THE DAY SHE COULDN’T DRAW A CLOCK

I read this today and it touched me greatly. THE DAY SHE COULDN'T DRAW A CLOCK
“From the memoir-in-progress by Michael J. Whelan

The technician handed Rebecca a piece of paper and gave her what should have been a simple task.

“Draw a clock,” he said gently. “Put the numbers where they belong, just like a regular clock face.”

That was it. That was the entire request.

Twelve numbers in a circle.
Something every child learns before kindergarten.
Something she had done a thousand times in her life—without thinking.

But she looked at the paper like it had betrayed her. Like the page itself had turned on her. Her brow tightened. Her hand trembled. And then she looked over at me, her eyes pleading, confused, terrified.

Help me please, she said without speaking.

I wanted to reach across the table and erase the whole moment from existence. I wanted to tell the technician to forget it, to skip this part, to let her keep whatever dignity she had left. But I didn’t move. I sat there frozen, hoping—praying—this was just a fluke.

She lowered her head and began to draw.

What followed was a nightmare I hadn’t prepared for.

She scratched a jagged circle, wobbly and lopsided. Then, hesitantly, she placed a “12” at the bottom of the page. Not the top. Next came a “3” somewhere on the left. A “6” floated above that. A “9” was squeezed into a corner like it didn’t want to be seen. The rest of the numbers were missing. Or written over each other. Or reversed. Some were upside down. Some weren’t even numbers at all.

She didn’t even attempt the hands.

It was chaos.

It wasn’t a clock.

It was heartbreak in ink.

And I swear to God, I felt something inside me die.

I remember the woman who once planned our entire year on a kitchen calendar by memory. The woman who balanced our budget in her head. The woman who could tell time not just by the hour, but by the light outside our window. My golf partner who could keep my score without a scorecard.

Now… she couldn’t remember where the numbers go on a clock.

And what made it worse—what made it unbearable—was how hard she was trying. Her lips moved silently, counting something. Her fingers tapped the table like she was summoning a memory just out of reach.

I could see the war inside her.
She was losing.
And she knew it.

Then I made it worse.

I told her to focus. I told her she knew this. That it was easy. That she could do it if she just concentrated.

Her face crumpled. Her eyes welled up.

And then she cried.

Because it wasn’t just a test. It wasn’t just a clock.
It was a mirror. And in that moment, she saw what was slipping away.

And I—her husband, her protector, her caregiver—became the one who pushed too hard. I let my fear become a fist. Not against her—but against the helplessness. The disease. The grief.

But she was the one who got hit.

I held her afterward. Whispered apologies. Promised I’d do better. Promised I’d be softer.

She forgave me, like she always does.
But I haven’t forgiven myself.

Because this is what these diseases do. They steal the mind. Then the memories. Then the person.
And along the way, they break the hearts of the ones who are left watching.

I will keep trying.
I will learn to whisper when I want to shout.
I will hold her even as time tries to take her from me.

Because even if she forgets how to place the hours…
I will never forget a single moment of who she is.

Not for one second.
Not ever.”