Chris Dancy - Dont Unplug: How Technology Saved My Life and Can Save Yours Too

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For the machines and the people who love them

Necessity is the mother of invention.

English-Language Proverb

Christmas fell on a Thursday in 2003, so I had been looking forward to the long four-day weekend for a while. I knew Id be at my favorite dive bar around the corner, the Atrium, by early afternoon. I just had to make it through the morning festivities, trying to put on a good show for Doug.

Every year, my partner, Doug, decorated the whole house for Christmas and spent hours cooking a delicious meal. But I could never work up any enthusiasm for the holiday. Every year, I swore to myself that Id do my best, but this year was starting out just like all the rest.

I was sacked out on the couch, a 64-ounce Double Big Gulp from 7Eleven on the table in front of me. Across the living room, my dog, Buster, was lying on the floor, looking about as healthy as I did. His eyesight was failing; hed been diagnosed with diabetes two years ago. The vet had assured us he would live a long life as long as we gave him his insulin and watched him closely, but from what I could see, he was getting slower and slower.

What do you think Priscilla is up to this year? Doug asked with a sidelong glance.

Priscilla, my mother, was a distant character in my life. A few months ago, I had written her an email when I was in a particularly bad state. I just as quickly regretted telling her so muchshe wanted to help, but really, how could she? She lived far away with my father, to whom I rarely spoke, and she knew nothing of my complicated world. I shrugged my shoulders and lit up my tenth cigarette of the morning.

My uncle Joe, my fathers brother, would be arriving any minute. Uncle Joe was a divorc with a few anger issues, and as he lived not far from us in Denver, he usually turned up for the holidays. I used to think it was nice of us to invite him to visit, but in reality, I probably invited him because he would inevitably start a fight, threaten me or break things. That destructive nature was familiar to meit ran deeply in my family. His presence gave me a good excuse to go hide in the basement.

My mother, who lived in Florida, didnt usually send gifts all the way to Colorado. But this year was different. Several days ago, some carefully packed boxes had turned up at our front door. Doug, who had apparently been given explicit instructions, had been guarding them since theyd arrived. I had to admit, I was curious.

It was 8:30 a.m. All I wanted to do was smoke another cigarette or two, finish my vat of soda and go surf the internet in the safe darkness of my basement, though I suppose it was time to put some clothes on.

I descended the stairsdown to what Doug called my warren. After five years with Doug, I had finally taken my drug and internet use down to the quiet basement. I was a 35-year-old drug addict, already half-dead, with very little to show for the life Id lived. The warren suited me just fine.

My room in the basement, what I liked to think of as my office, did look a bit like a warren. Thousands of photos, clippings and souvenirs were pinned to cork boards covering every square inch of the walls; my entire life, a story told on hundreds of pieces of paper, was displayed around me. Here was all I had seen, accomplished, lived and loved. I had the paperwork to prove it.

Buster started to bark upstairs. Shit. It was time to do Christmas. I trudged slowly upstairs again.

At 35, it shouldnt have been this hard to climb ten stairs.

Hello Christopher! Uncle Joe called out at top volume.

I shuffled through the living room, trying to ignore the lights, gifts and decorations Doug had hung so carefully. It was all so beautiful, it hurt to look at it. I grabbed the gifts I had wrapped for Joe and Doug and tried to hand them outI liked giving gifts at Christmas, especially ones I could not afford. I craved the instant gratification of other peoples gratitude.

Hang on, Chris, Doug said gently. We have a phone call to make. I sat down impatiently, but kept my mouth shut as Doug started dragging boxes out of his office where he had hidden them. My impatience turned to excitement; what was my mother up to?

Doug dialed my mom, then handed me the phone.

Hello?

Hey Mom, its Chris.

Merry Christmas, Christopher!

Merry Christmas, Mom. My tone softened when I heard the excitement in her voice.

Christopher, listen to me. Are you listening?

Yes, Mom. I rolled my eyes.

Im serious, listen to me, she said firmly.

Ok Mom, Im listening.

The boxes that I sent you? You have to open them in order, ok?

What order? What are you talking about?

Open the first box and take out the book inside.

Ok, Ill have Doug help me and then well call you back.

Christopher , stay on the phone with me!

Why was she so serious this morning? I smiled to myself and grabbed the first box.

Ok Mom, I see a blue binder.

Christopher. Now listen to me carefully. Before you open it, make sure it says Book 1 on the inside.

I lifted the heavily worn binder out of the box and opened it slowly. Book 1 was written on the inside cover in thick red marker.

My mother had always had a flair for drama. I heard her exhale slowly.

Christopher, you know I couldnt always be there with you and your broth

Yeah Mom, I know, its ok, I cut her off. She had always felt guilty about how much shed missed when we were young, when she was busy working two or three jobs at a time to keep us from losing our home. Dont worry, Mom, I know. And I love you.

I could feel myself getting choked up and coughed slightly to hide it.

Christopher, I always wanted to be there for you, you know that. But just because I couldnt, that doesnt mean I wasnt keeping track of you and your brother, she said, then paused. Ok, now go ahead and open the book.

I turned to the cover page.

February 17, 1968. Christopher, its Mom, I just found out youre on your way to me.

I knew instantly what I held in my hands. I began to sob.

Christopher, my mom said gently. Now stop that, Christopher. Just stop.

My mothers letters were legendary. For decades, she wrote long notes in perfect cursive to our family members abroad. Every aunt, uncle and grandparent had always talked with reverence about my mothers famous letters. I realized that this one was not just to me, but to a me that was yet to be born.

I quickly turned the pages. There was more than just one letter. My mother had, unbeknownst to me, created a time capsule of my entire childhood. Each page was numbered, dated and cataloged. Everything from my first word to my first step to my first haircut. The binders were filled with memorabilia from my childhoodreport cards, my measurements, my weight, my height, notes about which foods I liked.

I began to short-circuit.

I told my mother I had to go and hung up the phone. I heard, Christopher wait as I put the receiver down. Doug stood there looking down at me with this goofy grin on his face, and Uncle Joe smirked at me.