concert?”
“Couldn't afford it. I'm a struggling student. That's why I took the job at
the first aid station today. Thought I might get lucky and catch a glimpse
of you as you arrived at the hotel.”
“Well, you've gotten more than a glimpse, haven't you now!” he laughed,
nodding at the urinal hanging on the side rail.
“One of the fringe benefits of nursing, but we are never supposed to admit
we really look!”
He laughed. After a moment he said quietly, “Thanks for coming with me,
Terry.”
“My pleasure, John.”
He closed his eyes and was drifting off to sleep. I lowered the head of the
bed, turned on the night lights in the room and turned off the overhead
light. The minute I sat down in the chair next to the bed, I suddenly felt
exhausted. It was only going to be a half-hour or so until the night shift
arrived, though, and as tired as I was, I knew I wouldn't fall asleep
easily tonight.
I thought John was asleep, but he said quietly, “I should talk to Paul.
He's going to have to decide. Brian won't.” I wasn't sure what he was
talking about, but I offered to dial the hotel for him. I heard him laugh
softly. “Can't ring him. I don't know the friggin' password.”
“One of your security people is outside. He can get through,” I suggested
and started to get up.
“No, never mind. It doesn't matter.” There was a long pause and then, very
softly, wearily he said, “It's all over anyway. It's all fuckin' over.”
I had spent the day wincing every time we had to move John, hurting for
him, trying to anticipate and minimize his discomfort whenever I could, but
as I sat there next to him I felt more helpless than I had all day. I
couldn't do anything about the pain in those words. He went on, speaking
softly but in a voice laced with sarcasm and anger. “We went from singing a
song for a few bob to singing for an MBE and being the economic salvation
of Britain. We ran around in front of a camera and they said we are the
next Marx Brothers. I wrote some lines and I am the reincarnation of Lewis
Fuckin' Carroll. They've got this idea of who we are—who I am, but it is
bullshit. When I tell them what I think, tell them the fuckin' truth—we are
more popular than Christ!—they want me dead. But I bash me bloody head in
and kids are in a prayer vigil outside the room and I'm getting flowers
from people who spent the last three years stealing me money. Bloody
fuckin' insane.”
There was no point in trying to answer. His breathing slowed and the
Demerol pulled him down into sleep. I sat in the dark, feeling an empty
ache inside. Something he had said earlier in the day came back to me. “The
last fuckin' day of the last fuckin' American tour.” At the time I had
taken it to be just an angry response to having gotten clobbered in a
security foul-up but now I knew it went far deeper. Coming right on top of
the whole Christ business with its anti-Beatle rallies, record-smashing,
the attempt at an explanation and an apology that no one seemed to want to
hear, today’s accident was the final straw. America wasn't so Beatle crazy
anymore, and The Beatles probably didn't have warm feelings for America
anymore, either. Even so, as glad as they might have been to end the tour
and go home, it had to feel like they were going home having lost
something, taking a step back down from being on top of the world.
It was nearly eleven-thirty, time to go report off to Marge and see about a
ride back to my car. I sat a moment longer, wishing he would wake up so I
could say goodbye and knowing I wouldn't know what to say anyway. There was
a soft knock at the door and I looked up expecting to see Marge.
The door opened and Paul stood there outlined by the light from the
hallway. He hesitated then stepped just inside the room as if uncertain
about coming in. I got up and went to him.
“He's asleep, then?” he asked. Not a whisper, but soft and low.
“He had a pain shot a while ago. They put him to sleep.”
Paul moved past me and stood at the foot of the bed looking at John, and
Neil followed Paul into the room.
“How is he?” Neil asked me.
“He is sore and has a bad headache, but he is going to be fine.”
Paul turned a little and looked back over his shoulder at me.
“Honest,” I said.
