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.

Can you remember when you first heard these beginning lines from this famous poem by Dylan Thomas? Perhaps in high school? Or perhaps in college? It was published in the early 1950s and has remained one of his best-known poems for decades.

It had such ferocity, such passion. It swept many of us up in its simple words. No, of course, we will rage against the dying of the light. We wouldn’t imagine doing otherwise.

I don’t know about you, but I was young and romantic when I first heard this poem. It sounded so brave and so right.

If you hear Dylan Thomas reciting it, with his very musical Welsh voice, it is even more so.

But, in the light of our years of experience, is it so right after all?

Thinking about dying

Something made me think about this poem recently, and for the first time, I began to wonder whether I agreed with it anymore.

Those of you in your 60s may not think about dying all that much. It feels a long way away – unless you have some life-threatening disease or are closely involved with someone who does.

It’s the kind of thought we easily put away for another time, further down the line. Nothing to worry about now.

But as we grow older, into our 70s and beyond, we begin to think about a lot of things, including dying.

We are aware of friends dying, not to mention many others around us. We notice that the obituary pages are full of people younger than us.

It makes us begin to ponder how we will cope with this last challenge.

Attitudes to dying

I have spent some time over my life thinking about dying for two reasons.

First, 30 years ago, I wrote a book based on interviews with young people with HIV/AIDS, back when the diagnosis was essentially a death sentence.

The men and women interviewed were incredibly inspiring. They were not generally raging at their situation, as Dylan Thomas urges them to, but were doing their best to live as well as they could for the limited time they had left.

And they were remarkably concerned for others. Many were involved in support groups for other people with the disease. Not surprisingly, those with children were particularly concerned to ensure that they would be well looked after.

I found them all very moving and, indeed, wise. I called the book Wise Before their Time.

Caring for the dying

Secondly, roughly 15 years ago, I wrote another book based on interviews with nurses, doctors and many others looking after the dying in two hospices.

They, too, were inspiring but for another reason. They were very thoughtful of the needs of the dying people in their care – and did their very best to respond to them.

For instance, they helped hospice patients to write important letters to family members or encouraged them to make their peace with key people in their lives.

They also went the extra mile to respond to patient requests. One man, for instance, said he wanted to die under a tree and when the time came, he was taken outside to a tree.

The atmosphere in the hospices I have visited is always very tranquil. Peaceful – certainly not full of rage.

Dylan Thomas revisited

Which brings me back to whether I would really want to rage against the dying of the light.

The simple answer is no.

Yes, I want to live life to the fullest for as long as I can, but when the time comes, I hope I will meet my end in a spirit of tranquillity.

I hope I will have said all the important things that need to be said and feel at peace with myself.

This will make my dying so much easier for family and friends, not to mention my husband if he is still here.

But it will also make it easier for me.

This article was first published by SixtyandMe.com (see https://sixtyandme.com/how-we-die/)

Have you ever stopped to think about how very odd it is to have children? It is, when you come to think about it, one of the most peculiar things we ever do.

The decision to have children is an enormous leap in the dark, with very little control over the outcome. Yet, whatever happens – whether you have a girl or a boy, whether you have twins or more, whether there is some horrendous catastrophe – it affects the rest of your life.

What we wanted or expected

And, over time, it is never quite what you really expected.

Some of us strongly wanted a girl but got a boy. Or vice versa. Some of us wanted a quiet child and some the reverse. Some of us hoped for a house full of children, while some wanted only one.

Yet we got what we got. And many of us end up deciding that we were very glad that we didn’t get what we thought we wanted. Life can surprise us like that.

Perhaps you foresaw all the ways in which your life would change, but few of us do. It is too hard to think that far ahead.

And the hardest part is to really realise how long the impact would last.

I have written a book about , and one of the reasons that I do is the pleasure of having adult children. I liked them when they were young, too, but I like seeing them really grown up.

