When you're in a high risk pregnancy you develop quite peculiar attitudes towards time. Basically, it can't go fast enough. You find yourself wishing you could install a fast forward button in your life and then you could just whizz through the next three or four weeks. To get to viability. To get to organ maturity. To minimize days in the NICU. To bring the baby straight home. (No matter what goal you reach, it's never enough, you're never satisfied; when you're 23 weeks you swear you'll be happy if you can just reach 26; when you get to 26, nothing less than 30 will do, and when 30 rolls around you're just panting to reach 34, 35, 36, 37....)
Then you speak to other people, non-pregnant people that is, and they say, I have to do - oh, something unpleasant - at the end of next month, and you remark, soothingly, but that's ages away still. And then it hits you: it's ages away still. For me too. So many endless days to get through, and I'm trying to pretend to myself they'll melt away all by themselves, time rushing lustily towards me, days accelerating into night.
But those 24 hours just keep on lasting 24 hours.