He smiled a little and looked a bit embarrassed to have implied he doubted
me. “I think he would want you to wake him up,” I told him. “He wants to
talk to you. He talked about trying to call you.” Paul looked uncertain. “I
need to check his hand again anyway,” I said, stepped past him and turned
the over-bed light on low. “Hey, John. Wake up,” I said, leaning over him
and speaking softly in his ear. As I checked his fingers for swelling,
coldness, or paleness, he stirred, tried to stretch, groaned a little and
opened his eyes for just a moment. “Squeeze my fingers, John.” He squeezed.
I went through the rest of the process, asking him which finger I was
touching, pressing on the nail bed to see how quickly the color returned to
see how good the blood flow was.
“You've got company,” I told him.
He opened his eyes, blinking a little in the light. He looked at Paul. “How
did you escape, mate?”
Neil and Paul exchanged a grin. “Well,” Paul said with a telling glance at
me, “It seems Brian found a little ... um ... distraction.”
John started laughing. “Where did you find such a thing here in ...
wherever we are?”
“I didn't. Honest! Found 'im, it did!” Paul said. “They're everywhere.”
“Eppy really needed to relax a bit tonight,” Neil added.
Paul darted a look at me and I hoped the curiosity his words had aroused
wasn't showing too blatantly on my face. What had Brian “found”? I
suspected he was referring to a woman of ill repute.
“Oh? I'll bet.” John was laughing, but there was concern in his voice as
well as humor. “Did he … ? ” Paul knew what the unspoken question was.
“Best ever! Never seen him so ... " Another quick look at me and he
finished with an obviously toned down “upset.”
“Mal?”
“No! No, we got him off that right off. Well, at least no worse than any of
our crew,” Paul said with a sympathetic look at Neil, “but some poor local
sod... " Paul grimaced and shook his head as if recalling something
distinctly unpleasant.
Obviously, they needed a few minutes to talk privately. I said quickly,
“John, I just need to check your foot.” I finished my circulation check and
put the head of his bed up a little. “I'll be outside if you need
anything,” I said and took the chart and slipped out of the room.
Neil came out of the room a few minutes later and stepped up to the nurse's
station to ask what he should bring in for John. John wanted his clothes. I
laughed and told Neil that John wouldn't be needing them in the morning but
to bring them anyway—it would make him feel less like a prisoner here—and
to bring his robe, shaving supplies, etc.
Neil was soon surrounded by more staff than any nursing unit ever had
during any change of shift. Everyone was talking with Neil but they were
watching the door to John's room. I sat down to finish charting, then asked
if anyone could give me a ride home, explaining that my car was at the
Radisson. Neil said. “I'll give you a lift back to your car if you like.”
“Great!”
“Of course you'll have to ride in back with Paul,” he teased.
Everyone laughed, a couple of younger nurses asked for rides—anywhere, it
didn't matter!
Marge introduced me to Ellen, a private duty nurse Brian had arranged for.
I took her aside and gave her the report on John's condition. When we
finished, Ellen took the chart and said to everyone, “I'd better go see my
patient. Eat your hearts out, you guys!”
“Could you wait just a bit?” I asked. “He's talking with Paul right now.”
Ellen sat back down and started reviewing the chart. Most of the evening
shift, who usually disappeared like Cinderella's coach at the stroke of
midnight, hung around conspicuously.
Finally, Paul came out of John's room. Now that he wasn't standing right
next to me, I could really look at him. Same light blue shirt as earlier
but now with blue jeans. Loafers, no socks, and every bit as gorgeous as he
looked in pictures. Lord, that man was a distraction!
“I need a minute to say goodbye to John,” I said to Neil. He nodded and I
hurried back to John. He was still awake.
“Brian arranged for a private duty nurse for the rest of the night, so I
guess I'll be going,” I said. “I'm glad I got to meet you. I wish it had
been different circumstances.”
“I'm glad you were there today,” he said. “I can't manage an autograph and
I don't even want to think about hugging anybody, so would a kiss be out of
line?”
“I think that would be just fine,” I said. Not very professional behavior I
supposed, but I was not going to pass it up!
As I leaned over the side rail, he grinned that wicked grin and said,
“Good, I'll get Paul for you!”
