J: Think about how many expressions we have for time: I wish I had more time. Where does the time go. Let's try to make some time for that. If only there was more time. Where do all the hours in the day go.
Well, I've solved the mystery of where all the time goes: It lands in the laps of Alzheimer's patients and becomes the job of the caregivers to fill it. Our dad, as the faithful reader might have gleaned, is Type A times 100. He is up and ready to go every morning. And there's not a damn thing for him to do.
I was walking with him yesterday and he glanced at his watch (a habit repeated 1000 times each day) and gave the shocked face that we have nicknamed the "Lincoln Look" - the look Lincoln had right after he was shot - and screamed "Holy Hell - we're late" "Late for what?" I asked gamely. "For church, for Christssake" was his response. Now, as luck would have it, there is no daily mass at our parish for the last half of this week. So the one thing he had on the docket wasn't even happening. And even if it was happening, it wouldn't be happening for almost an hour. So I calmly explained that there was plenty of time to get back from our walk to check on the schedule of events for the day. Luckily our amazing caregiver had already planned to visit the Poor Clares, which is a fine substitute for daily mass, so that was quickly added to the otherwise blank calendar.
And they were off for the day. The long, very long, seemingly endless day of an Alzheimer's patient.
Does anyone really know what time it is?