Time Warp

It is the foe of every child one week before Christmas. It is the enemy of each terminally ill patient. It lingers when we make mistakes and wish to hide under rocks. It swooshes by like a train when we’d rather pause in a precious moment. It’s time. While I have somewhat scientifically studied things like cancer, Alzheimer’s Disease, and congenital heart defects, to the degree a fool on the internet can, at least, the ethereal enigma of time eclipses my brain function. Yet, we are all a slave to this very thing.

I joined a gym. There, I said it. My son and daughterin- law have me working out with them daily. By working out with them, I mean in the same building. They spend swaths of time with free weights and in the dreaded squat racks. I’m more of a track walker/machine weight girly. Of course, this led me to all sorts of psyche damaging social media research on workout routines, body composition, and even macros. Why, one influencer promised that with diligence and determination, I wouldn’t recognize myself in 6 months. SIX MONTHS? I choked on my sugarless coffee. That’s too long – too much time. I need to look better now.

That started me on a pathway of thinking about things that happen in six-month increments. Six months is more than a semester. Six months is three-quarters of a pregnancy. It’s an entire grow season for gardeners. In six months, the bulbs you planted will bloom and possibly go dormant again. It takes a baby six months to sit up. You can become a medical assistant in six months. So, a lot can happen in 6 months. But it can feel different, can’t it?

We are hoping the big kids and the grandkiddos will be moving soon. One communication from my son’s employer

suggests later in the year while a more recent acknowledgement hints at, but doesn’t promise, a relocation in August. That’s six months down the road. We love having them here. We are approaching our 2-year cohabitation mark soon, however. Six months feels an awfully long way away, more like six years.

I remember a hallway conversation with my mom’s neurologist once dementia had set in tightly. As mom meandered toward the check-out desk, he looked into my eyes and said, “I don’t think she’s going to be with you in a year, maybe six months.” On the night we rushed to her care facility to try and beat the awful disease that was taking her from us, we were asked by the chaplain, “How long has she been here?” As the words “about six months” slipped from my lips, that conversation with the doctor loomed in my brain. It felt more like six minutes. I promise you that.

A younger, more exuberant, 22-year-old me once moved to Virginia in January. It was a spontaneous thing, if anything done while pregnant and with a preschooler and via a Greyhound bus can be spontaneous. I didn’t have cute little things like health insurance or a plan. About a week later, the realization of a future baby hit me in the form of a mental breakdown. I had to do something. I only had six months to come up with an answer. It seemed like I had a new baby boy in my arms six seconds later.

Just the other evening, I mentioned to my husband that we desperately needed but had not planned a vacation for this year. “Honey, it’s already February! We’re going to blink twice, and it’ll be August.” That is, in fact, just six months away. Mere nanoseconds.

Within the next six months, so many things could happen. We may know whether this bridge thoroughfare intended to transport the masses over the railroad tracks of Forney will affect our living arrangement. All my cats will be a year older. The granddaughter will turn 10. The grandson will turn 7. I will turn 58. Summer will be upon us. I’ll have my already scheduled mammogram and an intimate annual conversation with my oncologist. We will hit a landmark date with my daughter’s passing, the big 17, meaning she will have been gone for longer than she even lived. Some of these things will take an eternity to happen. Some of them will happen tomorrow. Because time is either slower than an old granny running (ouch) or quicker than a major league fast pitch. It is either a gift wrapped in glossy paper and gossamer ribbon or a thief that steals your very heart in the night. So, whatever it is that you want to do, do it – while there is still time. And, if at any time you should see me near a squat rack, look away. Then again, you may not recognize me in six months’ time.