by Nancy Reagan
I had no appetite for food. I tried to eat because I knew I should, to keep up my strength, but it didn’t stay with me. When I came to Washington I weighed 112 pounds. After the shooting I slipped below a hundred. In most pictures from 1981, I look gaunt.
When you’re as frightened as I was, you reach out for help and comfort in any direction you can. I prayed what seemed like all the time, more than I ever had before. I talked with religious leaders such as Billy Graham and Donn Moomaw. I talked a lot with my old friends, who called to offer support.
And when Ronnie wasn’t around, I cried. Sometimes I also cried when he was around, but I would usually manage to slip away into the bedroom or the bathroom so he wouldn’t see me and be upset by the fact that I was upset. I knew that if Ronnie saw me crying, he would be—and that’s the last thing I wanted. He was recovering, but he still looked very fragile.
For instance, just a few days after Ronnie returned from the hospital, the circus paraded into Washington, marching down Pennsylvania Avenue. When they reached the White House, they stopped and put on a little performance to cheer Ronnie up in his recovery. I was in the exercise room when Ronnie came by to tell me how happy their performance had made him. He looked so frail standing there in his navy blue robe and pajamas, so different from the Ronnie I knew. I could barely control myself until he left the room.
One afternoon I was on the phone with Merv Griffin, an old friend from my Hollywood days, and he mentioned that he had recently talked with Joan Quigley, a San Francisco astrologer. I had seen her years ago on Merv’s television show, where she was part of a panel of astrologers. Later, Merv had apparently introduced us, although I don’t remember meeting her. Joan had then volunteered her advice during Ronnie’s 1980 campaign, and had called me several times to talk about “good” and “bad” times for Ronnie. I was interested in what she had to say, and I was pleased when she told me that Ronnie was going to win—that it was in his chart and in mine.
I remember as if it were yesterday my reaction to what Merv told me on the phone. He had talked to Joan, who had said she could have warned me about March 30. According to Merv, Joan had said, “The president should have stayed home. I could see from my charts that this was going to be a dangerous day for him.”
“Oh, my God,” I remember telling Merv. “I could have stopped it!” I hung up the phone, picked it up again, and called Joan.
“Merv tells me you knew about March 30,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied. “I could see it was a very bad day for the president.”
“I’m so scared,” I told her. “I’m scared every time he leaves the house, and I don’t think I breathe until he gets home. I cringe every time we step out of a car or leave a building. I’m afraid that one of these days somebody is going to shoot at him again.”
Joan was a good listener, and she responded with the warmth and compassion I needed. Before long I found myself telling her about other problems I was having, including problems with two of our children, Patti and Michael, and concerns over my aging parents, both of whom were sick. On all these matters, Joan was helpful and comforting. We had a professional relationship, but I came to view her as a friend. I now see that she was also a kind of therapist.
My relationship with Joan Quigley began as a crutch, one of several ways I tried to alleviate my anxiety about Ronnie. Within a year or two, it had become a habit, something I relied on a little less but didn’t see the need to change. While I was never certain that Joan’s astrological advice was helping to protect Ronnie, the fact is that nothing like March 30 ever happened again.
Was astrology one of the reasons? I don’t really believe it was, but I don’t really believe it wasn’t. But I do know this: It didn’t hurt, and I’m not sorry I did it.
Joan and I had talked several times when she finally said, “Why don’t you let me know when the president plans to go out? I could tell you if those are good days or bad days.” Well, I thought, what’s the harm in that? And so once or twice a month I would talk with Joan (sometimes by appointment, sometimes not). I would have Ronnie’s schedule in front of me, and what I wanted to know was very simple: Were specific dates safe or dangerous? If, for example, Ronnie was scheduled to give a speech in Chicago on May 3, should he leave Washington that morning, or was he better off flying out on the previous afternoon?
