3 February 2025

Here we are, nearing the end of the first quarter of the 21^st century, and I am tallying the ups and downs of the past fortnight, beginning with the medical marvel that is the cardiac ablation I had at Mass General in Boston on 21 January:  heart surgery as out-patient procedure.  Is’t possible?  Yes!  Dr. Ng declared it a success, confirmed both by his partner cardiologist Dr. Touchan eight days later, and my lived experience.  My generous friend Susan made a considerable contribution to my well-being as transporter and companion during her 12-hour shift, from a 6.30 am pickup and drive through rush-hour traffic south to Boston; to standing by during the long prep, procedure, and recovery period; to providing a most welcome additional set of ears attending to post-op instructions; to finally delivering me back home at 6.30 pm.  The euphoria I felt on returning to Gnawwood was some rare combo of residual anesthesia, relief, gratitude, and much-improved heart function, but I felt better than I have in a very long time.  After obediently refraining from any strenuous activity for the prescribed week of taking it easy, during which I enjoyed our monthly Madbury Library Book Club two days post-op and a most delicious and convivial dinner party in Dover two days later, I returned to my yoga class for two consecutive days, and felt great—so great that I’ve been able to take advantage of the gorgeous snowfall we’ve at last had with back-to-back snowshoeing expeditions through our woods.  Sublime.

Challenges have, of course arisen, and one can so easily be knocked off balance by the small stuff.  Monday the 27^th began with some attention-getting not-so-small stuff:  my first experience of a 3.8-scale earthquake that in Madbury at least sounded like two back-to-back explosions.  I was up at my third-floor desk, but feared that the masons working outside on the beautiful new steps they’ve laid had suffered a propane tank explosion.  But no, they were fine, though their report that they felt the ground shake and a call to the Madbury police station confirmed for me that the event was indeed an earthquake that sounded so loud:  essentially an aggressive burp from below as the tectonic plates shifted ever so slightly.   No harm done, but a tonic reminder that nothing is certain and that all circumstances are subject to change at any moment.  My thought:  how very lucky I am.

I’ve been mostly able to sustain that blithe mood despite a spate of Tech Schreck, the neologism I’ve coined for the inimitable challenges of ever-changing technology.  First, the microwave my parents gave me in 1974 (!) at last gave up the ghost and had to be replaced.  And I again had to fax (yes, FAX!  Some technology is retro, presenting its own challenges) all 16 pages of evidence necessary to prove to TD Bank that there are scammers abroad in the land, claiming to be Amazon/KDP and Barnes & Noble and preying on novice self-publishers (moi) to bilk them out of $$$ in exchange for products and services they have no ability to provide and no intention of providing.  And then, there’s the special torment of the printer purgatory HP visits on its unsuspecting customers:  “customer service” that ain’t.  Just try to cancel your Instant Ink subscription after multiple attempts to get SOMEONE or SOMETHING at HP to make available the driver necessary to make your ENVY 4520 that has suddenly stopped working print.  Oy vey.  Reader, do not risk commerce with Hewlett Packard.

However!  Each of these annoyances occasioned an uplifting human exchange sufficient to make me think we’ve not yet arrived at singularity, the merging of machine and human that seems ever more imminent.  In the case of the microwave, Dan of Powell Electric, who a quarter century ago wired this house then under construction, came to confirm that my microwave problem was indeed my venerable but exhausted Toshiba, and kindly toted it away for disposal.  Via Wirecutter, I then researched and located a replacement Panasonic, ordered it from Target, picked it up with help from a gracious Target employee, brought it home, and after only a few mis-steps (why don’t they inform you that the child-proof lock will not let you open the microwave door until you press STOP?) successfully installed it.  The TD Bank associate I spoke to at length (44 minutes and 42 seconds) declared me one smart lady, essentially an investigative reporter, and encouraged me to take my tale of pernicious scammers to the Boston Globe’s Spotlight Team even as she typed up and submitted my charge dispute for the second time.  And two successive Dell employees, Rajendra and Mohit, stayed on the phone with me for a collective 2.5+ hours trying to resolve, unsuccessfully, the printer connection problem that HP created.  At one point I exclaimed that it had started to snow here in New Hampshire, which prompted Rajendra to reveal his location:  “How Beautiful!  I’m in Spain, and would have to drive five hours to see snow!”  How wonderful, too, that nurse Shari at my cardiologist’s office told me she’d swapped patients with her colleague just so she could hear all the details of my ablation. And how very human that her telling me about trying ever since October to resolve a mistaken hotel double charge to her account made me feel so much better about my own ongoing dispute with TD Bank.  At what point will an exchange with A.I. afford us such relief?

Aging is, of course, a thing with which to reckon.  The definition of aging as “accumulation of damage and decline of function” immediately sparks my mental listing of examples under both headings, but I’m trying not to go gentle.  I’ve signed up to be a Citizen Archivist; see https://www.archives.gov/citizen-archivist for details of service that you who can still read cursive writing (we happy few!) can be to the National Archives.  And this week I’ll receive the training necessary to become a driver for the Seacoast Village Project.  These are functions I CAN still perform.

But the firehose of appalling breaking news remains a challenge.  I’ve been finding it necessary to counterbalance reports of the disgraceful, disastrous doings perpetrated by our Felon-in-Chief and his Posse of Predators by streaming, repeatedly, episodes of All Creatures Great and Small.  The fifth season finale features Anna Madeley as Mrs. Hall trying doughtily to carry on while wrestling with the likelihood that her son has been killed in action.  Spoiler Alert:  When she learns he is alive, it no longer matters that Siegfried forgot to pick up the Christmas goose she so cleverly saved up ration coupons to barter for it:  a reminder of what’s really important, and a reminder I needed.

Early last Wednesday morning I was stewing about my non-functional printer when I spied my 6-year-old neighbor Leo making his way through the woods that separates my house from his, a child-size show shovel on his shoulder.  He didn’t ring the doorbell (an antique he really enjoys ringing), but instead went straight about clearing the snow from my front steps, inscribed his name in the snow, and returned home to continue on to his one-hour-snow-delayed school day.  When I texted his mom Anne to let her know of Leo’s good deed, she told me he did it with no prompting from her:  it was entirely his idea.

Dear Readers, THAT’s what’s really important.  Here’s to countering the darkness with the now ever-increasing light.