622 days, 13 hours, 6 minutes, 2.4 seconds

She tries out the Day of Death clock for her father. Born September 7, 1916. Neither optimistic or pessimistic: Normal. Body mass index below normal. Never smoked. His time has already expired. He should have died Tuesday, June 19, 1990. Less than three months after they married. When her mother was still alive. When his mind was still sharp. She could go through a hundred Whens. They mean nothing.

622 days, 13 hours, 28 minutes, 32 seconds

A red letter day. Not only one intelligent person at Duane Reade, but three: the clerk who didn't try to argue, just passed it over to the pharmacist; the first pharmacist who saw sixty pills wouldn't fit in that small bottle but turned it over to her supervisor; the supervisor who didn't ask any questions, just gave her another thirty pills. And here she'd brought her husband along to defend her. He's sorry now he yelled at the repairman. Mostly, he says, it was a language problem.

622 days, 14 hours, 19 minutes, 58 seconds

There's nothing wrong. Except the refrigerator repairman comes at 8:45, not at 10:00, and her husband (the one who wanted him) is out getting breakfast while she sleeps. There's nothing wrong. Except that she's had a horrendous night: every time her eyes were almost completely shut she went through a slight panic attack, then the top of her head started hurting, then when she finally slept she had a nightmare. There's nothing wrong. The repairman moves the refrigerator out, turns it off, hears the sound. Nothing's wrong with it. She's back in bed by this time, unable to get back to sleep. When her husband challenges he says it's the water pipe that dropped down and is hitting against the coils. It's not his job to fix the water pipe. And there's nothing wrong. Nothing $100 won't fix. And he has to call the super to adjust the pipe or hose or whatever. Another $20, or $40, or $50. Which he should have done in the first place. There's nothing wrong except her blood's high (to be expected now that she's off the medication). She has to go downstairs and argue with the drugstore. Despite what some stupid clerk said last night, she knows it's been only two weeks, that the insurance won't process the refill yet. That bottle those pills came in won't even hold sixty pills, she knows they only gave her thirty. But try to prove that? There's nothing wrong. Her MRI's this afternoon, she has the workshop tonight, there's nothing to let go.

623 days, 10 hours, 38 minutes, 22 seconds

Well, they came and got me out of Texas, and I can tell you it's a privilege to be back, Roger Clemens said as the 45 year-old pitcher announced he would rejoin the Yankees, even agreeing to start off in the minor leagues. And 52,533 fans at the stadium got to their feet and went wild. Which proves New Yorkers actually welcome men from Texas. So long as they're winners. So long as they understand teamwork.

623 days, 11 hours, 20 minutes, 33 seconds

And yesterday he showed her all the books in the den, thinking maybe there were some she'd want. Books on finance and butterflies. He knew she liked to read. And she said, perhaps too quickly, that she'd take them to a used book store. Strand, probably. She didn't think to ask where his old Readers Digest condensed novels were. She'd read some of those. She thought for a moment of the old Time/Life photography books he had, still on those shelves, then realized they'd be of little use in this digital age. She'd given him most of those. Bought for half price or less, at Strand.

They'd been together in Middlebury, Vermont, about ten years ago, when his camera stopped working. He and his lady friend, she and her husband. For his birthday a month or so later they gave him a new digital camera – a Sony that stored pictures right on disk, so he wouldn't have to learn the quirks of transferring photos. As she showed him how to use it, she thought perhaps this was something else they might share. But they took entirely different sorts of photos. And he could never remember how to turn it on, how to snap a photo. And it pained her to see this intelligent man who suddenly coudn't keep things straight, couldn't manage even the things that, for her, were child's play.

623 days, 22 hours, 2 minutes, 3.4 seconds

Sitting on her father's sofa this afternoon, the computer on so she could take notes as he led her from room to room, seeing all he wanted her to see, she paused and copied the blog entries from a few hours earlier. He was on the phone. He hung up. She put the computer into standby. He got another call. She had just a few words left to type, and finished. She tore the pages out of her notebook, started to throw them in the trash, then shoved them in her pocket on the off chance he'd try to decipher her handwriting. What was is she afraid of? That he'd lecture her once again on how awful Bush is? That there'd be a connection between father and daughter surpassing following the Phillies together 43 years ago? That he'd be worried she'd be jailed for writing this? She could have at least shown him the Backwards Bush countdown clock.

623 days, 22 hours, 9 minutes, 5 seconds

He doesn't see any point in living this way, he says. Her husband would rattle off all the good times he's had in the past year, all the people who care about him. But she admits to feeling the same way. Once her mind goes, once she can no longer think and write, she wants out. She might have spent this past month with the worst headaches in over two years, felt the absolute terror of going back there, but she'd forgotten how good she is at writing through the pain, almost writing with more power because of it.

