Dylan Thomas wrote these beautiful lines in 1951:
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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.
Every time I talk with my grandmother on the telephone, I am reminded of Thomas’ poem. My grandmother is 101. (Yes, I’m sure; the President of the United States sent her a birthday card last year.)
Sometimes she knows who I am. Sometimes she doesn’t. She mixes up my boys, and, when she gets really confused, she falls silent, overwhelmed by the barrage of words that she cannot parse.
A year or so ago I visited her at the nursing home where she resides. I walked in during church services, and I stole into the common room to watch the minister close his sermon. Before me sat a sea of white-haired individuals, and with horror and chagrin, I realized that I could not find my grandmother among them. Oh, she was there. But old age, extreme old age, had flattened distinguishing features to the point at which I felt that I was in a room with a group of Stepford grandparents. Hair loss made it difficult for me even to make a decisive call about the gender of some of the occupants of those hardbacked chairs.
Eventually I did spy my grandmother. She was much shorter than she had been only a few years prior, and her hair had lost its body. It lay limply, plastered to her skull.
Yes, Thomas’ words are lovely, but they’re not accurate, at least as far as today’s nonagenarians in varying stages of Alzheimer’s or other forms of dementia are concerned. Old age has made them docile, and sweet - cuddly, even. Which is a shame, I think. My grandmother’s wit used to be acerbic. Her words had bite. She held strong opinions. She was loving, but in a reserved and spare way. She was never comfortable unless her hands were busy. She could be mean about the people she loved. And I adored her, warts and all.
The woman who lives at that nursing home? She’s not my grandmother, not really. Which saddens me, because I know that she would have preferred to …[r]age, rage against the dying of the light. I also know that had she had her wits about her, she would have declined to attend church services - politely, of course. She was never a religious woman. Recently my father, her son, asked her why she attends the Sunday morning sermon. She replied, “Why, there are such nice cookies afterwards!”
There is such a thing as being too old, there truly is.
22 responses so far ↓
Cheryl in Sacramento // Jun 18, 2008 at 12:40 pm
“Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen.” ~Mark Twain
Amy Y // Jun 18, 2008 at 12:45 pm
I hate watching loved ones get old… change… It’s just awful, even with the sweet innocence they develop.
JCK // Jun 18, 2008 at 12:46 pm
Yes, there is such a thing. This was a sad, but exquisite post.
Chani // Jun 18, 2008 at 1:12 pm
I agree. There comes a point when it’s time to die. I’ve often told people who know me well that if I ever lose my cognitive abilities, it’s time to go.
Laura from the Fringe // Jun 18, 2008 at 1:48 pm
I agree with you…your post has touched a special place in my heart…and soul. Thank you.
Tina // Jun 18, 2008 at 2:38 pm
I have learned watching and caring for elderly relatives (and some not so elderly, unfortunately) that there are circumstances we can find ourselves in that are far worse than death. It’s scary. This is why we all need medical powers of attorney and living wills (not that they would have made a difference for your grandmother, necessarily, but just saying…). Beautiful post. Powerful.
Aliki // Jun 18, 2008 at 2:45 pm
I would never wish an old, old age on myself–unless, of course, everyone I loved would stay with me and I had all my faculties. I think it would be tragic to be so old, and alone really, and half of yourself.
crazymumma // Jun 18, 2008 at 3:35 pm
ach. I have honestly never thought about it this way.
McSwain // Jun 18, 2008 at 3:49 pm
My grandmother did the opposite with Alzheimers–she got mean as the years went on. I think perhaps she was scared. I wrote on this a few years ago, before she passed on. I still wonder to this day–what kind of limbo is the soul/spirit in when a person is clearly not in their body? A question I’ll ask God one day, I s’pose.
woman in a window // Jun 18, 2008 at 3:50 pm
I watch them, the elderly, and I feel I share something with them and I’m not sure what. I can’t manage to get my mind to sort it out. I feel for her though, too. Too old. i understand.
Bon // Jun 18, 2008 at 4:02 pm
there is, there is such a thing. too much time is no more a gift, i don’t think, than too little.
my own grandmother died just short of ninety-six and spent the last three years of her life in a nursing home dying of cancer. she had some dementia but not full blown…and in one of the stories i’ve been writing of her recently i quoted Thomas, too. because she had never raged, not really…her life had been quiet and proper. but the extreme wastage and pain of dying freed her, some, from the constraints her “place” in the world had laid upon her personality, allowed her to find her mischief. the very last time i came home to see her, the week before she died, she beckoned me close, eyes twinkling, and confessed, “my ass is sore.” and then we laughed and laughed, like schoolgirls…because never before in ninety-five years had she ever spoken the word “ass” aloud.
anyway. i am sorry for this end, for your grandmother. it is not kind to anyone involved.
magpie // Jun 18, 2008 at 6:25 pm
Oh, yes. How I know that scene.
Well said, S.
Angeline // Jun 18, 2008 at 6:57 pm
Though there’s sadness in the post, but its also a great reminder for me about the older ones…..Thanks you!
Kristen // Jun 18, 2008 at 7:24 pm
For some there is definitely that day. My great grandfather had Alzheimer’s and I am thankful that it took him sooner than later, but his wife, well into her 90’s is still raging into that dark night. She rocks. As does my paternal grandfather, still so active and vibrant, fighting for quality of life. He had hip replacement last year at 94, because he was not willing to give up his walks and his independence.
I hope you have lots of opportunities to enjoy your grandmother’s lucid moments, and glimpses of the woman you know.
Painted Maypole // Jun 18, 2008 at 8:09 pm
i love that poem. in college i worked backstage for a play based on that poem
i would like to rage against the dying of light, but I fear I’ll fizzle out in a home as well
christine // Jun 19, 2008 at 12:35 pm
this could have been written about my grandmother. really. she isn’t 101, but Alzheimer’s is eating her life away. she used to be a strong and hearty and bright and snappy as a new penny.
now she can’t even talk to me on the phone.
Amy // Jun 19, 2008 at 8:20 pm
Oh yes. The human body was not meant to live as long as people are living now. We cures diseases, but cannot stop the aging of the body or the mind.
Megin Hatch // Jun 19, 2008 at 8:27 pm
mmm, I think I told you that my mother asked me to read that poem at my father’s funeral. Later she thought perhaps people might have judged her for it, but it was all she thought of when he died.
For the last 20 years of my grandmothers life she went to bed praying that God would take her. Though she certainly had long periods of lucidity and good humor, by and large she hurt and was done.
Hard to see, hard to imagine, hard to be that old. She died at 102 and a half.
midlife mommy // Jun 20, 2008 at 8:56 pm
My dad goes to church for the cookies too. And he still has most of his faculties.
Mauigirl // Jun 21, 2008 at 10:42 am
I know what you mean…but at least she still enjoys the cookies.
My mother-in-law, age 79, is in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s and it is a sad situation. She, however, isn’t going gentle - she has a lot of fight in her and that just makes things more difficult for everyone. My father-in-law’s heart is broken, my mother-in-law, while not really lucid, occasionally understands she isn’t home and asks sad questions like “Why can’t you take me home with you?” which just kill my father-in-law. It’s heart-wrenching.
Ruth Dynamite // Jun 21, 2008 at 4:57 pm
Yes, as Mauigirl so aptly pointed out, at least she can still enjoy the cookies.
I can only hope for the same.
Emily R // Jun 23, 2008 at 10:04 pm
It is hard to admit this — people want to believe that life is life, but you are right. Sometimes, it is just not there anymore.
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