This morning’s post is a severe departure from the Paleo/Life light and fluffy blogging. I promise to return tonight with a lovely recipe for Sun Tea.
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 lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
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 men 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 of 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.
I remember reading Dylan Thomas’ poem in high school and expounding upon its virtues and poignant thematics. I sat in a circle of desks with my AP English class and we waxed eloquent regarding our analysis of the way in which Thomas characterizes the death of his father.
I have been flooded with memories like this lately as a family I have been a part of for the past year has had to lay to rest its patriarch far before his rightful time. You see, I watch their three children in the mornings before school. The kids are 9, 11, and 12. In some ways they seem like mere babes to me, in many other facets they seem like wizened souls.
I actually entered this family almost a year ago today. I remember knocking on their door with butterflies in my stomach, only to be greeted by the most friendly face I have ever known—Bob.
He was an incredible father. He worked long and hard to provide for his family. He was still getting up every morning at 5am to go to work last September. He would do his best to schedule the “treatments” for his Stage IV bladder cancer around the busy and demanding schedule of his work, and most importantly, his family.
As the year progressed, Bob gradually worked less and less. His mornings on the couch grew regular. By October, he had officially “retired” and the couch in the family room served as his post. Chemo and radiation treatments became as regular as his son’s football practices. However, his spirit remained strong. When I would arrive in the dark of morning, the children still sleeping, I would sit by him and simply listen. Sometimes we would sit in a silence so full of the haunting possibilities that lay before him that I would literally do anything to stop the deafening silence. Many times, Bob would talk to me. I was a sounding board, a listening ear to which he could voice the ghostly concerns and worries that were mounting.
He spoke of the things he should have done and the things he regretted. He also spoke of the anxieties that lay before his wife and his children, when and if he passed. Some days I would walk in and his spirit would be full of hope, but mostly I served as a safe vessel in which he could pour out his trepidations without the fear of burdening his loved ones.
Bob was an ex-Marine and from the get-go he did anything but “go gently into that good night.” Days before Christmas he whispered to me, between gasps of air, “I refuse...to ruin... their Christmas.” A promise he kept. His goal was to make it to Easter, and he succeeded in this aspiration, as well. He even sat at the table with us for the meal, before retiring to the his post on the couch.
The funny thing about dying is that life continues in spite of it. The truth of this is never more apparent than in the lives of children. Bob’s presence on the couch, or even in the hospital’s ICU, never stopped the world from turning. A fact I find paradoxically cruel and merciful. The kids would laugh at silly you-tube videos I would show them, and call me with requests for “Tasty Tuesday” breakfast ideas. We made gingerbread houses at Christmas, heart-shaped pancakes on Valentine’s Day, and had Easter egg hunts. Homework, birthday cupcake requests, and the adoration of Justin Bieber all continued as Bob “raged against the dying of the light.”
Much like aging, death by cancer often creeps up slowly, and gradually. I remember in Hemingway’s “Snows of Kilimanjaro,” the protagonist, Harry, tangibly feels death approaching. An anthropomorphized Death sits on his cot, a fact that he notes as systematically as his request for another spot of alcohol from his rather oblivious wife. I always thought this rather strange. However, in May, Death crept into the house. Much like Harry’s wife, I think we all remained oblivious—to be more precise, I believe we all attempted to cling to the oblivion of a truth we feared to recognize. However, Bob saw Death enter his abode, despite our desires to squeeze our eyes shut and wish it away.
He no longer kept watch on the couch in the family room. He moved into his bedroom—the door remaining closed. I noted this change, but struggled not to come to terms with the implication. The youngest girls 9th birthday came and went, I believe all of the adults in the family breathed a collective sigh of relief. However, two weeks and two days after this important milestone. Bob breathed his last breath.
I remember so much of that morning. Unlike all other mornings, Bob had slept on the couch. I sat in the chair next to him in a powerful silence. I knew he wanted to talk, but I could tell by the labored nature of his breathing, it was all he could do to continue in the strenuous process of respiration. I remember wanting desperately to hold his hand. I wanted him to know I was there. That I was with him. However, I also wanted to honor his dignity. Bob was a Marine through and through and despised any sign of personal weakness. I remember feeling a guilt-inducing amount of relief when the kids woke up and beckoned me to help them prepare for the day. I made breakfast and got them ready for school.
Bob’s parents came over, something that had become routine. Minutes before leaving to walk up to the bus stop, Nonna (Bob’s mother) was attempting to help Bob get comfortable. He kept trying to sit up, but did not possess the strength to pull his body up. I rushed into the room to assist her as she cannot be more than 4’11 and 100lbs dripping wet. I remember being surprised at the warmth of Bob’s skin. I also remember the startling hollowness of his eyes which could “see with blinding sight” that death was so close.
Late that night, my husband woke me suddenly. The oldest daughter was on the phone: “He..... died! He died.... on the couch! Sally Anne, he died..... screaming.”
And with that bottom dropped out of the world.
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.
Bob raged against death for three long years. He refused to go gentle, a fact that his children witnessed in the most ruthless manner. He fought to be in their lives for as long as humanly possible. He struggled with every labored breath for them to know, with full assurance, that he would never go gentle into that good night. He did not abandon them, he was taken.
On Tuesday, I begin a new year with these three precious kids. I have spent the entire summer attempting to come to grips with this loss—their loss—and to be honest, I do not think I have come very far. I know as they face the firing squad of questions from friends, they will turn to me for answers. And to that, I turn to you, dear readers. What do you say to three kids who have lost their father? What advice do you give them? How do you help them grieve this loss?