I started to laugh, “You are really awful, John Lennon!” And because I
liked this guy, not because he was a Beatle, I kissed him on the cheek. He
kissed my cheek and I said, “Goodbye, John,” softly in his ear. I
straightened up, looked at him for just another moment, and pulled myself
away and out the door.
Paul was at the nurses' station, smiling, talking with the nursing staff.
Neil saw me come out of the room, poked Paul, and they said goodnight to
everyone. We walked to the elevator and once inside I stole a glance at
Paul. The cheerful smile he had given the nursing staff was gone. He looked
tired and distracted.
Downstairs in the lobby, Mal was waiting for us. The lobby was full of
reporters and there was no time for discussion, just a brief interchange
between Mal and Neil confirming that Mal would stay at the hospital all
night. Paul's smile reappeared somewhat as the cameras snapped. He stopped
long enough to tell them John was fine and to say, “Please don't let Brian
know that I squeaked out. He'll have me head and put me on curfew!”
The reporters laughed and we moved out the front doors to the waiting car.
A wail went up as the fans spotted Paul. Neil opened the back door and Paul
stood back to let me in, waving and smiling at the fans, but Neil grabbed
his arm and pushed him toward the car. He got in, and I followed quickly,
sharing Neil's desire to get him out of there immediately. Neil closed the
door and jumped into the front seat and the driver had the car moving
before his door shut. We moved around the circle drive and away from the
hospital. I was amazed at the size of the crowd. It was after midnight.
Didn't these kids have to go home?
The car wasn't air-conditioned and, once away from the hospital, Neil and
the driver opened their windows. The air was cool and fresh after the
afternoon storm. “Nice night,” Neil said.
“Ya, been really dry, we needed the rain,” said the driver in a plain old
Minnesota voice. It sounded incredibly dull after a day of Liverpool
accents.
Paul rolled his window down, leaned his head back and stared out the
window. After a moment he said, “Drive slowly. I'm in no hurry to go back
to another night in a hotel.”
Neil scanned the street behind us, and, satisfied that the police and
security had done their job and kept anyone from following us, nodded to
the driver and we slowed down. We drove in silence, with Paul just staring
out the window but not seeming to see anything. I pulled the bobby pins out
of my nursing cap and took it off and sat trying not to stare at Paul. As
we passed the street where I turned to go home, I thought about the section
of it that curved along a small lake and about Paul’s reluctance to go back
to the hotel. I sat up and touched Neil's shoulder. “Could we take a little
detour? I know of a nice drive along the lake.”
He looked back at Paul who didn't seem to have heard.
“Yeah,” Neil said.
I told the driver to turn left, and we circled back to the street I wanted.
It was quiet along the lake with no traffic, no people, just a beautiful
summer night. Paul was sitting up now and looking out at the water and Neil
was watching Paul.
“Pull over,” said Paul.
The driver looked at Neil, Neil nodded, and the car eased up along the
curb. Paul opened his door and got out. Neil was out in a flash and around
the car. I got out too, and as I walked around the car, Paul leaned back
against the car and said, “Grass,” softly.
Neil looked startled. “I don't... "
Paul laughed. “No. They must have cut the grass today. You can smell it.
Martha would love this. She'd be in the lake in a flash.”
“That's what we need—a sopping wet monster of a dog,” Neil joked as he and
Paul light up cigarettes.
The meaning of that exchange was a little slow in coming to me. Martha as
in Paul's sheepdog. Grass as in marijuana, pot. Why was I surprised? Same
stupid naivety as thinking they were the people in their movies! Paul
started across the street.
“Keep your eyes open,” Neil said to the driver and followed Paul. I hung
back, not wanting to intrude, but they kept on going, down to the edge of
the lake. The grass looked so cool and inviting that I went ahead and
crossed the street to a group of trees along the sidewalk. I sat down on
the grass in front of one and leaned back against the trunk. White uniforms
and grass don't mix well, but I was too tired and the night too beautiful
to care about grass stains. I could hear Paul and Neil talking quietly. The
only words that drifted back to me were “One hundred and eighty thousand.”