Babies become children become teenagers become adults

We tend to start with wanting a baby. (I will skip over those who never wanted to get pregnant in the first place.)

People with a number of children already may actually think about wanting an eight-year-old (or another age), but most of us get no further in our thinking than that baby.

It may be a sleeping new-born baby wrapped in a blanket, or it may be a crawling and laughing baby trying out his or her new capacities, but it is definitely a baby in our thoughts.

You don’t hear many people say, “I really want an argumentative teenager in my house” or even a sweet cooperative teenager for that matter.

Moreover, I never heard anyone say they wanted a son or daughter of 36 or 45 or 52, who may or may not be in touch. Human beings are not built to think that far ahead.

Yet that is what we end up with for years and years and years.

Of course, children don’t stay the same age any more than we do, but they stay adults and yet remain our children. It’s all very strange.

We look at our children now and the image can morph into the same person at age two or 10 or 20 in the blink of an eye.

And yet this small child, whose bottom we wiped and who we nurtured through so many ups and downs, now has a beard or grey hair and glasses. Not to mention all the abilities and interests we never could have imagined.

Relationships

Ongoing relationships vary hugely. Some parents talk to their adult children every day, no matter how distant or how little news to impart. Some lose touch completely, often with considerable pain on or both sides.

But I suspect the vast majority of families remain in contact in some way, at a minimum keeping abreast of major developments and recognising occasions such as birthdays.

And I suspect that whatever the arguments that may arise from time to time, these relationships remain important.

There are so many variables that affect our relationships with our adult children. Their interests, their temperament and character are certainly important.

I don’t know how many children ‘fall close to the tree’, as they say, and continue in the family profession. Carpenter begets carpenter and doctor begets doctor.

It probably makes family meetings easier unless carpenter-the-younger takes up some new fad, with which carpenter-the elder has no sympathy. It happens.

Then, there is the choice of marriage partner, which can bring us together or drive us apart. The complexities of coping with in-laws need no introduction.

Grandchildren

And finally – and perhaps most importantly – there is the arrival of grandchildren. I would guess that this event generally serves to cement relationships with our adult children.

At a minimum, it means we see them more often, since if we want to see the children, the adults come, too.

Of course, arguments may ensue if we don’t approve of how the grandchildren are being brought up. Perhaps the adult children give their children too many things and not enough time. Perhaps they seem too strict and/or not strict enough.

Whether said grandchildren are cuddly young babies or strapping teenagers, there are plenty of ways in which we may want to help our children to cope. The tricky path is to decide how much to say.

I like having adult children, the more adult the better. It is a pleasure to see how they have grown and developed. Their interests may not be my interests, but that just adds another dimension to my life.

They keep me in touch with the generations below and keep me on my toes. Very occasionally, they may even seek for my advice.

I find them a constant surprise.

A version of this article can be found in my book The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head).  

Another version was recently published on SixtyandMe.com (see https://sixtyandme.com/experiencing-adult-children/).

I heard an expression the other day that stopped me in my tracks. It had the ring of a famous saying, although that turned out not to be the case. But more importantly, it had some real profundity. It said, simply, “Life ends in the middle of a sentence.”

Getting your life in order

Life ending in the middle of a sentence basically means that the end of life is not tidy. And, I suspect, that is absolutely right.

The issue is essentially about getting – or not getting – your life “in order.” How many times have people spoken to you about this? It is one of those phrases that people start to use once they are over a certain age.

And those of us who have reached that certain age also begin to think about it. When the end comes, as it must someday, we want to be ready.

This sense of readiness can be about your mental state­ – making peace with yourself and others – or it can be about your things and your activities. It is the latter I want to address here.

Some people may have already met this readiness goal. They will have carefully downsized both where they live and what they own.

In the process, they will have sorted all those old papers, with many thrown away and the important ones carefully organised. Their books will have been sorted and cut down to a minimum.

