Mom's last sibling

I guess I haven't mentioned the problems of my mother's remaining sister.

She is 81 years old, the youngest and only living of 9 children.

She and my uncle came to my mom's funeral, her daughter driving them (about a 6 hour drive).

About 2 months ago we heard she had congestive heart failure, and was sent to a
rehab place. After collapsing, they thought she had an electrolyte imbalance, off to another hospital. Then they thought there was an infection to the leads of her
pacemaker, off to a bigger hospital, where they discovered a blood clot in
her heart. They did surgery, she survived, and several days ago I spoke with
her on the phone. She sounded pretty good.

She is now in a sort of rehab hospital. Yesterday her daughter advised she
is not doing as well, she isn't really eating, and is having some confusion.

Of course when you are 81 and have been through all that, it is very difficult
to recover. But after speaking with her I really thought she would improve.
Now I don't know.

It's really upsetting because she had been so healthy. Seeing her I thought
"well, maybe I have a chance to make it to 85 in good health" (although none
of my mother's other siblings did...). But now I guess not. Everyone on that
side of the family has heart issues, and weird chemical problems which
affect the heart.

It makes me very sad. And sad that I did not go visit her after mom died.
Now I fear my Aunt is dying, and I have missed that chance. Stupid, stupid.

My brother M visited this aunt. As soon as he got a car, he was on the road.
I remember I insisted he write out a will before he went, because he was such a bad driver.

Well, that's life. And death. But I still don't want to accept it, or get
use to it.

Fight, fight, fight.

Which reminds me of the Dylan Thomas poem

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.