Where Does All The Rage Go?

Or: "Do not go gentle into that good night." -Dylan Thomas

Photo by Max Kukurudziak on Unsplash

During a height of COVID-19 in spring 2021, Mom was diagnosed with sarcoma, a rare, fast-moving cancer. One year later again in spring 2022, after numerous weeks of proton radiation, immunotherapy, and recovery, there was the option of chemotherapy or palliative care. Mom chose palliative care. 

There were treatments, but Mom, there was no cure. In medicine, it's a distinct difference. 

At that point in my life, I've never felt such rage before or since. The sheer rage was an electric current surging through my body, the blood pumping with the beat of my heart. Electrifying. In those moments of feeling such wild fury at the medical system, at the cancer invading Mom's body, at the fact that despite my best efforts, there was nothing I could do to stop Mom from dying. 

Nothing. 

I think I took my helplessness out in buying Mom a ton of flowers for her birthday Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day, etc. Photo by Taisiia Shestopal on Unsplash

The only thing to do was help Mom as caregiver and make living and dying as comfortable as possible. 

Why am I sharing this right now? Why do I continue to divulge such personal information? Why am I sharing the intersection of pain and rage that wove through my body? For so long, I've never felt so alone in my life. 

I’ve never felt so afraid.

Both with what was happening to Mom and to the changes and the depths of the emotions happening within myself. 

I imagined myself screaming at the top of my voice until there was no voice left, going out for long runs beneath the scorching Florida sun on hot white sidewalks, immersing myself deep in the realms of fiction and not surfacing for a long time.* I did practice tennis against a tennis wall and accidentally hit a tennis ball on the roof of my mom’s community clubhouse, where I assume it’s still resting to this day. 

I've also experienced moments I call "quiet rage" where nothing externally is different. I was too tired to move, to feel, to experience. Internally, however, I was seething beneath the surface. Like the flow of river water beneath a frozen surface. I had the emotions, but was too tired to act upon them. 

Mom said that toward the end, the cancer took the fight out of her. Mom, the person who would pack a lunch and sit in the principal's office in middle or high school whenever she had to argue something in our defense. Mom, who after the ceiling caved in after a particularly nasty storm fought to the end of her life against corrupt roofers her neighbors had hired to get a new roof which resulted in them ripping out Mom's roof and not replacing them—thus the water damage. Mom, who fought for her children and was our fiercest advocate. But this, the cancer, was the thing that took the fight out of her. 

How could this have happened? 

Sometimes, when I see pictures on social media of people posing with family and friends on vacation, I feel the rage coursing within. I wonder: are they plagued with the feelings of loss and grief, of futility and pain? 

If they aren't, how lucky they are. 

It’s an irrational rage, an unexplainable rage. It's not their fault. They’re on vacation! They didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just like they didn’t do anything wrong and Mom didn’t do anything wrong and yet she still died from cancer.  

It’s not something I’ll ever say in polite conversation, of course. It’s not like I‘ll ever say, “Did you have a nice trip? Yes? Great, glad to hear it. Also, do you know how privileged you are for having had this trip? For having healthy parents?" You don't have to go through Mom's cremation and going through sentimental items and grasping the idea that Mom isn’t going to see you for your wedding, your book being published, and your life finally materialized.

There’s a special kind of feeling out there for the fact that Mom will never be able to read my first book or any of my books or drafts. Photo by Sabina Sturzu on Unsplash

Of course I’m thankful for the time we had growing up, but I can’t just dismiss these feelings of wishing I had more time with her. 

Since Mom died, I've realized that my rage has transformed. Yes, it's still at its core rage, but it's now...different. 

Rage transforms...

...into joy. I’ve experienced moments of exhilaration hiking up hills in Scotland, opening presents celebrating a Friendsmas, and graduating from my MLitt in Fantasy Literature program. I've often wondered to myself: How could I have experienced such joy after having gone through such despair? The answer is simple: we are human. Humans are complicated beings. Emotions are not meant to be experienced as an either/or experience. Emotions change and can occur at the same time and are still being understood. 

