The Sands of Time

The moving finger writes. Time is precious, especially for old people. Like me. Some people and some institutions don’t seem to understand that premise, assuming that everyone has all the time in the world to wait for their attention. Do I sound pissed? I am. Let me explain.

Yesterday morning I noticed the car, our eighteen-month-old Kia, wasn’t springing to life at each key turn, each time responding a little slower than the time before. And, bad sign, each time the dashboard clock would reset to 1:00. The battery is only that same eighteen months old, so how could it be the battery? I also assumed that all new cars had lights on the dashboard to warn owners if something was wrong with the electrical system. I mean, the damn things are almost human and will, like chastising parents, shake scolding dashboard fingers whenever you’ve misbehaved by leaving a door ajar or leaving keys in the ignition or not fastening a seat belt. My wife had a pre-colonoscopy interview with her doctor at 3:00, but since we were no longer sure the car had much life left, at 2:45 I dropped her off at the clinic door and then parked nearby, motor idling until she came out. And I waited. And the car idled. And we waited and idled some more. The minutes ticked off metronomically. At 4:15, mouth pursed, head shaking slowly, she got in the car. They hadn’t called her into the office until 3:40, forty minutes after her appointed time. That is simply unacceptable. She’s old. I’m old. Our time is precious. I don’t know how many more years, months, weeks, days, or even minutes I have left, and I certainly don’t want to spend forty gold coin minutes waiting for some doctor to finally get around to granting me or my wife a hearing at the foot of his throne. I told Rosalie that I’d have walked out after thirty minutes. Half an hour has always been my medical limit, as a young man, middle aged, or now old. My time is as valuable as any doctor’s. The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on.