Always the Counting

When I was a little girl I would sit with my mother while she visited with neighborhood women. I’d play while they talked. I remember a certain bafflement when they talked about some young person who just got married or when a first baby arrived. They counted backwards on their fingers. I didn’t understand till years later that they were counting backwards from 9—nine months—to determine if that baby had been conceived before the wedding.

Similarly I have this tick of counting when I read of someone dying from correctol cancer. How many months? How long after diagnosis did they die? And then I compare John’s dates and make my corresponding assumptions and deals with God.

I did it today reading Meghan O’Rourke’s memoir, “The Long Good-Bye” about her mother’s death. A beautiful book, I read it noting the literary allusions and the dates—counting, always counting. O’Rourke’s mother died two-and a-half years after diagnosis. I think back; how many months is it now for John? OK—we’re past that marker so is that good—he’s out of the woods? Or is that bad—he’s closer to bad news?

I did this also when Tony Snow, White House press spokesman, died in 2008. His diagnosis was the same as John’s and he died a month short of three years. Knowing the similarity of their diagnosis and treatment he was a scary marker for me. And so I’d count.

I can feel my mother in me when I tick off the months and years, 2011, 2010, 2009 and I know that the clock is inside of me, ticking, ticking, ticking.