…into hope. I want to give back to other millennial caregivers. I have hope that things will change for the better. There will be an increase in understanding, compassion, financial aid, and resources for caregivers. 

…into despair. Watching Mom die and the moments after her death were some of the most tragic of my life. I feel the sinking feeling, the tears. The more I sink into the depths emotionally, the more my tears rise to the corner of my eyes. She is gone, and now I am living a life without her in it. 

…into more rage. I think about the delay in having her initial diagnosis. What if she was diagnosed sooner? Could all of this have be prevented? Would she still be alive? We'll never know. 

…into exhaustion. Sleep is an excellent medicine for days when the body and mind are tired and need to rest. 

…into kindness. I have more understanding in relating to other people and in relating to myself. By talking more about caregiving, cancer, and death and dying, I've found such compassion toward others and their experiences. Everyone is going through something, but not everyone is open or willing to talk about it. 

…into empathy. We are all going to die. Many of us have already experienced a loved one's passing. I truly feel what other caregivers are going through and can relate to anxiety, depression, exhaustion, etc. It's a LOT. 

...into rage. A different rage. A quiet rage. An actionable rage. Rage transforms, yet it remains. My rage still exists deep within in a place nestled next to my heart. It keeps me going when I feel like I can’t go on. 

When writing this I thought about Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, a book to help blocked artists become unblocked. For a number of years this book was with me everywhere I traveled and I was dedicated in writing morning pages and following along in the chapters. (I love this book and highly recommend any and every artist read these pages.) The chapter on anger particularly piqued my interest: 

"Anger is fuel. We feel it and we want to do something. Hit someone, break something, throw a fit, smash a fist into the wall, tell those bastards. But we are nice people, and what we do with our anger is stuff it, deny it, bury it, block it, hide it, lie about it, medicate it, muffle it, ignore it. We do everything but listen to it. 

“Anger is meant to be listened to. Anger is a voice, a shout, a plea, a demand. Anger is meant to be respected. Why? Because anger is a map. Anger shows us what our boundaries are. Anger shows us where we want to go. It lets us see where we've been and lets us know when we haven't liked it. Anger points the way, not just the finger. In the recovery of a blocked artist, anger is a sign of health. 

“Anger is meant to be acted upon. It is not meant to be acted out. Anger points the direction. WE are meant to use anger as fuel to take the actions we need to move where our anger points us. With a little thought, we can usually translate the message that our anger is sending us." 

Of course, the anger expressed in The Artist's Way is in relation to being a blocked artist. However, it is still applicable to the anger and rage experienced as a caregiver. For me, my anger is fuel for the current system has to change (at least in the U.S.). The first thing that helped is having a doctor family member and friend to help translate medical-speak into regular speak. The second thing that helped is having a friend-based peer-led support group to talk about our experiences with caregiving and allowing each other space to talk and listen. 

My anger also signaled that it was the end of my previous life. Cameron continues: 

"Anger is the firestorm that signals the death of our old life. Anger is the fuel that propels us into our new one. Anger is a tool, not a master. Anger is meant to be tapped into and drawn upon. Used properly, anger is use-full."

The anger and rage and despair and hope and love and everything in between have all been fuel which propelled me forward in my life. This will not be in vain. 

It is in this fury that I try to type out these thoughts and ideas and fears and realities onto the page, in the hope that others who have felt similarly do not fall back into isolation but feel confident enough to talk about these very real, very normal feelings in the face of such terror and horror as caregiving and cancer and death and dying. 

If you are feeling anger and rage, please know that you're not alone. 

There are people out there who can help and who will listen. 

With love, 

Madeline 

Photo by 2 Bro’s Media on Unsplash

Madeline Wahl is a recent graduate with an MLitt in Fantasy Literature from the University of Glasgow in Scotland. She is a writer, solo traveler, and millennial caregiver to her mom, who recently passed from terminal cancer. Her writing has appeared on Reader's Digest, HuffPost, Red Magazine, and McSweeney's, among others. She is working on her first novel in YA Fantasy and her first nonfiction book proposal on millennial caregiving.