DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOODNIGHT–DYLAN THOMAS, 1946

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightening they
Do not go gentle into that goodnight.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild en who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay
Rage, rage against the dying for the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The problem with this beautiful force of nature is the power evoked when a person really feels powerless.  A child can be standing at their dying fathers bedside and many times, the father may be raging on the inside, fighting with every ounce of his soul and strength.  Of course, that does not provide the large displays of rage americans have become accustomed to seeing.  And sometimes the real rage and pain brings an intense, quiet focus, not the large, teeth gnashing rage of someone busting out of the throes of death.  Solid steel determination feeds rage as well.  Just quieter.

My father, Mr. Nota, was that way; as a man of few words, he never cussed and the only time he yelled was when calling the cows in from pasture to feed.  As a proud farm man of few words, he quietly went about his business when some odd symptoms first appeared. He caught a basic cold, but couldn’t seem to shake it, then told my mother about the other problems.  At the doctor’s office  in April: colon cancer.  A little radiation, a little chemo, a little surgery, a cholostomy bag.  Internal rage, perhaps, but nothing we children were allowed to see.  Raging against the dying of the light.  Around Father’s Day, another surgery that would remove his rectum, an awful and painful procedure, but sure to save his life.  Surgery ended much too short, and a tall surgeon in blue slippered feet told us that my father would die soon.  Take him home and enjoy your time left.  Rage, Rage!

Dad refused, and said he wanted all the chemo and radiation they would give him.  He would beat this, he would rage against the dying of the light.  So badly he wanted to live; awful treatments brought torturous side-effects, and a rotation of  a few weeks at home and a few weeks back in the hospital, a few weeks at home a few weeks back in the hospital.  Finally the doctors told him no more chemo, no more radiation, no more point.  And still he quietly raged.  Tried to maintain the routines of home, although one of us kids had to take him to the coffee shop (which we loved, getting to help dad, and which he hated not only because of his loss of independence, but because he always hated riding with us.)  I enjoyed sitting with him at the local coffee shop, as men he’d known his entire life stopped by to say hi to Mr. Nota, crack a joke and then walk back to their table with a knowing glance that my Dad may never be back.  Their respect and humor lit up his pretty blue eyes and put some of the sparkle back that the illness had dimmed.

He died a few weeks later, mid-November, and he raged against the dying of the light up until the last day.  At some point in between foggy points of the medications, my dad looked at my mom and said “This ain’t living.”  They both looked at all the tubes coming into him and his stomach to feed him, and the other tubes that took it away, as his intestines were completely useless.  He told the doctors to turn off the machines (he made the decision so my mom wouldn’t have to) and then he, as a wounded soldier who had raged, raged against the dying of the light, passed gentle into that goodnight.