More significantly, they will have handed down all the precious memory-filled items that they wanted to ensure landed in the hands of a particular daughter or son. Or, perhaps, grandchild or, indeed, friend. They will have read through their last will and made sure it is in a safe place.

In sum, all that stuff that seems to accumulate over the years will have been substantially reduced. Everything will be in its place.

The process of ‘cleaning up’ after their demise will be easy. They will have left no mess behind. Congratulations are due.

Real life

But is it really that easy? Can most of us be quite so fully organised? We may have tidy plans and a wish to do the right thing, but I question whether we can ever have such orderly lives. And, most importantly, would we wish to do so?

The image of everything being in its rightful place suggests that we have had our lunch, tidied up, put the plates away and are sitting quietly in an armchair waiting for the Grim Reaper to knock on the door.

In truth, life is not like that. We all have projects of one kind or another. For me, it is writing; for others it may be painting or knitting a special outfit for a grandchild or planning the next holiday.

Human beings don’t often put their feet up and wait. They get restless, they mooch around, and they get themselves stuck into something that interests them.

Even if they don’t have exact plans, they may well have dreams. This came home to me very vividly when I was looking after a man who was dying of AIDS roughly 30 years ago. We were writing a book together about living with AIDS and had become good friends.

He had done comparatively well, living longer than anyone expected, but his body was beginning to let him down. As someone active in the AIDS community, he was well aware of his situation. I helped him out where I could.

Among the errands, he asked of me was to post a letter, together with a coupon, to a company offering a free trip to the Caribbean to a lucky winner in several months’ time. I remember walking to the nearest post box wondering why I was doing this obviously pointless task.

But I knew that such dreams were part of what was keeping him alive. In fact, he died two weeks later.

My own experience

Although I would dearly love to know that my life was “in order,” I have not yet tackled this process. I keep thinking about downsizing, but like St. Augustine and chastity, I say, “Oh Lord, not yet.”

I have thrown away a lot of papers, given away many books, and made some lists that will make life easier for my children when they come to cope with my death.

But I have not yet moved from a large house, suitable for when my children were home, and still own a lot of things that should properly be moved elsewhere.

More importantly, I have numerous projects still to go. I am nearly finished with one book and am planning another. There are books I want to read.

My family photographs are in a mess and need to be sorted if those who remain behind want to know who was who. A long list of things To Be Done sits on my desk.

And there are aims for the future that will never get finished. I want to see my grandsons grow up and find out what they choose to do with their lives. If I live long enough, I will feel the same about any potential great-grandchildren. So, there is no end ever in sight.

We don’t stop until we are stopped. At that point, we will be in the middle of loads of things. There will always be a long To Do list. In short, we will be in the middle of a sentence.

And this is how it should be.

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was first published on SixtyandMe.com (See https://sixtyandme.com/getting-your-life-in-order-before-it-ends-too-soon-can-it-ever-be-accomplished/)

By the time you are in your mid-70s and there has been no major health crisis, you know you have been lucky. If you have a spouse (or partner) and ‘you’ means both of you, you know you have been doubly lucky.

Now aged 79 and my husband aged 80, I have been saying to friends for a few years that we can reasonably expect a metaphorical block of concrete to fall on our heads at any time. No certainty of when or where, but it is definitely getting more possible.

Cancer? Heart attack? A nasty fall? Or, worse, some form of dementia?

Our own form of bad luck

And then that block did fall.

A few weeks ago, on Easter Friday evening, we were chatting about nothing in particular when my husband said that his eyes were blurry. It had just happened, there were no other symptoms, but it didn’t feel right.

Phone calls to a medical helpline and to an optometrist friend both elicited the suggestion he should get to an eye doctor. Both suggested a particular eye hospital, but neither hinted of any emergency.

The following day, Easter Saturday, not much was open. Even in the great metropolis that is London. Not our own GP surgery. Not the recommended eye hospital. The local optician had no appointments, but there was no eye doctor there in any case.