From behind me, I could hear the sounds of a baseball game. The driver had
turned on the radio. Were the Twins playing on the west coast? Too late for
a home game to be on. It was a classic Minnesota summer night. Moonlight on
the water, a soft breeze, and baseball in the background. Adding one more
bit of incredulousness to the night, there were no mosquitoes! Beautiful
nights in Minnesota were generally ruined by them. The city must have
sprayed the parks recently. I sat in the cool grass thinking, “Of course
there are no mosquitoes. There are no mosquitoes in dreams.”
This whole day had to be some kind of dream and this kind of night was the
perfect ending. It was the kind of night that always made me feel restless
and alone, a night made for romance but there was no time for romance in my
life, hadn't been since I started nursing school. As a farm girl from the
sticks, living in Minneapolis in an apartment with two roommates was a lot
of fun. I was meeting a lot of people, had lots of friends from the nursing
school, and knew a number of students from the University of Minnesota. I
really was having a good time in spite of working every weekend, but
romance? Someone special in my life? No, that wasn't happening. Working a
lot of evening and night shifts and every weekend really made dating
difficult. I would occasionally find some guy still unattached when I
arrived at a party after I got off work at midnight, even let them drive me
home sometimes, but even when they were interested enough to ask me out, “I
have to work next weekend, and the next, and the next” just didn't get me a
steady boyfriend. Even so, aside from some jealousy as I watched my
roommates dressing up for date night while I pulled on a nursing uniform,
waitress uniform, or whatever my current job required, and these odd
moments of longing for someone, I was really quite happy. I knew all this
was temporary. One more year and I would graduate, get a real nursing job
and then... Who knew?
I sat there on the cool grass, watching the moonlight on the water, feeling
those restless, wanting feelings and I had to laugh. The perfect night and
I was here with Paul McCartney! Heartthrob of the world! An unattainable
heartthrob and very distracted heartthrob though. Paul hardly seemed to
know I was along!
I pulled my nursing shoes off, wishing I could peel off my nylons. My feet
were hot and sweaty and the cool grass felt wonderful. Paul and Neil didn't
seem to be talking now. After a bit, Paul moved off along the shore. Neil
watched Paul for a moment, and apparently decided he was safe enough on his
own and let him go. He looked back and saw me and came and sat on the grass
next to me. Paul wandered further down the lake, then stood for a long
while, arms crossed, just looking out at the water.
“Is he OK?” I asked softly.
“Yeah,” said Neil. “He just needs to think.”
“John said he would have to decide about something. The concert?”
“Yeah. The promoters want them to go ahead with the one tomorrow
night—tonight—without John. They figure most of the tickets are already
sold, and all this publicity will make it a sellout. Kids wanting to show
they care kind of thing.”
“But they don't want to do it?”
“Want to? Hell, no. They haven't wanted to do any of this tour.”
“Why?” I asked, startled enough by that to take my eyes off of Paul.
Neil sighed. “I guess nobody realizes how bloody awful it is on the road.
Hotels and planes, lousy food, no privacy. Locked up with each other day
after day. The only other people they see are people who want something
from them.”
“They must enjoy playing though. They would never even gone to Hamburg or
any tours if they didn't.”
“Yeah, but now there is no music worth caring about. They can't do their
new stuff. It just doesn't work on stage. Nobody listens anyway.” He
laughed. “Hell, the whole sound system could fail halfway through and no
one would know. They have been doing it for years. I guess it was fun at
first, but this year ... Lord, what a mess.”
“The Jesus Christ thing?”
“And the threats in Japan, and the Philippine Disaster.”
“What?”