People seem to be fascinated by the logistics of all this, but it was really quite simple. As with other friends, I placed the calls to Joan myself, on my private line. If she had to call me back, the White House and Camp David operators knew her as a friend of mine, and put the calls through.
When Joan got back to me with her advice on specific dates, I would, if necessary, call Michael Deaver, who was in charge of Ronnie’s schedule. Sometimes a small change was made. Beginning in 1985, I would do the same with Donald Regan, who became Ronnie’s chief of staff then. If a change wasn’t possible, I deferred to Mike or Don. While astrology was a factor in determining Ronnie’s schedule, it was never the only one, and no political decision was ever based on it.
I knew, of course, that if this ever came out, it could prove embarrassing to Ronnie—although I never imagined just how embarrassing. But as long as I worked with Mike Deaver, I knew my secret was safe. Mike was discreet. He had known Ronnie and me for years and was one of my closest friends. I never even thought of asking him to keep a confidence; I just knew he would.
And about astrology, Mike understood. He too had been traumatized by the shooting—one of the bullets aimed at Ronnie had whistled over Mike’s head, missing him by inches. If he hadn’t ducked at precisely the right second, he would have been killed. And so, partly because of this, Mike seemed to think it was a good idea to get Joan’s input. Like me, he thought: Why not? Why take chances? It may be nonsense, but does anybody really know? And people have certainly been fascinated by astrology for thousands of years. It’s one of those mysteries that just don’t seem to go away.
Later, because I didn’t know Don Regan very well, I was a little more careful—an instinct I now wish I had taken more seriously. With Regan, for example, I never used Joan’s name, referring to her only as “my friend.” Don never commented on the information one way or the other. He never challenged my practice, or discouraged it, or mocked it. He certainly never said, “Let’s not do this. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” When people are direct with me in voicing their opinions, I can deal with that, but I can’t if I don’t know what they’re thinking. What I was thinking about most was Ronnie. I now believe that what Don was more interested in was Don.
Don also never implied, however, as Mike did, that he thought consulting Joan was a good idea. I could tell Don didn’t approve of Joan, but it wasn’t clear whether this wasn’t partly because he always wanted things done his way—and on his schedule.
Don Regan has said that he kept a color-coded calendar on his desk to keep track of Joan’s advice. If he did, I certainly didn’t know about it. I learned about it the way everybody else did: from press reports about his book. As far as I can remember, Don and I never discussed astrology directly. Nor did we discuss my relationship with Joan Quigley.
When I first started talking to Joan, I hoped she would volunteer her services, as she had during the 1980 campaign, but no such luck. I don’t think it’s fair to say how much she charged me, any more than I would disclose how much I paid my doctor. But it wasn’t cheap! Joan sent me monthly statements, and I asked her to write my personal five-digit code on the envelope—a White House convenience so that personal mail addressed to the president and first lady doesn’t get lost in the mountains of general mail sent to the White House.
You learn something from living in the White House, and I didn’t think an astrologer should be sent checks signed by the first lady. And so I asked a friend back in California to pay Joan, and I reimbursed her each month.
I want to state one thing again, and unequivocally: Joan’s recommendations had nothing to do with policy o
r politics—ever. Her advice was confined to timing—to Ronnie’s schedule, and to what days were good or bad, especially with regard to his out-of-town trips.
Although the shooting had occurred only a mile from the White House, I was less frightened about Ronnie’s appearances in Washington, partly because I could see with my own eyes that security arrangements there had clearly been improved since March 30. Now, for example, whenever we drove to a hotel where Ronnie was speaking, the Secret Service would have erected a large canvas sheet over the entrance to the building so the president was no longer visible from the street. It was a simple change, but just seeing that piece of cloth was a big comfort to me.
Security had been improved in other ways as well—especially after American security agencies began receiving reports that Libyan hit squads would soon be operating in the United States, and that Ronnie and I were among their principal targets. At the time these warnings were taken so seriously that concrete barriers were installed around the White House. As if I weren’t feeling vulnerable enough already!