In brief, we went early to the best-known eye hospital in London, where a perceptive doctor feared it might be a stroke. To my eternal gratitude, with persistence, he obtained a referral to an excellent stroke unit in a convenient hospital.

We learned then that my husband had had a haemorrhagic stroke, resulting in an eye condition called a homonymous hemianopia (hemianopsia in the US). Difficult to spell h’s seemed to be part of the condition.

He stayed in the hospital for two nights (it should have been more, but he managed to talk himself home on the grounds that he would recover quicker with good sleep and good food – and perhaps they needed the bed).

Aftercare

The aftercare from the National Health Service (NHS) was brilliant. The day after my husband arrived home, an occupational therapist visited him at home to assess his needs and provide advice.

The stroke doctor phoned twice within the first two weeks, a senior stroke nurse phoned once to provide a helpline number and the senior doctor from the eye hospital also phoned to say they would be in touch when his eyes had settled down.

As for the patient, he was left very tired and with no disability except to his eyes. Indeed, after a few days, it was clear that he could read a newspaper slowly, go for walks and do most things. He could watch television, but with occasional difficulty (for instance, at times he couldn’t see the football in a televised match, depending on the camera angle).

But he is an avid reader, and it is likely he will be unable to read books because the slow reading means he cannot absorb the rhythm and meaning of such prose. Yes, there are audio books, but they are not the same at all.

Reaction to misfortune

But all of the above is a preamble to what I most wanted to write about, namely our reaction to the situation, particularly my own. You never know until it happens.

OK, a block of concrete had fallen. Yes, this was likely to change the texture of my husband’s life and therefore my own. It could, indeed, shorten his life span. We were told his eyesight might improve, but it was not likely to.

Many people become frustrated and angry in this kind of situation and I was, indeed, warned that he might undergo a personality change. That was the most terrifying suggestion of the whole experience.

But he is a calm and patient man and has never expressed any frustration at all. “It is what it is,” he says, “I will learn to deal with it.” He has a wicked sense of humour and it has not disappeared, thank goodness.

I went into a period of suspended emotion – not cross, not relieved, just holding in there. Part of me certainly wanted to fall apart. To rant that this had happened and was in some way unfair. Only I knew it wasn’t ‘unfair’ because fairness has nothing to do with these events.

And my strongest reaction was that he – and therefore I – had been lucky. He could have been permanently disabled. He could have lost his speech. He could have died. But all he had was a loss of some sight.

He had got off lightly, dodged the bullet, take your metaphor of choice.

At some point, roughly two weeks after the event, I did break down and have a short but powerful weep following an exploration of whether this shortened his expected life span. A terrifying chasm opened up just briefly – enough to peer over the edge – and then closed again.

I think the psyche knows exactly how much pain you can take ­­– and when – and doles it out appropriately. I went back to a sense of calm.

The man down the road

I think it is quite a common reaction to disasters of whatever kind to decide that you have essentially been lucky, that there is someone worse off than you.

Years ago, my husband’s late aunt, then widowed and in her late 70s, was flooded out of her much-loved bungalow by a major flood in North Wales.

Because of sanitation issues, she was required to live in a caravan next to her house for months while the authorities slowly cleaned up the numerous houses similarly affected. It was cramped, there were limited cooking and washing facilities and was clearly not the way she wanted to live.

Did she complain?

No, she told us she felt sorry for the man down the road, who was in the same situation but with a heart condition. “It must be really hard for him,” she noted.

I thought then – and I still think now – that there is always ‘a man down the road’. Someone worse off. Makes us appreciate what we have.

The future

We will continue to wait to see if there is improvement. We will wait to see what resources are available for the condition.

And, in the meantime, that block of concrete can still come – cancer, heart attack, a nasty fall, or, worse, some form of dementia.

You just never know.

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was first published on SixtyandMe.com