I suck at waiting.
Too bad there’s so much of it to be done.
Mr. Jae and I have had a number of conversations about my low reserve of patience in general. He and I and my friend R (who shares the desire to see everything in the world hurry up a bit) have had a number of conversations about R’s and my “journey to patience.” Usually they end with R or me whining, “Are we there yet?”
Though I can’t say I’m liking all the waiting I’ve got to do, or even tolerating it very well, I am starting to become aware of the great variety of textures and types of waiting. I could make a list like you’d find in the pillow book of Sei Shonagon:
The long, constant waiting where you are checking for something that might actually be there, like stretchy cervical mucous as a sign of ovulation, or a high temperature in the morning, but really it doesn’t come for months and months and the waiting becomes a low drone under all the other types of waiting.
The shorter, but still legato waiting where you are checking for something that is definitely coming, like your period after taking Provera for seven days.
The mind-spinning, bounded waiting to find out whether something is, when any signs that can mean yes can also mean no.
The short, adrenaline-loaded, eyes-averted waiting in the RE’s waiting room with the racks of noticeably non-child-related magazines and not enough to do with your hands.
The fed up waiting for something that should have happened three days ago but hasn’t yet, like when you thought you’d ovulate on cycle day 30 and here you are eggwhite-y as hell and still with preovulatory temperatures on day 35, or like when your period should have started within a few days of quitting the Provera but it hasn’t yet and neither Smart Nurse Jill nor Dumb Nurse Lisa can figure out why.
The flash of waiting between peeing on a stick and seeing one pink line appear.
The long, high note of waiting over it all, the arc of waiting from the day you start hoping to be pregnant to the day you stop.