But it was Ronnie’s trips outside Washington that worried me the most, and this is where I found Joan’s advice particularly reassuring. The hardest times of all were when Ronnie went on trips without me—because, illogical though it is, I never got over feeling that if only I had been with him on March 30, the shooting would not have happened.
I should say, too, that the idea of consulting an astrologer never struck me as particularly strange. I used to look at my horoscope every morning as I read the paper, although fifteen minutes later I usually forgot what it said. And although I’m far from a true believer, I do think there are certain characteristics that tend to be true of individuals born under a particular sign. But I don’t run my life by astrology, and no, I don’t go around asking people what sign they were born under!
I was born on July 6, which makes me a Cancer. It is often said that people born under the sign of Cancer are above all homemakers and nesters, which is exactly how I would define myself. Cancers also tend to be intuitive, vulnerable, sensitive, and fearful of ridicule—all of which, like it or not, I am. The Cancer symbol is the crab shell: Cancers often present a hard exterior to the world, which hides their vulnerability. When they’re hurt, Cancers respond by withdrawing into themselves. That’s me, all right.
Then too, when I lived in Hollywood, almost everybody knew Carroll Righter, an astrologer who wrote a column for the Los Angeles Times. He was a nice elderly man who would tell everyone their good and bad days—so I was familiar with those categories.
Another reason I was open to astrology was that I have spent most of my life in the company of show-business people, where superstitions and other nonscientific beliefs are widespread and commonly accepted. Maybe it’s because the entertainment business is so unpredictable and impervious to logic, but starting with my mother, who was an actress, just about every performer I have known has been at least mildly superstitious. For example: It’s bad luck to whistle in the dressing room. Never throw your hat on the bed. And never keep your shoes on a shelf that’s higher than your head.
I don’t think actors and performers literally believed these things, but you went along with them as a way of hedging your bets. When someone consulted an astrologer, nobody thought much about it.
After March 30, 1981, I wasn’t about to take any chances. Very few people can really understand what it’s like to have your husband shot at and almost die, and then have him exposed all the time to enormous crowds, tens of thousands of people, any one of whom might be a lunatic with a gun. I have been criticized and ridiculed for turning to astrology, but after a while I reached the point where I didn’t care. I was doing everything I could think of to protect my husband and keep him alive. Living without Ronnie was unthinkable: I was willing to do anything I thought might possibly keep him safe. Everyone reacts differently, but this was what I needed to do. Astrology helped me cope—and nobody has ever shown that it caused any harm to Ronnie or to the country.
And all during those years, Joan Quigley was there for me. As I look back on that period, it’s not her advice about specific dates that I remember so much as her personal concern and support. Joan was somebody I could turn to with my anxieties and fears.
It wasn’t until 1985 that I finally met her. Joan had always wanted to attend a state dinner at the White House. As soon as she came through the receiving line and her name was announced, I remember thinking, So that’s what you look like! We only said a quick hello because of my responsibilities as hostess. But on the telephone, where we had more time, Joan was always sympathetic and never rushed. She commiserated with me. She sent me inspirational texts in the mail. She was so supportive—not only about Ronnie and the job he was doing as president, but also about my parents and the problems I was having with Patti.
At first Ronnie knew nothing about my conversations with Joan. He didn’t know that Mike Deaver and I might have discussed changing a certain departure time or an appointment, based on Joan’s advice. I wanted to tell Ronnie about it, but I wasn’t exactly dying to tell him, and I kept putting it off. Then one day, after I’d been talking to Joan on and off for quite a few months, Ronnie walked into the bedroom while I was on the phone to her.
“Honey, what was that about?” he asked.
When I told him, he said, “If it makes you feel better, go ahead and do it. But be careful. It might look a little odd if it ever came out.”
