Time is relative. That is just so true. So very,
very true.
I remember when a minute seemed to whiz past, and there were never
enough minutes to an hour, or hours to a day. I was always
rushing from one thing to the next. Juggling work, Jim and a
social life – ah, and what a social life! So, yeah,
there
were a few places where time slowed down, hospital waiting rooms for
example, but on the whole, time moved quickly for me.
But that was then, and this is now. So very, very
now. And
that’s the problem. That now seems to last
longer.
Each minute extended into two, or three, or more.
I am just so bored. Bored and cranky and fed up and bored.
Did I
mention, bored? There is just so much TV a person can watch,
or
books read, or computing compute, or puzzles complete,
or…. Only so much of these things before becoming
one
hundred percent, completely and utterly, unequivocally, no doubt about
it, bored!
And as for the physio! How could a minute become like
ten?
The pain, the effort, the unending encouragement to do just one more
push, one more stretch. A thirty minute session seems like
forever - never ending.
I know it’s all relative. That’s the
nature of
time. But why? I’m slowly going stir
crazy – a
mental case in the making. And Jim, he doesn’t help
much. Don’t get me wrong, he makes a wonderful, if
far too
helpful, servant. But he can’t make time go quicker
when
he’s not here. No one can. And even when
he’s
here, it still goes slow.
I never realised just how much it means to be able to get up and go out
whenever you want to – and not wait for someone to help you
into
a wheelchair, and then limit the time you spend in it. Never
realised how difficult it is to give up my independence.
I even tried going out by myself in the wheelchair. Wanted to try and
prove to myself that I could go out, do something normal like going
down the street (or even getting a sandwich from the deli).
Getting out the loft wasn't too bad, though the feeling of leaving
somewhere safe and secure without Jim gave me the jitters. I
had
to manoeuvre into the lift backwards, so that I could push the
buttons. I was doing okay until I got to the front door to
the
street. I had to reach to get the handle, but it was hard to
pull
and I nearly pulled myself out of the wheelchair instead. Defeated by a
door.... So what choice did I have, but to return to the
loft, to
boredom, the slow ticking of time, the memories of what and who I once
was, the frustration of being dependent on Jim and other people to lead
a life?
They say it’s only temporary, that when I get stronger I will
be
able to get out more. Do more. Be more. But
that’s
not now, and now really sucks.
So, what time it is? Oh, about a minute since I last
looked. A long, long minute.
