770 Days, 11 Hours, 11 Minutes, 40 Seconds

A headline this morning about Obama's visit to New Hampshire. The primary's over a year away but he's begun officially exploring. As has Hillary. Hillary – do they always have to acknowledge a woman by her first name only? Posters all over the lawns upstate – Hillary. She recalls a bumper sticker from ten years ago: Impeach Clinton. And her husband. But now she's driving around the country also, just exploring, possibly even in a Ford Explorer. That bumper sticker would have deteriorated years ago, that car probably in the junk heap. Her 1990 station wagon totalled in 1999, while Clinton was still in office. She didn't exactly total her car, it saw a guard rail it liked and wandered over. And even then the engine kept purring. Hillary. Bill. Barak. Osama. Guard Rail. The world seemed safer then.

770 Days, 11 Hours, 23 Minutes, 57.1 Seconds

Almost to the end of the double sevens. Almost to the end of the bowl of nuts set out for company. Clearing the coffee table for the first time in a year. Or almost clearing it. Cheese, sopprassetta. Green cocktail napkins, since it's almost Christmas. Flat bread. Word Perfect keeps flagging sopprassetta as a misspelled word, but she can still taste it. At three a.m., her blood already soaring, she couldn't resist a few salted almonds and brazil nuts. Then a few more. Then to bed with the usual nut headache. She wakes up with another headache. Dumb luck.

773 Days, 6 Hours, 48 Minutes, 29.3 Seconds

If she ends up tossing and turning half the night, will the time go faster? It doesn't seem to. But maybe her glucose level's going down with all the exercise. Wednesday night she came home from teaching barely able to move, then ended up working (working, not writing, there's a difference) until after two. The sheep won't stand still long enough to be counted and she can't run after them, not the way her legs are feeling these days. Or nights, rather. She lies there instead going over everything she's done that day. Again. Again. Again. If she feels good about herself she's certain she'll get to sleep. How long until she feels good?

776 Days, 11 Hours, 36 Minutes, 13 Seconds

The Alzheimers writing group has name tags on today. Hand-printed cards hanging from beaded chains around their necks. And some of the men wear the most colorful beads. Like Mardi Gras, she supposes. They put the tag on Murray as soon as he's wheeled in, and even so she calls him Milton. A mistake she's made before. Her father, last year, driving home from cognitive testing in Philadelphia, pointed out that she's as confused as she is. Because of one wrong turn. Because it was raining. She crouches down to help one of the students write, gripping that pencil so hard her fingers ache. Pencil. Hand. Fingers. It's December 5, 2006. This is New York City. George Bush is president.

777 Days, 2 Hours, 46 Minutes, 44 Seconds

In 111 days it will be 666. Meanwhile, Hugo Chavez jumps the gun. Addressing the UN last September, he shot from the hip, spoke straight from the heart, off the top of his head, calling Bush the Devil. Thinks he's the boss of the world and threatens the world. Three months have passed now. Chavez easily wins reelection, waving his arms as they film him crossing the finish line. The sulfur smell overpowers.

777 Days, 22 Hours, 20 Minutes, 43.8 Seconds

Lucky sevens. At the casino he sought out the progressive slots, but you needed more than three sevens. He always bet the max. That night he lost all he'd brought with him. She, on the other hand, gravitated toward a one-armed bandit that had clown faces spinning on it. She won. And she wouldn't share her winnings. It was his birthday.

777 Days, 22 Hours, 26 Minutes, 19 Seconds

They decided, now that she was past her teenage angst (read: self-hate; read: crazy), she should have a full-length mirror in her apartment. So they drove one all the way up from Atlantic City, despite her still-juvenile protests, and knocked it against a car as they carried it up to her door. They covered the crack with tape to stop its spreading. Another seven years.

777 Days, 23 Hours, 30 Minutes, 37 Seconds

Lucky sevens? As a child, seven and three were her favorite numbers. She remembers standing with her parents before the wheels at The Million Dollar Pier, hoping to win a stuffed bear or poodle taller than the doll they'd gotten her to dance with. She always wanted them to put the dime or quarter on number seven. And one time seven hit just as they said they had wasted enough money and were walking away. A few summers later found her babysitting her cousins, stopping for ice cream at the stand just across from the Million Dollar Pier. Getting cones, and then the boy's cone dropping. He was seven years old that summer. Visiting from Florida. She'd visit them there that next Christmas. Her parents, who didn't believe in luck, were willing to pay for that.

778 Days, 8 Hours, 47 Minutes, 47 Seconds

He says it's the best day of the year: 364 days until her birthday. And there's no such thing as a dickie that doesn't zip. He breathes and the sugar wrappers fly across the table at her. Their first night together she told him not to breathe.

