It’s About Time
Time has been on my mind lately. I’ve become increasingly conscious of how it means different things to different people, and of how its value fluctuates depending on context.
My siblings have wildly different relationships with the concept of time. One sister will say, “I’ll be coming over in a little while to visit.” Six hours later when I call to see what happened, she’ll say that they started to have a meal, then went for a health walk, finally realizing it was now rush hour and, so sorry, we’d have to visit later. Another sister says that having a plan with that sister is like having no plan at all. She means well, it’s just that for her the concept of time is fluid, not related to commitment. Her goals are not set by schedules.
My career background was in a company where time was rigid and tightly managed. Tardiness was not tolerated. Everyone worked the same hours unless they were on night shifts. For 20 years I didn’t wear a watch, which didn’t go unnoticed. I figured every office and car had clocks, and it was my own personal rebellion that I owned my time.
I finally pushed back and had a thirty-minute change in my start time to drop my son at school. I compensated by working an hour later, handling after-hours problems, problems which were soon apparent. Before phones rang open after regular hours. Soon customers demanded longer hours and the company was forced to swing into looser time schedules with employees. I had been ahead of the game in wanting flexible time.
Fast forward to my post-retirement. I own my time, make my own schedule. I love this freedom. Then a health issue struck, and now I feel like doctors and testing facilities own my time. My attitude is more flexible now, as competition to get medical appointments is fierce, particularly since the after-effects of the pandemic. There are fewer medical personnel, and a backlog from Covid. One day I realized that medical offices are like my old workplace, with their own hours of operation. I had some tests run which resulted in more diagnostic tests and remained at a facility longer than expected. I was told to go to the front office and wait for discharge papers.
I went to the formerly full waiting room, finding only three patients remaining. We knew we were the three patients who had issues. Staff at the desk had left for the day. We sat silently; stone faced. Suddenly a Phil Collins song came on the sound system, and I nervously began snapping my fingers and swaying. One woman had a coughing fit and left for the ladies’ room. The last woman suddenly started belting out the lyrics so clearly and on tune I knew she must be in a church choir. I was like a Pip to her Gladys Knight. Our after-hours impromptu act, seen by no one, and in “dead time,” didn’t seem the least bit odd. Music is a great stress reducer.
Now I’m in the treatment cycle for a more serious condition. I’ve cleared my calendar and am starting treatments scheduled every weekday for one month. I asked my stepson, who had a similar illness years ago, about my treatment. He answered, “I figured out that each treatment lasted five Bee Gees songs.” Time cast as song length was far more palatable to me.
I asked some of the medical personnel about treatment duration. Their answers varied. One of the techs informed me that my room had music options. Aha! Music time has its own qualities.
I am now due for my third treatment. I am rotating my music requests daily to spice up an otherwise frightening experience. Today I am going to request George Michael songs, so that time will speed by, with a nod to what he sang, “ ‘Cause I gotta have faith.”
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