Normally, I’m the one who sees a potential trouble spot. This time it was Ronnie who foresaw that my involvement with Joan could have serious consequences for us. Boy, was he right. Politically, I made a terrible mistake when I started calling Joan, and what I regret most is the enormous embarrassment I caused Ronnie. And now, of course, I realize that I was foolish to think it was possible to have any secrets in the White House.
When I first began working on this book, I never imagined that I would be writing about astrology. But then I also never imagined that my confidential relationship with Joan would be betrayed by Ronnie’s former chief of staff. I had heard that Donald Regan was writing a book about his two years in the White House. He and I had had our differences, and I didn’t expect to be treated kindly in his memoirs.
But it never, ever, occurred to me that Don Regan would do what he did—that he would take this information about my interest in astrology and twist it to seek his revenge on Ronnie and me. As I watched him on the talk shows, I fumed. How long had he been planning this? When did he first come up with the idea?
When Don lost his job, he must have been so angry that he was determined to strike back in any way he could. And obviously my relationship with Joan presented an easy target.
At first, Don’s disclosure didn’t seem too serious. A week before his book was serialized in Time, the “Periscope” page of Newsweek carried a brief mention of the book, with a reference to astrology in the last sentence, almost like an afterthought. I wasn’t happy to read it, but I wasn’t too upset, either. After all, my interest in astrology seemed to merit only a single line in Newsweek.
But that was just the beginning.
Within a few days, it became the biggest story in town. When the news media started in on me, I felt a terrible cold rush to the heart and a sinking feeling in my stomach. Even so, I thought the whole thing would blow over in a day or two.
But for several weeks the entire country seemed to talk of little else. Donald Regan had not claimed that the United States was being run by Joan Quigley, but such subtleties seemed lost during the media frenzy in May 1988. ASTROLOGER RUNS THE WHITE HOUSE read the headline in the New York Post, and millions of people believed it.
It didn’t seem to matter that nothing other than Ronnie’s schedule was affected by astrology. Or that tens of millions of Americans really believed in astrology. Or that almost every newspaper that ridiculed me for taking astrology seriously also featured a daily horoscope column.
I felt shocked and humiliated that my relationship w
ith Joan was portrayed as a great and terrible secret. I had always considered it a private project, something I did to hedge our bets, to try to keep Ronnie from getting shot again—and to keep me from going mad with worry. At least by consulting with Joan I was doing something. I knew it might not be effective or the smartest thing to do, but given my temperament, it was a lot better than just sitting there. If I hadn’t taken every step I could think of to protect my husband, and Ronnie had been shot again, I would never have been able to forgive myself.
What it boils down to is that each person has his own ways of coping with trauma and grief, with the pain of life, and astrology was one of mine. Don’t criticize me, I wanted to say, until you have stood in my place. This helped me. Nobody was hurt by it—except, possibly, me.
In the midst of the furor, what I felt worst about was Ronnie, and I apologized to him. “I feel terrible about this,” I said. “I’ve put you in an awful position.”
“No, honey,” he kept saying, “it’s all right. I could see what you were going through. It’s all right.”
Of course Ronnie easily could have said “I told you so”—but that just isn’t like him. He was angry, but not at me.
I don’t think he will ever forgive Don Regan for writing that book.
By 1988 I had grown used to criticism, but this was different: I had become the national laughingstock. I was the butt of countless jokes on television, radio, and in the press. It was like a long nightmare. From the moment I got dressed in the morning until the time I got ready for bed, no matter what channel I turned to, there was Don Regan, talking about me and astrology. The man was everywhere. It was almost as if he had put a hit out on me.
Each time I saw him on television, I felt like standing up and shouting, Wait a minute! That’s not the way it was! The charges being reported about me were so distorted that I ached to respond, to explain what really happened, and why. I was especially angry at things Don Regan had just assumed: for example, that Ronnie’s operation in July 1985 had been delayed because of Joan. There was no delay—the operation took place the morning after cancer was suspected. As far as I was concerned, if Ronnie had a cancerous growth, it had to come out. Immediately.