All of my life I have been surrounded by too much time. To be clear, it isn't that the universe gave me extra hours in my days or added a few more years to my life; sadly, none of us will be granted these gifts. More precisely, I have always been surrounded by time's inevitable march as I rushed through a childhood that should have been carefree. Mine was ensnared in time. Time was all around me. Everywhere I gazed around my parents' house, there appeared a clock to cast its judgmental eyes upon me. All around me there were reminders that time was ticking away, letting me know that there was always something to do, somewhere to be, some task to be accomplished by a particular time. Is it any wonder that I was an anxious, frightened child who grew into an anxious, insecure adult? My entire life was been one cosmic race against the clock.
My parents were German immigrants and I can say
with absolute certainty that the stereotype of the uber-punctual German is,
indeed, no stereotype. Google the phrase "Germans and time" as I just
did and you will be met with a delightful selection of articles that basically
describe my family. To be sure, I believe punctuality is extremely important. I
was raised to believe that early equals on time and on time is equivalent to
late. Consequently, I have serious issues with those who do not hold timeliness
with such high regard, particularly those who are chronically late.
Time has been marked by so much in my mom’s long
life. Time passed merrily as she walked home from school with her friends,
laughing and stopping to tell stories. Then time stopped in its tracks as
she and her family hid in the bomb shelter night after night during World War
II. Time ebbed and flowed with the ocean tide as she, my dad, and my
seven-month-old brother crossed the Atlantic on the Gripsholm to begin a new life in America. Time passed quickly as
her son grew, then a daughter — me — was added to the family.
Today I sit with my mom in her assisted living
facility. During the two hours I have been here, she has asked me five times
when dinner is. "Five o'clock," I say. She checks the clock above the
TV, the one with the giant face so her glaucoma-affected eyes can see it better. It
is three o’clock. She has asked me seven times, "So what do I have to do
now?" It is all I can do not to say to her, "You are 90 years old.
There is absolutely nothing you have
to do!" But I don't. I can't. She is ruled by that clock and if she has
nothing to do she feels she has no purpose.
As we sit here together my mother thinks only of time in the sense of
her next deadline, where she has to be, her next task to be done. I think of
time as it moves my mom along in her life so quickly. As my mom sits and stares
at the clock as it counts down to dinner, I gaze up at this same clock and
ponder time as it counts down the moments in her life. Time stopped for my dad a
mere seven months ago. I am still processing this loss, still so sad, still grieving his absence in my life. When time will cease for my mom, I do not know. She will turn 91 in three weeks and she is certainly strong-willed, but who knows,
But while my mind frets over life's larger questions, my mother is content to stare at the clock as it counts down to dinner. At this point in her life, perhaps marking time in this manner is truly a gift. I turn and we watch the clock together, each lost in our own thoughts.
But while my mind frets over life's larger questions, my mother is content to stare at the clock as it counts down to dinner. At this point in her life, perhaps marking time in this manner is truly a gift. I turn and we watch the clock together, each lost in our own thoughts.
