I'm sitting in the shelter during the day's fourth missile alarm, reading WhatsApp messages. A friendly dog wanders over and slaps her paw down on the phone. The text entry bar tells me that she has typed "Poop". I hope that isn't an omen.

The rhythm of the days continues as it has been. Several alarms sound out each day, on a pattern known only to the parties shooting missiles at us. It may actually be a union of at least three patterns, since the missiles may come from Iran, Yemen, or Lebanon. Or there may be no pattern at all. They may throw missiles at us randomly, or whenever they get bored.

The shelter fills with people over the next few minutes. I'm often the first one there. Pretty consistently, eleven to fifteen residents show up. (About a hundred of us live here, but many either sleep through the loud alarms, can't make it down to the shelter quickly enough or, despite the pleading of Home Front Command, choose not to. And for most attacks, the hallways are safe enough.) A similar number of caregivers and staff come down. The number of neighbors from outside the building varies widely, though a dozen or so people, with their four or five dogs, tend to always make it there.

I seem to have shifted into a sort of nocturnal pattern. I fall asleep in my big chair, fully dressed, at about 3 AM. My alarm wakes me up at 7 AM to go down to the nurses' office to test my blood sugar (which has stabilized at an acceptable level) and get my morning's array of injections and pills.

Meals are at set times. Breakfast is at 7:30 AM. Lunch and supper are in shifts. Since I live on the third floor, I eat at 12:45 and 6:45 PM. Staff had been bringing meals up to the residents' rooms, but we have gradually changed back to using the dining rooms. The split shifts means that no more than the maximum number of people that Home Front Command allows to gather together are in the dining hall at any one time.

Any of this can be disrupted by alarms. If a meal is interrupted, we all go to the shelter, then return and resume our meals -- unless the staff there has gotten overly ambitious and cleared away dishes for some of us who aren't yet done eating. This has only happened to me twice. Their garbage collection algorithm is getting better.

I sleep during the gaps in the day. At some point, I take a shower then get into my next day's clothes. I haven't worn pajamas or slept in my bed in about a month. It's easier to run down to the shelter when I'm already fully dressed, with my sneakers on.

When Home Front Command gives the all-clear after an alarm, the worker at the front desk announces on the overhead sound system that we are permitted to return to our routine. But after so many weeks of this, this is our routine.

Passover is making all of this even more complicated. In the past week, we have had, in order: a day before a holiday (so everything shuts down mid-day); a holiday (akin to Shabbat); a day before Shabbat (with the early shutdown); Shabbat; a normal day; another normal day; a day before another holiday; and the final holiday (the last day of Passover). It can get hard to keep track.

Those who keep Shabbat and the holidays strictly can still get the alerts and alarms, even if they don't touch electric things on those days. A couple of radio stations broadcast silence except for the needed emergency signals, so people can keep them on all the time without extraneous talk or music.

We didn't have a communal Passover Seder for the House this year. Our staff met with the mayor and the local head of Home Front Command, and they decided that it wouldn't be feasible. I also didn't get to lead the abbreviated Seder for the Continual Care division as I had for the past several years. A few months ago, we spun it off, so it is now under different management, part of a chain of such facilities around the country. They do things their own way. (That's also why our nurses' office moved down the hall.)

I was part of a very small Seder, with my family who lives here in the House and their caregiver. It was cramped, but went fairly well. The House had delivered appropriate meals to the residents, so we each ate those meals when it was time to eat. Some of us bailed out after the meal due to exhaustion, but the rest of us made it through to the end.

It's traditional to say Kiddush at supper at the start of the final day of the holiday. No one seems to know how that will work tomorrow, or if we'll do it at all. There are lots of questions flying around. Some get answered. For others, we just see what happens.

I see that the US President has announced a deadline for when he apparently intends to "reign hell" (sic) on Iran. That will be at 3 AM here on the last day of the holiday. We can expect retaliation. Or maybe they'll call them preemptive strikes to prevent our preemptive strikes to prevent their preemptive strikes again.

In my quiet moments, I've been binge-watching The West Wing. It's good to fantasize about a US run by smart people doing their jobs, rather than a wannabe prone to tweets and tantrums.

It's mid-evening now. I should decide whether to take a shower or wait until after the night's first missile alarm. We're pretty clear on what will happen again tonight and tomorrow. We just don't know in what order things will occur. Some of us operate in the blurriness of the fog of war. Some try to work their way through a cloud of unknowing. And some just have to shrug and stumble onward, whichever direction that might be.