623 days, 22 hours, 12 minutes, 15.9 seconds

Her father admits he's feeling fairly well of late, physically, though he can't walk and slips a nitroglycerin pill under his tongue while they're talking – the first in months, he says. She doesn't know how he remembers. Over dinner he tells the story of going to Link Trainer school ten times within five minutes, backing up a sentence or two, so that it seems he'll never finish. And he knows it. He says he's near the end.

624 days, 10 hours, 58 minutes, 40.4 seconds

She stops at the Atlantic City rest area to grab a quick lunch. The only service area on the Parkway between here and New York that doesn't have a Starbucks. In the gift shop there's a white tee-shirt with New Jersey written on the front in blue, already faded.

624 days, 11 hours, 6 minutes, 42 seconds

Their refrigerator's dying, a loud crash every time it shuts off, as if the compressor's falling out. Big deal, you say. So what, you say. But you don't understand. Their old refrigerator died Valentine's Day, 1990. The day he'd planned to propose to her.

624 days, 11 hours, 12 minutes, 15 seconds

Yesterday, walking the craft fair, one eye poised for possible Christmas gifts, they tried to count the number of wedding gifts they'd given to couples who later divorced. Then the number of weddings they attended. Silently, later, at home, she counted the number of funerals.

624 days, 20 hours, 20 minutes, 9.8 seconds

Maybe by tomorrow he'll remember her name.

624 days, 20 hours, 31 minutes, 49 seconds

There's one in every family. Easy enough to say when it's a large family. But she's an only child. Just her and her father left. One in every family? Her father at this point is shaking her head, wondering what he did wrong. She's shaking her head no, no, no, she doesn't want to visit. Doesn't want to spend a day, a night, an hour in that house alone. Or she might as well be alone. Or wishes she was alone. But maybe she can get a hotel room saying she needs high speed Internet. And maybe by tomorrow he'll remember his lawyer's name. But it's not likely.

624 days, 20 hours, 51 minutes, 50.5 seconds

The queen is coming, the queen is coming, the queen is coming! Bring out the white ties. Whitewash the White House. It's only the fourth time Elizabeth's been to visit. He must remember to switch his knife and fork between hands, regardless what the queen does. He must remember not to talk with food in his mouth, and not to drink water straight from the bottle. Black Colin won't be at his side to pour for him. He must not offer a shoulder rub to anyone. ANYONE. He must not even shake Her Majesty's hand unless she offers hers first. And, he reminds himself again and again, don't bring up Prince Charles, don't tell her he, too, has wet dreams about Camilla. The White House staff shakes its collective head. There's one in every family.

626 days, 20 hours, 59 minutes, 20 seconds

She wonders if this is what women feel once they've given birth. That weight suddenly lifted, having to learn how to walk again. Well, these headaches are the closest she'll ever come to that. And no, they're not menstrual headaches, this is not gestational diabetes. Thank God.

626 days, 21 hours, 3 minutes, 53 seconds

She has to cancel class next Tuesday. Because of the possible sinus infection. Because of an MRI. And she recalls, in the weeks just after Botox, how off balance she felt, that head not weighing her down.

626 days, 21 hours, 10 minutes, 16 seconds

When she lost track of center the other day, she was in the middle of Yoga. And it was Tuesday. And the maid had just left. It's not until tonight that she notices pictures on the walls are off center. Yet this happens every other Tuesday, every time the maid's in. She wants to be sure you know she dusted, the yoga teacher says.

626 days, 21 hours, 21 minutes, 36 seconds

There was something else she wanted to write here. Something about headaches and how now they're exploring a possible sinus infection. Then she looked at the time left: 21, 21, 36. She was not quite 21 when she moved to New York, she was 36 when she met him. That's all that matters.

626 days, 21 hours, 57 minutes, 13 seconds

The cabs are taking over her life these days. Tonight, after an 11 o'clock movie, they got one of those minivan cabs that she had trouble climbing up in. Then he sped off. Then the rattle started. Not rattle, more like knocking. As if he had metal rods somewhere right behind her head that batted against the sides of the car each time he went over even the slightest bump. An we're talking about a guy who raced lights and hit every pothole. Remember Sidewalker's? she whispers.

628 days, 10 hours, 29 minutes, 30 seconds

You didn't come out on top, you know, her husband says. His father recently totaled a car, his brother doing $4000 worth of damage. And her a measly $1400. Plus a repair shop she trusts, sort of, right around the corner from Toyota. Lucky accident.