It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Pushing Reset

A couple of months ago, during the endless drive between the fields flanking I-5, I thought, “I just want to push the re-set button on my life.”  What’s the old joke: “when God wants to get even with you, he answers your prayers?”  Or, at least, “be careful what you wish for…”  In my defense, I was sick: literally, Prilosec-popping, stomach-grinding, shoulder-clenching sick at our financial situation; sick of commuting 75 miles each way to work; heart-sick that my career, my avocation, had failed us; sick of farming my kids out to grandparents for childcare through the summer; sick of rejection letters from literary magazines; sick of spending nights on call away from my husband and kids; sick of aching joints; and sick of waking at 4:00 AM in order to eke out an hour of writing time.  I couldn’t see any way off the treadmill; someone had disabled the STOP button.

At the end of June, the week of our 14^th wedding anniversary, phase 1 of the reset was taped to our front door.  As I’ve posted previously, the foreclosure on our house became inevitable.  The universe does nothing by halves.  In the weeks that followed, my iPhone erased itself and my first professional article was published.  An essay I had written about losing our home was accepted by Salon.  That essay changed the way I viewed myself as a writer and switched my writing in the family eye from “hobby” to “side-job.”  And, if it hasn’t exactly broken down walls or opened doors into the literary world for me, it has cracked a door or two ajar.  Whether anything lies behind those doors is unknown, and I suspect much of it depends on me.  The rest is up to luck.  Fate?

Fate – at some point, I become skeptical about coincidence.  Two days ago, I was performing an exam on a horse.  In 30 years of horsemanship, I have lifted thousand of equine legs.  The steps inherent to this task flow through my muscles and nerves.  This particular patient resented manipulation of his hind limb: he pulled away: I held on, wrapping my fingers more tightly around the cannon bone; he kicked toward me; I held on; he jerked the leg away; I heard a SNAP as my little finger was pulled laterally with the leg.  ‘Oh, God, this is gonna …’ On cue, the nauseating ache and instability of a fracture made themselves known.  “Ok, we will now pause the pre-purchase exam while the vet tapes her fingers together.”  I’m still a little proud that I said this with a grin and an even tone, and that I didn’t throw up on anyone’s shoe.  Professionalism is key.

Taping my finger back in place gave enough relief to complete that exam and an ultrasound on a mare that turned out to be the same horse that had run me over 9 years ago.  Coincidence, really?  X-rays taken at the ER gave me the news that the re-set had indeed been pushed.  Rather than the minor broken finger I was expecting, I had managed to break my 5^th metacarpal in what they call a “boxer’s fracture.’  I didn’t hit the horse, I swear!  Today I follow up with the orthopedist, but my understanding is that my left hand is out of commission for about a month.  There has been some discussion of a modified return to work, but in practical terms, a one-armed large animal vet is fairly worthless and at worst, dangerous.

The re-set button has been pushed.  I don’t know what changes, if any will result from this string of events, but I do know one thing: I think I’ve done enough wishing for a while…

iPhone Amnesia

At the close of one of the early seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer – forgive me for not knowing exactly which one; the DVDs are boxed away – we see Buffy trudging down a dark street, leaving Sunnydale behind.  Everything she valued is lost to her in that moment: friends, love, family.  In the commentary, creator – and mad genius – Joss Whedon states that he wanted to see how his creation would react with everything taken from her; he felt that complete loss would define her character.

My iPhone suffered a similar loss of resources yesterday.  During its first backup onto my computer, it had what can best be described as a massive brain injury.  My phone has complete amnesia; apps, e-mails, notes, calendar items, phone numbers -- everything was obliterated with the unwitting click of my mouse.  In the moments surrounding the concurrent thoughts of ‘huh, that’s funny; the wallpaper changed’ and ‘oh my God, where did everything go?’I realized how unreasonably dependent I have become on technology – not only for data storage, but more insidiously for a form of validation.  My contact lists, my e-mails, my Twitter feeds, my Facebook updates, even the silly Words With Friends app: all of these link me to others, give me a perception (sometimes valid, more often false) of being loved, of being that holy grail of my introverted youth – popular.

While much of my phone’s neurological trauma is annoying and certainly inconvenient, catastrophe is unlikely to ensue.  My husband reminds me that everything important that was put onto the phone can be re-entered.  Still, I find myself unnerved and, in a strange sense, grieving.  As I scrolled through the now-empty contacts list, I realized that what I had lost was not data, it was the adult version of a security blanket.  Like a child toting a blanket or stuffie from room to room, I carry my phone everywhere, and check it incessantly.  Yes, it even sleeps by my bed at night.  I tell myself that I need my phone to check for e-mails or other “important” messages.  What I am really checking is myself.  Mike is right; the contacts that I need, I can find through the network of friends and family, old e-mails, etc.  But, there is a category that probably won’t make it back onto my phone, the group of numbers and e-mail addresses that gave me the greatest feeling of “belonging.”  From conducting numerous interviews over the past year, I had amassed a collection of author phone numbers and e-mails.  These contacts were for the sole purpose of the interview, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of imposing upon any of these people again, but the numbers stayed in my list.  They were my membership card, the secret password allowing me entry into the clubhouse of writers.  What I have known all along, but pushed aside, is that the password changes, the membership was a guest card, and that speaking to authors does not make me one of them.  My writing career, successes and failures, has to stand on its own.  No security blanket will change it, or me.

Whedon wanted to see what Buffy was made of.  Of course, it turns out, she was made of pretty good stuff.  In properly edited fashion, and with the intervention of a few monsters, she was able to pick up the pieces of her life one by one and return, wiser for the experience to her place in Sunnydale.  Even as I spent an hour with Apple tech support yesterday, my brain began formulating plans for reconstructing the life of my phone.  This is what we do when faced with loss.  Even as our brains process and grieve, some deeper portion of us rises to the surface and begins outlining steps for reconstruction.  As I made mental notes to Facebook message friends for their information, to download my apps, my mind saw boxes.

Recently, our family has been forced to cope with the real loss of much that we know.  Our home is in foreclosure; one day soon we will leave our version of Sunnydale behind for good.  Yet, even as we read the nearly incomprehensible legalese on the letter taped to our door (yes, they really do that), plans began to form.  The checklist started: find rental house, get boxes, donate large/unused toys, sell trailer, sell Nordic Track, move horse.  As we box up our lives, we are reconstructing them.  The towers of cardboard forming along the walls of the dining room, entryway and living room are the pillars that will support our new lives.  As I am not defined by the contents of my iPhone, my family is not defined by our address.  The boxes hold more than books, china, and DVDs; they contain our past and the proof of our resilience as we move into the future.