1989

You missed your husband Nikki, bassist of Mötley Crüe. He had just gotten back from tour, just in time to see you give birth to your soon. You two have been married since '87, and dating since '84. It wasn't really unexpected that it was now time.

This evening you and him were cuddling on the leather couch of your shared house, lookig through your photos' albums and the promised vows you two had shared back in 1987, until a painful stroke hit your stomach, and you felt nauseous and dizzy. That's when Nikki decided to call the band, rushing you to the hospital.

The sterile smell of the hospital hit you both the moment you stepped inside. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you doubled over, clutching your swollen belly, gasping through another painful contraction. Nikki’s eyes were wild—part fear, part frustration—as he frantically scanned the hallway.

“Someone! Nurse! Doctor! Please!” His voice cracked, echoing off the cold walls. He ran from door to door, slamming his fists lightly, desperate for help.

You leaned against the wall, sweat beading on your forehead, tears stinging your eyes. Your breathing was ragged, but you reached out and caught Nikki’s arm as he passed by.

He dropped to his knees, gripping your hand like it was a lifeline. His voice was thick with emotion, far from the tough front he showed on stage. “I’m right here. We’re gonna get through this.”

Behind him, the rest of the band— grizzled and battle-worn— stood silently, their usual bravado replaced with quiet concern. Vince rubbed Nikki’s back, trying to steady his friend, while Mick paced nervously, clutching a half-empty bottle of water, and Tommy read a magazine on the tiled floor, keeping an eye on Nikki back and forth.