Rage ONLY Against the Dying of the Light
“Do not go gentle into that good night” — Dylan Thomas, poet
Publisher Note: Glorisa Lesher is nothing like an ordinary writer. She promotes self-empowerment on the road of life and death by exploring the ancient secrets of myth and Stoicism. In a Caregivers Support Group, she pays close attention to personal stories. Gloria has lost a number of family members to death: her former husband, her mother and dad, and three doggies. She was a caregiver for all of them.
I tell you all this because those things inform her writing—you can feel her empathy and compassion, linked with wisdom born of experience. This is the writing lesson for today. Pay close attention to the story she’s telling, yes. And also pay close attention to how she writes. Think of all the “rules” you’ve been told: Write what you know, develop a niche, write in an authentic tone, add color and feeling…. You see all this in Gloria’s writing. And this is the final coup—she has chosen a difficult topic addressing it in an accessible way while leaving a salient takeaway for readers. Note how she uses sources to underline her points. Observe how she blends personal anecdotes with real life lessons. Read for content here, but also read to learn the things about your craft that have to be intuitive, AI can’t do them.
Here at the mythical DEATH ROADHOUSE, we often see angry visitors. That’s because both dying and caregiving tend to stir up mental health challenges, rage among them.
I’ll never forget the appalling instant my own dying mother turned to me with a look of pure rage on her face and spewed me with hot, shocking verbal abuse for a full minute, after my suggestion she wait an hour before drinking her two nightly glasses of wine.
Mom had just swallowed a “Happy Pill,” provided by Hospice. I knew drinking alcohol in combination with an antidepressant can cause dizziness and drowsiness. Two days before, she’d already suffered one bad fall, slicing the paper-thin skin on her knee and bruising her forehead. It took the strength of two men — my husband and my brother — to pick Mom up off the floor and get her back into bed, despite her being such a tiny, birdlike woman.
She’d utterly collapsed and lost control of her body. Blood from Mom’s knee ran down her leg and spilled all over the carpet. My sister spent half an hour bandaging Mom’s wound.
“No more getting out of bed without help,” we warned Mom, and she agreed.
Now two nights later, Mom was once again demanding her wine, much too soon after taking a Happy Pill.
When Mom turned her rage upon me that evening, I knee-jerk scolded her, exclaiming “I don’t deserve this!” Looking back, I wish I’d been stronger, stayed Stoic and silent. Inside, I felt unbearably saddened and hurt. Never before in my life had my beloved mother looked at me with such hatred or gushed such cruel, unfair accusations at me.
It was as if she’d turned into a stranger. Who was this furious woman? Not my mother.
A gentle soul at heart, Mom tearfully apologized to me the next morning. I accepted her apology, telling her I’d already “erased the whole thing” from memory (obviously a little white lie, since here I am, writing about it).
Patients get angry at their caregivers, and caregivers at their wits’ end can easily lose their temper with patients. These ugly outbursts destroy the natural peace everyone desires. How can we guard ourselves against the horrible destruction of rage?
Instead of raging at each other, let’s rage against death itself.
How can we subdue the “monster” within?
Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, a pioneer in near-death studies and author of the bestseller, “On Death and Dying,” named anger as one of the five stages of dying. The other stages are denial, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It’s generally recognized today that these stages occur in no particular order.
The dying person is losing everybody and everything important to them. They may direct their frustration and fear toward family members, doctors, themselves, or even God. They may feel like everyone is treating them like a child. And why shouldn’t they feel that way? It’s humiliating to undergo the loss of your independence.
If you’re a caregiver, looking at the situation from the dying person’s perspective helps you to avoid taking it personally when they erupt and chew you out over some trivial thing.
If you’re the dying person, at some point you must accept the inevitable reality of your demise. Your life is ending. There’s no escape. All you can do is focus on enjoying the present and squeeze what pleasure you can from every day’s commonplace, most insignificant gifts, while life lasts.
Any reasonable person can see anger is a huge waste of time and energy. Stoic philosopher Seneca wrote centuries ago that anger is:
“… the most outrageous, brutal, dangerous, and intractable of all passions; the most loathsome and unmannerly; nay, the most ridiculous too; and the subduing of this monster will do a great deal toward the establishment of human peace.”
— Seneca, CHAPTER I, Works of Seneca.
Few would argue with Seneca. The question is, how do we subdue the “monster” of rage? Is it even possible?
Of course it is. The Stoics teach that we cannot control the behavior of others, only our own. So it’s up to each individual — whether the caregiver or the dying person — to control their own monstrous emotions.
Willpower isn’t the entire answer. Stoicism lies behind Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), which the American Psychological Association says places an emphasis on helping individuals learn to be their own therapists. Like an ancient Stoic, you:
Focus on the present, not the past
Change your thinking patterns
Develop more effective ways of coping with life
Grow more emotionally resilient
Seneca calls anger a “short madness,” often ending in sorrow and repentance, unless it morphs into revenge. No doubt anger can help us defend ourselves. It can bestow a kind of righteous courage, but so can wine or fear, as Seneca wryly reminds us. But in the end, anger itself is far more damaging to the person who succumbs to the urge to express it than to the individual or injury that supposedly caused it.
I’ve heard anger described as a poison we swallow, thinking it will punish our enemy. When you see this clearly, as a rational human being, you stop swallowing poison.
The Stoics disapprovingly (yet also compassionately) looked upon rage as a self-indulgent act of the weak. Children should be allowed to express anger, Seneca wrote; adults should refrain.
The Stoics knew that each of us indeed has the inner power to control our anger — or any extreme emotion. Being in command of oneself is a sure sign of emotional and spiritual maturity. Self-command comes from strength, not weakness.
It’s never too late to develop command over yourself.
Spiritual maturity toward the end of life
In the following 30-second video, death doula and former hospice nurse Suzanne O’Brien talks about seeing her patients undergo unusual spiritual growth at life’s end:
Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised that this spiritual growth occurs. The dying person is leaving the physical world behind and emerging into the transcendent one!
I observed this transition happen with my mom. She grew more peaceful and less agitated as death approached, shifting gently into the stage of acceptance. You can only rage against the dying of the light for so long.
At one point, a look of absolute wonder and ecstasy transformed Mom’s face as she gazed up toward the ceiling. That look awed me speechless. What did my mother see?
I’ll never know, until it’s my turn.
You say it’s time for you to hit the road? Okay, I’ve enjoyed talking with you. Drop by DEATH ROADHOUSE anytime.
Discover more from retired ghostwriter Gloria Lesher, who focuses on myth & Stoicism for self-empowerment.
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Right!
This reminds me of when my dad was nearing the end of his life. He was so angry. It's hard to deal with it at the time because you're also going through your own set of emotions.