It is the rage of the old that I want to think about now. And not just the kind Dylan Thomas was talking
about. That was rage at dying, at being dragged away from the party before you were ready to leave.
There can be something heroic about that kind of resistance, and it is why some people, almost without
being aware of it, fight hard against their own death. I have sat by the beds of many who were dying and
marvelled at how long it was taking them to leave. Their relatives would be worn out sitting beside them
day after day as they battled the inevitable. But the nurse in attendance always knew what was going on.
He’s a fighter, she would say. He won’t let go till the last minute. It won’t be long now. Then the moment
of surrender would come: a last sigh and it was over
about. That was rage at dying, at being dragged away from the party before you were ready to leave.
There can be something heroic about that kind of resistance, and it is why some people, almost without
being aware of it, fight hard against their own death. I have sat by the beds of many who were dying and
marvelled at how long it was taking them to leave. Their relatives would be worn out sitting beside them
day after day as they battled the inevitable. But the nurse in attendance always knew what was going on.
He’s a fighter, she would say. He won’t let go till the last minute. It won’t be long now. Then the moment
of surrender would come: a last sigh and it was over
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