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September 10, 1982


JAMA. 1982;248(10):1163. doi:10.1001/jama.1982.03330100013007

There are no pyramids here, no pharoahs to be interred, nor is the culture accustomed to burying treasured possessions with the dead. Yet I think that Ms Rushton's clock should be buried with her when her cancer overtakes her.

The casing of the clock is scarred and pocked with rust, mimicking her skin, with its widespread nodules and excoriations. It ticks more softly than cheap clocks usually do, and you have to hold it up to your ear to appreciate its inner workings. Nevertheless, it still keeps good time, even after so many years, and I've become used to glancing at the clock when I enter her room, as I have each morning, for the last two months.

She speaks of it as one would of an old friend who has accompanied her on her small adventures and measured her desperate hours. In the manner of a friend, the clock