Neil told me about threats made and tight security on their Japanese tour
because they were performing in an auditorium that had previously used
primarily for Shinto religious rites. They were literally locked in their
hotel except for the concert itself. When the police found out that Paul
had sneaked out in disguise for a tour of Tokyo, they threatened to
withdraw their security and let them fend for themselves. Things only got
worse on the next leg of their tour. They escaped from the Philippines with
half their luggage after being boycotted by the hotel staff, taxi drivers,
airport crew, and after running through a gauntlet of angry people who hit,
kicked, and pushed. Mal was shoved to the ground and ended up with a
cracked vertebra. They carried their own luggage aboard the plane and
breathed a sigh of relief only to have Brian and Mal ordered off the plane.
They were allowed to re-board only after agreeing to hand over their share
of the concert income. All because no one knew about—or recognized the
importance of—an invitation from Imelda Marcos for a luncheon the day after
the concert. They didn't show, Imelda was humiliated, and her people were
furious at the incredible insult to their adored First Lady. Then came the
United States and all the flak over a comment John had made the year before
in a magazine interview.
I hadn't known about what happened in Tokyo and had heard only that some
kind of foul-up in Manila had irritated some of the people, but I thought I
knew about the stuff going on in the Bible Belt of the American South over
John's remark. I knew about the bad publicity, the record burnings, but not
about the Ku Klux Klan saying in a televised interview that if they didn't
cancel the Memphis concert the Klan would stop it.
“We always take threats seriously,” Neil said, “but this wasn't some
isolated loony It was a lot of angry people. They are sitting ducks out
there on stage and they know it. They hate open limos, too.”
I realized with a horrible shock that Neil was referring to death threats
and snipers. Since November 22, 1963, open limos were forever linked to
assassinations.
Neil said softly, “I don't how they did it. I never could have gone on
stage that night. It was bad enough just watching. Someone set off a
firecracker and we all waited for John to fall.”
I shivered and felt goosebumps break out on my arms and a lump in my
throat. I looked out at Paul, now sitting at the edge of the lake with his
knees up and his arms across them. As we watched, he put his head down on
his arms. Tiredness, worry, pressure, uncertainty, unhappiness, it all
showed, even from two hundred feet away. After a bit, he raised his head
again, got up and started skipping stones across the water.
“Why even think about doing the concert?” I asked Neil.
“Because they are going to lose a bundle on the Seattle and San Francisco
concerts we have to cancel. If we go ahead with tonight it would help.”
I thought about what I had overheard: One hundred and eighty thousand.
Dollars? Pounds? “Is it a lot of money?”
“Not for the Beatles themselves. Groups don't make money on tours,
promoters do, and the promoters are going to lose big. That lot have long
memories. If the Beatles ever decide to tour again, they'll need the
promoters.”
“If?”
“Well, they surely don't want to. They want to concentrate on recording,
but no one knows if they can keep going if they don't pay back the fans by
touring. Fans want to see the people whose records they spend their
hard-earned money on.”
“What about TV?”
Neil laughed. “All there is on TV is guest appearances where they have to
try to look natural while spouting some crap someone wrote for them. They
hate that sort of thing. The music doesn't work even on TV. They can
lip-sync their way through, but any idiot can tell that the music isn't
being done by three guitarists and a drummer.”
“Movies?”
“We have looked through a roomful of scripts and proposals. It is either
another “Day in the Life of the Teen Idols”, or another God-awful contrived
storyline like Help!. Anything else would require real acting and,
except Ringo perhaps, none of them are very good at that.”
Paul was walking slowly back up the shore, hands stuffed in his pockets. He
stopped to skip a couple more stones across the water. As he turned and
headed back to us, my heart did a couple of skips too.
He walked over to us and crouched down in front of me and asked, “Are you a
Beatles fan?”
The odd question jarred me out of the tongue-tied fluster I had slipped
into when I realized that this incredible moonlit apparition was going to
sit down right in front of me and talk to me. I couldn't help laughing a
little.
“Yes, definitely but I'm not a screaming thirteen-year-old!”
“Did you plan on going to the concert then?”
“No. I am saving every dime to finish school.”
“But had you bought a ticket,” he persisted, “would you still go knowing
John wouldn't be there or would you want your money back?”
