The Impermanence of Technology (and other things . . .)

I will always remember when my mom gave me my Kindle. It was a few days before Christmas and I had just finished graduate school.  We had spent the day and night moving all of my belongings from my Brooklyn apartment back to my mom's house in Maryland and I was overly tired. Right before I climbed into bed, my mom came into my room and presented me with my Kindle. It seemed fitting especially since I was graduating with a Master of Library and Information Science degree.

I love(d) my Kindle. In fact, sometimes I would forget my cell phone when I went to work, but I’d always remember my Kindle. I remember my mother laughing about that.

My beloved Kindle, Dec. 2010 - Aug. 2012

So, over a year and a half after my mom surprised me with the Kindle, my Kindle screen has gone schizo on me. On the phone with an Amazon representative, I calmly explain the issue and am told that there is nothing they can do to save the Kindle. I must get another one. I decide to ask if there is anything I can do to keep my Kindle, or at least get the same model. He says “no” and I explain the situation:

“This was a graduation gift from my mom. She passed away last year so there is a little sentimentality attached to it . . .”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says. “Ordinarily, we need the original Kindle shipped back, but we’ll make an exception for you. I’ll make a special note to let you keep yours.”

I wish I got to “keep” my old cell phone.

Last October, my Android phone was stolen at the public library. I couldn't care less about the phone itself, but I was upset that the last texts that were sent by my mom were stolen. Verizon told me that they could not give me a copy of the texts between my mother and me without a subpoena. I still remember my mom’s last text to me, which was full of misspellings due to her being on Superwoman-strength pain medication that made her drowsy. The text said:

“I love you moure . . .”

She sent it late at night on July 16, 2011, a few days before she went into cardiac arrest. I remember the date and the text because after she died I would look at our last texts sent to each other while smiling, laughing and crying . . .sometimes smiling, laughing and crying all at the same time.

I ordinarily try to practice non-attachment to physical things, especially technology. Computers incur damage, become outdated and are stolen. My mom raised us not to become attached to any material thing, including our bodies. Since I was a child, my mom would explain that our body is just flesh and is temporary, but our soul exists long after we are gone. In fact, she always said that it didn’t matter what happened to her body after she died because it’s just a shell.

I admire the Buddhist notion of completely shunning off all material attachment to realize complete unity with the Universe in order to become One with All. I’m not there yet and I don’t know if I ever will be (while I am alive), but sometimes life teaches you lessons in other ways. Maybe losing my cell phone and my Kindle breaking are mini-lessons for me in non-attachment to the material, especially technology. I saw my Kindle and the texts as a connection to my mother, but they are merely a symbol of our connection because our connection transcends the physical.

Or maybe this is all just a reminder that books are still golden because books don’t all of a sudden “stop working” on you. I never have to worry about a book “not opening” for me to read it. 

Ugh. 

Coping Mechanisms

It all sneaks up on me sometimes . . .

I am finally finishing up Steve Job’s biography (fascinating read, by the way) and am now reading about his last months. Coincidently, he shared some of the same last months as my mother. 

It's been a (very) little over a year since my mother passed away.

I’ve been thinking about what my mom had to go through towards the end of her life. I imagine what she must have been thinking about as she looked back on her time on Earth and the decisions that she made. I remember her making comments about her past. I remember her just staring at us all. I wonder what she must have thought about while she watched her loved ones. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for her to say goodbye to us all - especially her children, her mother and her father. I am amazed at her bravery and I am in awe of her strength. 

Of all the ways to go, a terminal illness is one that looms. My mom’s illness only loomed for a short time before it took her, but those last days, weeks and months were long in my mind, as an observer. The pain I watched her go through. The deterioration. It’s amazing that although her body was being devoured by cancer, her spirit remained strong, stubborn and lovely.

She had to say goodbye to her children forever. The thought of it makes me hurt in ways that I struggle to explain: the head throbbing cry I have when I allow myself "to go there"; the constant ache in my soul; the pit in my stomach when I think about how much I miss her. The umbilical cord is cut. She had to let us go. We had to let her go.

All of this before I’ve even said “hello” to motherhood. I’ve already experienced the heartbreaking story of love and loss between mother and child. I’ve yet to experience the depths from the other side (being the mother) and, like I brave all changes in my life, I will welcome the journey with open arms . . .and prayers/books/therapy/yoga/good friends very near. 

I’m coping. I know you knew I would, Mom.