When I was a little girl, time seemed to move soooooo slooooooooooooowly. During the school year, the upcoming summer vacation felt like years ahead in the future. Turning 16 and getting my license? A century would pass before that would happen. Moving out and being on my own? So far ahead in time that it was inconceivable!
Everything moved at such a glacial pace. Once I grew up though, years would fly by! There I’d be at Christmas, looking back on the previous New Year’s Eve as if it had happened the week before rather than nearly a year ago. Where did the time go? When did the clocks start speeding ahead? It seems like I blinked and became middle-aged.
However, now that we are trying to conceive, time has slowed down again. Before this, I’d get my period and be all ‘What? Fucking hell, again?! Jesus, I just had my period, like, yesterday dammit!’. Now I get my monthly visitor and every minute that passes from then until ovulation is the length of an era, the time from when I ovulate until I can test a millenium.
But this slow-down is also mixed with a sense of panic: panic that — even though it has grown so very, very slow — I am quickly running out of time. I only have so many chances left. I don’t know my expiration date but I know that it cannot be that far into the future. My charts look wonderful, my ovulation seems just about perfect — but for how much longer? Will this be my last good month? Next month? The month after? I don’t know.
This trying to conceive at 41 business exists in two universes for me, universes that run parallel but have different rates of time. It’s like a Fringe episode but a really, really sucky one.