I hesitated, knowing he wanted more than a quick answer. He waited quietly,
his dark eyes watching me. I had to look away to think. “Well, knowing the
reason why John wasn't there would make it all right,” I finally said.
“Even though John is my favorite, I would still want to see the rest of you
and I wouldn't feel gypped.”
Paul smiled and Neil burst out laughing, I guess at the idea of someone
feeling gypped by only seeing three of the Fab Four.
Paul sat down on the grass and lay back, stretching out in front of me with
his hands under his head. I could have reached out and touched his face,
his chest, his thigh—and for one awful second, I thought my hands were
going to do exactly that. I jammed my hands into the pockets of my uniform
apron. I had never been so aware of the physical presence of a guy before.
It was remarkable. Weird. Irritating! How could a person concentrate when
he was around?
“So what are you going to do?” Neil asked after a while.
I didn't think Paul was going to answer, but finally, he sat up and said
tiredly, “I don't know. Brian says we really need to salvage what we can
from this, but he'll understand if we don't want to go on without John.
George says—” He stopped and glanced at me. “George says ‘No.’” That was
obviously not how George had phrased it. “Ringo says he'll go along with
whatever the rest of us decide. I thought John would say no, but all he
said was, ‘Do whatever you want. I'm out of it.’”
Silence. Crickets, cars in the distance, and from the radio, the sound of a
crack and a “line drive to right field.”
“What do you want, Paul?” I asked.
There was another silence. He didn't look at me when he finally answered.
“I want to go back to the beginning and start over. Maybe this time we
would know how to control it.”
The words were different, but the raw pain in them was like an echo of John
saying “It's all over anyway.” He went on and even though his voice was low
and quiet, the frustration and anger in it exploded the still summer night.
“If I can't have that, I want this to end with all four of us up there. Not
like this. Not without John and not because of the fucking money and not
just giving up and slipping out of the country. Not after all the shit
we've been through this year ... God ... not like this.”
He pushed himself up from the ground and headed back to the car. I sat in
stunned silence for a moment. Neil got up. I pulled my shoes on and tied
them blindly as hot tears stung my eyes. Neil reached out a hand and helped
me up. “I'm sorry,” I said to Neil, my voice shaking. “I shouldn't have
said anything.”
Neil put his arm around me. “It's all right, Luv. He doesn't let things out
much. Sometimes he seems pretty... Well, it's good to hear how he really
feels.”
We went to the car and I got in the back. Paul looked at me, no meet the
press smile now. He reached over and touched my hand. “Thanks for bringing
me here. It's a great spot and a beautiful night,” he said. I couldn't
think of anything to say. I just nodded.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, the car pulled out, and we drove back
to the hotel in silence. As we pulled into the parking lot, Neil asked
where my car was. I pointed it out and the driver pulled up next to it.
Neil got out and opened the door for me. As I turned to get out, Paul said,
“If you want to come to the concert, I'll see that you get whatever tickets
you need.”
I turned back to him in surprise. “You're going ahead with it?”
“We really don't have a choice financially.” His voice was wooden and he
was staring straight ahead as he spoke. “We'll drag up some of that famous
Beatle pluck and get on with it.”
In spite of the tired emptiness in his tone, there was still sarcasm in
that choice of words and there was an awkward silence before I said softly,
“I'll be there.” I got out of the car quickly, eyes burning again, fumbling
in my pocket for my keys. Neil walked me to my car and ended up unlocking
the door for me. I couldn't see the lock. He opened the door, I got in, and
he handed me back the keys.
“Are you all right?” he asked. I took a deep breath, blinked back the tears
and managed to smile at him. “I'm fine. It has just taken me twelve hours
to get hysterical about meeting the Beatles!” He smiled back and asked how
many tickets I wanted. “Oh! Um, just one.” My friends, roommates, sister
and all her friends already had tickets, I explained. He told me the ticket
would be waiting at the box office for me, all I had to do was give them my
name. I thanked him and said, “Goodbye Neil.”
“Goodbye Terry.” He pushed my car door shut, got back in the other car, and
the car moved away. It was time for me to go home.