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Fear of Cremation

Anyone who has dealt with someone suffering from Alzheimer's knows just how frustrating an experience that can be. But long after some of the embarrassing situations, recollection seems amusing.

Such was our case with my mom. After dad died, she began exhibiting unusual behavior. When I knew she needed supervision, my husband and I relocated her to our home. A few months into that arrangement, we had to place her in an assisted living facility.

And that's where her behavior went really bizarre.

One Sunday morning, I received a telephone call a nurse at the facility. As the nurse talked, I heard someone in the background shrieking so loudly that the nurse could hardly think to speak.

I recognized the distant vocal display. "Is that my mother?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"Yes!" shouted the nurse. "You need to get here immediately." The shrieking calmed long enough for the nurse to explain. "Your mother is standing outside the dining room and won't let anyone enter for breakfast."

"Can't you move here take her back to her room?" I asked.

"No. She's swinging her arms and ready to fight!"

I imagined my fragile, 75-year-old mother with her usual Southern charm threatening to attack.

"But that's not all," explained the nurse. "She's telling everyone the dining room is a crematorium, and everyone who enters will be cremated! Nobody wants breakfast."

When we arrived, the paramedics had been summoned. Still shouting, Mom was strapped to a gurney in the ambulance.

"Why is she tied down?" I asked.

The paramedic who looked like a weightlifter said, "She attacked me."

The ER doctor ordered an EKG. Mom insisted she was in a funeral home. After she cursed the entire ER staff (she never cursed!), she resumed her cremation fixation.

As I walked beside her to radiation, her tirade continued. "They're going to burn me to a crisp!"

"I won't let them, Mom."

If there had been some way to disappear, that would have been a perfect time.

When she returned to the ER, she was still focused on cremation. "Look!" she screamed. "Look at my skin! It's turning black. It's charred to a crisp! Look under my ring. It's already burned. And the *&!*# doctor did it."

The doctor looked at me sympathetically.

"And don't laugh at me," Mother threatened.

The doctor walked away, as I wanted to do.

Several months later, Mom's brain seemed to recover. We enjoyed a year with the mom we knew before the illness.

And when she died, we made sure not to cremate her.

Learn more about this author, Swanee Ballman.
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