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People know the story. Hell, Ed's told it, himself. Lorraine had a vision during an exorcism, and when they got home, she locked herself in their bedroom and refused to eat, speak, or come out for eight days. Just that is enough to impress upon people how much of a burden Lorraine's visions can be on her, but it doesn't come close to portraying the fear and dread he'd felt, locked away from his wife.
How he'd pressed his ear to the door, calling softly to her. Then anxiously. Demandingly. And finally, softly again. He never gave up speaking to her, but he'd begun to think she'd never answer again.
After the first day, he'd called Lorraine's mother to take Judy, neither of them in a state fit to care for their daughter. Even afterward, once Judy was back home, Georgiana had elected to stay with them for months as Lorraine recovered.
Ed had spent his days pacing the hallway, leaning against the door. Talking. Listening.
It was always silent in the bedroom, broken only by the occasional sound of Lorraine going into the en suite. The curtain skating across the rod, the water turning on, running far past the time Ed knows it takes for the hot water to run out. The bed creaking as she laid down. And then the silence would return.
Eight days was an eternity to wait.
Telling people that she hadn't eaten doesn't describe how she'd looked upon finally opening the door. Her hair limp and messy, eyes sunken with deep, dark circles beneath them. She'd looked at him, her striking blue eyes filled with the most profound sadness he'd ever seen. His name had been a barely audible whisper breathed through chapped lips.
And then her eyes had rolled back, her legs giving out beneath her, and Ed had lunged forward to catch her, pulling her protectively into his arms.
The following few days are a blur, but Ed remembers his panic the most. The siren of the ambulance, the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the beep of the heart monitor.
Malnourishment and dehydration.
Afterward, Lorraine had admitted that she wasn't sure she'd drank anything, despite the glass on her bedside table, the sink in the en suite. That had terrified him, still does when he thinks about it too closely. He's certain that her showers were the only thing that had kept her alive, absorbing water through her skin, swallowing whatever dripped into her mouth.
Ed had always held on to the security that, no matter how bad Lorraine's visions could get, they couldn't hurt her.
Eight days and a trip to the hospital had proven him wrong.
He takes this knowledge as a holy directive from God to do everything in his power to keep Lorraine safe.
Even if keeping her safe means trying to stop her from going on cases, means telling people about the exorcism so they understand why she won't be there when the time comes. Most often, it means staying close to her as she forges on ahead into creepy basements to face literal demons. Directive from God or not, Ed's never been one to wield an iron fist of control over his wife.
So he lives with the truth of just how bad Lorraine's visions could affect her, and that is Ed's burden to bear, with the fear that perhaps, one day, he might not be able to catch her when she falls.
(Years later, he will watch her nearly run off a cliff, guided by a vision, and he'll wonder if this is the day. And then he'll catch her.)