778 Days, 9 Hours, 51 Minutes, 28 Seconds

It's finally winter. Last night, her birthday, even with a heavy coat on, she was cold. (Though 22 years ago, the first birthday of their marriage, it was two degrees out). She should have been happy. She shouldn't have pushed through the crowd like that. She should have stopped and bought a scarf, cheap, on 8th Ave. It was down to 38 last night. Today, sitting at her desk, she has to pull down the shades, that hot winter sun aimed right at her.

779 Days, 23 Hours, 47 Minutes, 44 Seconds

It was Happy Birthday. Like she's never heard it before, and it took her half the song to recognize it. He says it's a start.

780 Days, 0 Hours, 31 Minutes, 54 Seconds.

She stopped to watch the news, then to watch a finger bleed. Downstairs, he's sitting at his new electronic keyboard, the earphones preventing noise from rising. All she hears is tapping, tapping, tapping. She doesn't think that's Happy Birthday he's practicing.

780 Days, 1 Hour, 4 Minutes, 12 Seconds

Or 1 Hour, 4 Minutes, 12 Seconds until her birthday. And it wasn't hunters – a workman said you could even see the truck tracks driving back there. Several broken lamps, not the one flashlight she thought. He looked closer than she did. Exactly one hour away from her mother's age when she moved to New York, she's too old for this. The clock they got for their wedding continues to chime the hours of daylight savings time. She hasn't strength to change it. The roof fixed out from over her, a much bigger job than she thought, that's what the worker was doing there. And he fixed the light in her study, a two second job with needle-nosed plyers. But she'd tried that herself.

783 Days, 10 Hours, 7 Minutes, 18 Seconds

First normal. Then she stops at a high end clothing shop and squeezes into a pair of XS tights. But they'll stretch.

783 Days, 10 Hours, 32 Minutes, 38 Seconds

The podiatrist shares his office space with a dentist. From the exam room she hears the far-off drill: Hoof and Mouth Disease. At first the thought sickens her. Then she wonders if she ought to try this dentist. Meanwhile, at least her feet are almost normal. Compared to what they see here.

783 Days, 11 Hours, 29 Minutes, 27 Seconds

A woman emerges from the podiatrist's office, leaves her pocketbook on her walker with her aide, goes to the bathroom. Only she had an "accident," wetting the receipt the receptionist gave her (I assume with water). She blames it on the aide, who told her just to put it in her pocket. The receptionist says it'll dry. The aide stops her from putting it, wet, in her pocket. Now she tries to negotiate the two steps down to the door, the aide standing by, shaking her head, helping only when scowled at. Cold, the woman makes her way back in, blocking the doorway while the aide gets a cab. I write, I look up, I look down again. This could be my father. Yes, I would let this happen to my father. I look away. I write. I feel helpless. 783 Days, 11 Hours, 16 Minutes, 39 Seconds. The time passes.

783 Days, 11 Hours, 54 Minutes, 27 Seconds

Another day, another class, another doctor. She writes this to pass the minutes in between. Four years ago, when she started this class, people might write the same story several times, but at least they could fill half a page with writing. Now she's lucky if they write three sentences. And many can't write by themselves, she or an aide have to draw the stories out of them. Twenty people here some Tuesday mornings. Another alarm clock going off, another doctor. This fills the space in between.

783 Days, 20 Hours, 59 Minutes, 45 Seconds

This blog is 19 days old before it dawns on me I should have a counter here. Would that Mr. Gore had done the same six years ago, we might not be in Iraq now. Except I'm told these counters are not to be trusted.

784 Days, 2 Hours, 24 Minutes, 47 Seconds

Her finger's still numb. Despite over a week wearing the collar. Mostly. Sometimes it seems better with the collar off. But it's not as bad as before. It'll pass, she supposes. No need to find a neurologist. She recalls years ago, having a hairline fracture on her forearm. An orthopedist she finally saw said it would heal itself in time, though better if he put it in a splint. This was after the hospital found nothing then lost her x-rays. She went for the splint. What they didn't mention was the pain when it was removed, and the weeks of exercise. As she vowed at that point, never again. Quoth the raven.

784 Days, 6 Hours, 15 Minutes, 10 Seconds

Approximately. She'd have to be crazy to drive through midtown this time of year, that's why she takes a cab. But the cab fares no better. She can't even see the clock in this light. Writing makes her nauseous. She makes her first resolution for the new year: either leave earlier or calm down about being late. One more resolution she'll never keep. A man in the car beside her smokes, flicking ashes out the window. It's been a long time since she's seen that. They pass the old Second Avenue Deli. Dead.