Time is weird. This is not a groundbreaking statement, but it astounds me how true it is. We all know that time seems faster the older you get. I’ve heard it explained that it’s because when you’re a kid, a year is, say, one-fifth your lifespan. That’s a huge chunk. When you’re thirty, though, it’s one-thirtieth of your lifetime, which isn’t as big. That’s why waiting for Christmas when you’re six or seven seems like forever whereas when you’re a parent, the time between Christmases can be distressingly short.
That makes some sense and I can buy it to a certain extent. However, it doesn’t explain how time can fold and expand like an accordion. Or how it can appear to be passing both quickly and slowly at the same time.
It’s been 7 1/2 weeks since I left the hospital. Ian and I were speculating when I would stop using weeks and go to months instead. He said probably three months. That had been the number in my brain, but I said at the time that maybe 2 months. And I feel like that might be truer because I’m almost there and I’m tired of counting in weeks.
More to the point, I cannot believe it’s been almost two months since I came home from the hospital. I only spent two weeks in the hospital! One of those weeks was me being unconscious, so it was harder or everyone else than it was on me. When I talk to my loved ones about that week, I get a taste of what they went through. I, on the other hand, just laid there and didn’t do a damn thing.