Monday, January 26, 2015 

What time is it? It’s 11:17. Is that right. Oh my God, Rob, is that right?

Yes, Paula.

Now, it’s 11:18. 11:18 (she repeats). Look, that cat is still on the fan. What time is it? Oh, it’s 11:10. No, is that right, Rob? What time does it say? I can’t read it.

It’s 11:19, Paula.

Oh. 

This goes on pretty much throughout the day while mom is sitting at the kitchen counter eating or slumped over her word search puzzles. It’s mainly the clock, the timer (when I use that function, which throws mom off completely), or the cat in the fan that capture her attention.

This morning, she brushed her teeth, then repaired to the kitchen without using the toilet. I led her back to the bathroom, much to her serious consternation.

I already went, I tell you.

No you didn’t, mom.

Yes, I did, and I cleaned the sink.

You brushed your teeth, but you did not use the toilet.

Yes, I did! 

She sat. She “went.” I changed her badly soiled diaper and made her sit for a few minutes.

I can’t stay in here all day.

You can sit for a few minutes. You have nothing else to do.

I can’t stay here all day!

Sit. Relax. I’ll be back.

She becomes angry every time I leave her in the bathroom. But eventually, mom is able to do what she must, perhaps out of desperation, perhaps figuring that I will lead her from this terrible prison if she does what I ask. 

I try to give her a measure of privacy, and keeping the door closed is of the utmost importance to her. But time, is the biggest issue. Her cries of I can’t sit here all day amuse me somewhat. What else does she have to do?

Later at the kitchen counter—

It’s 11:30 already? It’s 11:30! What time did you get up, Rob?

9 o’clock.

What time?

9!

Oh, and it’s 11:30 or is that 11:31. It’s 11.31.

And so the day progresses and time marches on as steadily as ever. It is perhaps a welcome constant in her life and something she still understands. Something she can still grasp. Time goes forward—except when I use the clock as a timer, which mom finds very disconcerting, but she still reads it as time. It’s 2:10. Oh it’s 2:08. Now, it’s, it’s 2:00. Yes, it’s 1:58. 

When a visitor asks how old she is, mom usually doesn’t know. When I remind her, she replies, Oh my God, 98! Too old! Time is perhaps not such an enemy at her age, just a fascination.