You still have fifteen dissectable minutes to go with your shrink Dr. Bergman. When he asks you not to edit your thoughts, you see your life in large jagged puzzle pieces on the floor.
Everything is out of order and there's no way even to match things up into a semblance of a picture. Your mother died young. You traveled to England in Junior High with your ballet troupe.
The abdominal surgery you had to have at thirty nearly killed you. You had the most amazing cuttlefish risotto in Venice. You still miss the toy poodle you had when you were six. It all floods the banks of your mind. There's no way to even talk to the really Austrian doctor whose family came over before the Holocaust. You wish there were a way to believe the put together narrative that you've made of your life.
Then your time is up and you say " Ok. I'll see you Thursday. Maybe I feel that time is running out."