Reagan's Death Brings Back Memories of Mom

JUNE 11, 2004
By GREG RUMMO

     WHEN RONALD REAGAN finally succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease, those of us who lost a loved one after a long and similar battle can empathize with those closest to him.

My mom was a woman very much like America’s fortieth president. She had a wonderful sense of humor. She could find something funny in almost anything—a trait that was a little annoying to my father who had to work hard at it to laugh at even the funniest jokes.

But over the last seven years of her life that sense of humor disappeared along with just about everything else that was mom. It was slowly eaten away by Alzheimer's disease—that insidious degeneration of the portion of the brain that makes us who we are.

Alzheimer's disease is the most common form of dementia in older people. Its onset usually occurs after age 65. Approximately 4 million people are afflicted. 

In mom's case, it started shortly after she suffered the first of several transient ischemic attacks or mini-strokes.

The first occurred as my parents were sitting together in the kitchen, having a cup of tea together. Suddenly mom began acting irrationally, trying to remove her clothing because she said she felt hot. Her speech became slurred and soon she began to babble incoherently.

After a short stay in the hospital, she improved and went home. But she never recovered completely and bouts with depression or “sundowning” started shortly thereafter.

She then had cataract surgery and after her eyes had healed, the doctors were dumbfounded over her inability to read the words on the eye chart. They soon figured out that her eyes were fine. It was the onset of Alzheimer's that had slowly been eating away at her mental faculties, robbing her brain of the ability to comprehend the message her eyes were sending to it.

I remember one July fourth my dad calling me on the telephone, sobbing because mom was having a particularly bad day. “She's depressed because she says you didn't come and visit her today. She is sitting in front of the mirror, crying. I think she has finally realized what is happening to her.”

It was to be one of the last, lucid realizations she would have.

Dementia began shortly thereafter. On several occasions she bolted out of the house in her nightgown, walking up and down the street making wild accusations about my dad. “There's a stranger in my house! He's stealing things! He's a murderer!”

When it finally became too much for dad to take care of mom by himself, he sold their home in Westchester County in New York State and moved to Bald Eagle Commons, a retirement village in West Milford located a mere 20 minutes from our home. The plan was that they would be close enough to us so we could lend a hand. But another tragedy struck only four weeks later.

On Christmas morning in 1996, my dad slipped while putting on a pair of trousers, breaking his neck on the marble saddle between the bedroom and the bathroom. He died two days later at St. Joseph's Hospital in Paterson from cardiac arrest during surgery to brace his spine.

My wife and I were left with the unpleasant task of placing mom in a nursing home as there was no other way she could receive the constant attention she required.

Frankly, I don't know how dad managed by himself for as long as he did. Perhaps pride had something to do with it. But after almost 50 years of marriage, I think it was his love for her that made him such a dedicated caregiver.

The disease continued its slow and steady destruction of my mother. Time was now the enemy—each week ripping another piece of the very fabric of her being away until eventually she became unrecognizable. She no longer knew who I was and only on rare occasions referred to my father as “that nice man.” As the months progressed, she became more and more incoherent until finally losing her ability to speak altogether.

She spent the last 4 months of her life staring into space from a fetal position in her bed. The closest thing to a response from her came one September afternoon when I kissed her goodbye and she smiled.

Then in late October, the nursing home called to tell me she was no longer eating or drinking.

My last visit with mom on this earth was on Monday, October 25, 1999. My pastor met me at the nursing home. I whispered a quiet prayer in her ear, told her I loved her and kissed her goodbye for the last time. She went quietly, two days later to a better place, where “the street of the city is pure gold” and there's no Alzheimer's disease.

Until we meet again, I miss you mom. n

Greg Rummo is a syndicated columnist. Read all of his columns on his homepage, www.GregRummo.com.