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.

Thy Rod and Thy Staff, They Comfort Me

Mother is afraid of dying.  She never has been before.  She has always talked of death logically and with faith and not as something to be feared.  Her father also had Alzheimer's, and she used to talk about the fact that he lived so many years with the disease because he was afraid to die.  She didn't understand that because her faith has always been strong.  But now she is afraid.

Perhaps it is because she feels herself dying in little pieces.  She describes it as a sinking feeling or like being in a boat in a deep fog.  Now she is beginning to cry and cringe when she talks about death. "I'm dying, I'm dying!"  she cried, and then she asked, "Am I going to die?"  It was pitiful.  She lay on her bed with her hands tucked under her chin and pulled the afghan up around her.  There was real terror in her eyes.

I told her we would all die one day, but that I thought she had many years left.  Her response, "Oh thank you."  She relaxed.  She smiled.  I wonder how often that fear and realization grips her.  Does she lie there worrying and afraid?  I can't think about it too much because to think about her lying there in a state of fear is gut wrenching.  I imagine her alone on her bed feeling her life ebbing away and needing someone to hold her hand and and stroke her hair and reassure her.  How can I comfort her when she can't hold a word of comfort in her mind for more than a few seconds? 

I try to get her mind to return to her faith.  She can still say the Lord's prayer.  We pray.  I read the 23rd Psalm to her.  We sing some hymns.  She remembers words here and there and watches my lips to try to catch the words singing just a beat behind me.  She is comforted.  She speaks about her faith.  She remembers that Jesus loves her and will not leave her alone.  She remembers, but just for the moment.  And the next day she asks, "Am I dying?"