“You got it. Give me a second to get it squared for you, hon.”
We wait in tense silence, and I raise my chin at the assistant, who is texting furiously. “I’m Kinley. What’s your name?”
He looks up from his phone, distracted. “Mason.”
“Mason, you might also want to text your tour manager. You’re going to need to cancel shows for at least the next week. Probably a lot longer.”
“Um. I’m the tour manager.”
“Sorry.”
With shaking hands, he redoubles his efforts on his cell while I wait on the phone for Shelly. Even though only a few minutes pass, it seems like forever until she comes back on the line.
“You got that chopper on the way for me, Shel?”
“I heard the rotors goin’ before I hung up the phone. You should hear the bus by now.”
Relieved, I pause and…yes. Sirens. Thank God.
I hang up with Shelly and turn to the immensely talented woman next to me. “Mac, what kinds of migraines do you get?”
She opens her mouth and gibberish comes out.
Mason’s eyes widen as he answers for her. “Uhhh…they usually come with her cycle, but if she hasn’t slept or we have too many concert days in a row, she’ll get them in clusters. She’s been having them since yesterday. Pretty bad, even for her.”
“Okay, so…hormones and high stress. Has she ever had weakness like this before?”
He blinks. “Not that I’m aware of. She keeps a lot of things to herself, though.”
“Anything else you can think of? Has she had any accidents?”
He starts shaking his head, then stops and points at her booted foot.
“She was skiing by herself when she fell. She made her way down the mountain practically on one foot and barely let Dr. K look at it.”
I turn to the patient. “Mac, what made you fall?”
“Jus…on the groun.”
“When you fell, did you hit your head?”
“Yesh,” she answers, shaking her head.
I jump up and ruffle through her thick salt-and-pepper hair, quickly ruling out any obvious head trauma.
The sirens are right out back, and I’m so grateful for our emergency department.
I direct Mason, “Go to the door and flag them down.”
Swallowing thickly, he nods and then runs for the door. I already know getting the gurney back here will be a nightmare, so I do my best to set Mac in a comfortable position, not wanting to move her too much. I keep an eye on her breathing and pulse, not really excited about what either is showing me.
“My hea…head is killing…killing me,” she lisps, rubbing her forehead. Her face is still a little slack on the left side, but her right eye is beginning to normalize. Okay. This might’ve been a mini-stroke. Not great, but not too bad if we can get her to the hospital and monitor for a bigger event.
I let out a breath, my diagnostic brain spinning out all kinds of possibilities. The fall keeps bothering me. Was it an accident, or did she have another mini-stroke? Sometimes these TIAs will happen multiple times in a short time span. Shit…has she been having mini-strokes throughout the day? I think back to the messed-up song intro and wonder if we hadn’t all witnessed one in the middle of her performance.
I’m probably being dramatic.
Still, I’m glad she’s going to Denver. Dr. De León is the head neurologist over there, and I have faith in her ability to work it out.
