Do Not Go Gentle

"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."  Dylan Thomas

It has been difficult to think about writing in the last few days.  The lines from Dylan Thomas keep coming to my mind.  His poem deals with approaching death, and he suggests that death should be fought.  For me, as I think about Mother, I cannot fight against physical death, but I find myself raging against the dying light of lucidity. 

I rage against the dying of the light of losing recognition.  I rage against the dying light of not distinguishing one day from another.  I rage against the dying light of losing control one's bodily functions.  I rage against the dying light of not being able to wash one's face.  I rage against the dying light of knowing where you are.

I feel like holding Mother tight and not letting go.  She is going gentle "into that good night" and I rage against it.  I want to kick and scream and shout "you can't have her!"  But the disease progresses and all the rage and love and care in the world can't stop it.   I am watching her slowly sink away from us into a dark, deep hole.  But for all my raging she goes. And it is not gentle.  It is painful.  I weep. The dying light continues to deepen.