Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [146]
Frank’s confidence in his recording ability had been seriously shaken by his experience with the Duets album. Everyone told him he was great, just like they always did, but he knew the truth. He fretted about what the critics would say and fully expected them to feed him to the dogs. He needn’t have been concerned. Although his voice wasn’t as it had once been, he sang with the kind of emotional honesty and rich resonance that only comes with experience. Duets became his bestselling album, smashing Billboard records and going multi-platinum. One critic wrote, “Is Sinatra half the singer he was? Actually, he’s about three-fifths the singer he was—but that still makes him about twice the singer anyone else is.”
Duets was so successful that Frank was encouraged to make Duets II, which gave him a chance to record songs with Steve and Eydie, Frank Jr., Lena Horne, Stevie Wonder, Patti LaBelle, Willie Nelson, Neil Diamond, Gladys Knight, and some other great singers. Like its predecessor, the album sold millions of copies and introduced him to a whole new generation of fans. That old Sinatra magic I’d first experienced in Wichita more than fifty years earlier still had as many people as ever under its spell.
In March 1994, my seventy-eight-year-old husband collapsed onstage in Richmond, Virginia. Halfway through “My Way,” he turned to Frank Jr. and asked, “Can you get me a chair?” Before Frankie could find one, Frank crashed facedown on the floor as the audience of almost four thousand gasped. The orchestra gamely kept on playing as Tom Dreesen and Frank Jr. ran to his side, loosened his tie, and checked that he was still alive. Frankie must have feared the worst as he looked down into his father’s face. There was a doctor in the audience, and he leapt up onto the stage to tend to Frank as people wept. An ambulance was called, but by the time the paramedics arrived, Frank was able to sit in a wheelchair.
Even as he was being wheeled offstage, Frank was blowing kisses and waving to his audience, who were on their feet giving him thunderous applause. He was taken to the hospital, where the doctors diagnosed dehydration in the southern heat, exacerbated by his blood pressure medication. They wanted to admit him and run some tests, and one senior doctor insisted he stay because he didn’t want anything to happen to “the great Frank Sinatra” on his watch. Frank listened to what he had to say and then asked, “Are you finished, Doc?” The consultant nodded. Frank turned to Tom and said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” He got on his plane and flew home.
When I heard that he’d collapsed, I was really shaken. For some reason, I hadn’t gone on that leg of the tour. All those years of being stuck to him like glue, watching his every move, enjoying all his triumphs and helping him through his lows, and the one time he was taken ill I wasn’t there. I knew how much performing took out of him; he’d lose up to fifteen pounds per tour. I should have been there to make him drink extra fluids before he went on; I might have kept him from dehydrating. What if that had been the end? I would never have forgiven myself.
When I met him at the airport at midnight, I was still scared, but he put me instantly at ease. “I’m fine, beautiful,” he reassured me as he accepted my hand to help him down the steps. “It was just too darn hot.” He had no intention of resting, and as soon as he was feeling better, he picked up the tour where he’d left off. Over the next few months, he worked as hard as ever, pushing himself to the limit, but I could tell he was increasingly tired. His schedule, which included performances in Hershey, Pennsylvania; Tulsa, Oklahoma; Omaha; Syracuse; Atlantic City;