I am a luddite. If you’ve never heard of luddites, they were the anti-tech people In England during the industrial revolution who would burn down factories because they were afraid automation would take their jobs. These days, it’s a word that describes people who are generally resistant to technology.
If you know me, you know I would much rather be using a pen and paper than my computer. And I often let my voicemail box fill up so I don’t have to interact unless I want to. (To be fair, that may be more anti-social than luddite.) I use social media minimally and I still won’t deposit a check by taking a picture on my phone. I could continue, but you get it.
These days, I am irrevocably tied to technology. More so than even the most passionate gadget person. My day-to-day life literally depends on technology. The device on my thigh talks to the device on my hip and my phone. The device on my hip talks to the device on my thigh and my phone. And the device apps on the phone talk to my Fitbit. (Someone gave me the Fitbit when I they found out I could see my blood sugar data on it. My luddite self did not go looking for it.)
I resent it. I resent the hell out of it. Especially on days when they malfunction, which is always in time to rob me of a good night’s sleep. Incorrect readings cause a cascade of events that can make me sick or set off alarms that sound like air horns and go off too frequently to let me treat the issue before the next one goes off.
If I turn the phone off, the alarms go off through the devices. If I set the parameters to trigger the alarms ridiculously wide, the malfunction will go just far enough to set them off anyway. Then I have to stay up to correct the damage. The prescriptions for the equipment are written on such a tight schedule, it takes forever to build any kind of cushion. If I call for a replacement, I have to wait for the customer service office to be open and spend time I don’t have on hold. Regularly.
The only option I have is to go back to manual procedures – finger pricks and injections. So, more pain and less accuracy. And less accuracy means poorer outcomes. Essentially, unless I let the machines take over my life, I am going to have to live a sicker life. Also, not really an option.
You will understand when I say that the only time I use more four-letter words than dealing with my devices is when I’m driving in DC traffic. These activities always seem to inspire a whole different vocabulary. It’s a good thing I don’t have kids. And that, when malfunctioning, the devices are literally attached to my body.
Otherwise, I’m pretty sure several thousand dollars’ worth of durable medical equipment would find itself flying out the window to the ground 250 feet below on a regular basis.
Sometimes for a luddite like me, the techy treatment is worse than the quiet disease.