Living Three Days Without My Brain

Imagine being without a phone for three days.

No, wait. That’s not right.

It’s not your phone that is absent. The phone part would be easy to forgo. Instead, imagine that your electronic brain has gone dark. For three days.

Visualize what it would be like to live without that 3-inchish by 5-inchish mini-computer that contains, and probably rules, your entire life. This magical device facilitates almost everything we do. It’s a communicator, direction-giver, friends-and-family locator, news dispenser, camera, dinner-and-a-movie finder, message leaver, Scrabble addiction fix, meditation timer, calculator, reservation maker, boarding pass, photo album, note taker, music player, fitness and sleep monitor, question answerer. It gives you instant access to entertainment when stuck in traffic, standing in line, or waiting on the friends who are running a few minutes late. Once in a great while, it’s even used as a telephone.

People have nicknamed these devices “my brain” for a reason.

“Can you imagine not having YOUR BRAIN for three days?” I was asking this question — or at least a version of it — to the hapless tech support representative of my cell service provider. (My kids might have said I was yelling. And as I used to say to them, “This isn’t yelling. You want to hear me YELL!?!”) But I’m not going to lie — my tone was definitely elevated and irritated — maybe slightly panicked.

It began on a Friday. I installed the new SIM card sent by my service provider to “improve my coverage.” Instead, no matter how many times I turned my device off and on, an insistent “error message” was all it had to offer. I had access to nothing.

I abandoned my landline two years ago, so I had no way of calling the company. My kids, who happened to be visiting, were kind enough to let me borrow their devices to use as a phone in three different calls. After explaining the issue the first time, I asked what could be done to fix the problem. The second time, I demanded it be fixed. Both times, the reps assured me that the SIM changeover just took time. Stuff had to be unlocked. My device was apparently slow to receive required messages from some Mother Ship. Patience was advised. They advised me to turn the device off and leave it off for an hour or two. Check again. Repeat.

The third time I called, they told me it would be Monday or later before someone could fix it. Unacceptable! I asked if I could re-install the old SIM card. Nope. That was now obsolete. I insisted being “escalated” to a supervisor. He assured me that he understood the inconvenience. He even pretended to sympathize with my pain. But in the end, he delivered the same unsatisfying and unsettling answer: Monday would be the earliest time that the “beta team” could even try to restore the tether that connects me to everything. My life survival device was in a coma.

Resistance was futile, and I was apoplectic. (This a word I’m not even 100 percent sure I know the meaning of — and I couldn’t look it up. But I’ve read enough overwrought fiction to know it’s a step up from fury.)

I stared at the rose-gold framed rectangle on my desk. For three days, it would be rendered useless except as a paperweight. It was a reality I was forced to accept.

So try to imagine what that would be like. And then please allow me to tell you about my experience.

It was awesome.

It turns out, the brain I was born with, encased in its very own custom skull, works just fine. In fact, it works even better than the one I am accustomed to carrying around in my hand. I was relieved to discover that.

It also was a relief to discover, after a mere three days, that maybe I hadn’t contracted an incurable case of ADHD after all. When you’re forced to stop clutching a constant distraction — guess what? You’re immediately less distracted. Yeah, I know that seems pretty obvious, but there is nothing like firsthand personal data to drive a point home. Once I knew I couldn’t rely on my device, I became more focused, more organized, less agitated and less anxious. I wasted less time. It was like being on some weird drug. If I could patent and manufacture this ADHD remedy, I’d call it Rid-a-line.

Until I was forced to live without my electronic brain, I hadn’t realized how hypervigilant I am to all the burps and buzzes that erupt from my phone every few seconds. It’s like the hypervigilance I experienced in the first several weeks I brought my newborns home from the hospital. The responsibility of keeping them alive felt overwhelming. Do devices really need that much attention?

Many of those buzzes touted the latest headlines, delivering consistent micro-shots of depression. Messages from friends and colleagues, no matter how casual, demanded instant response. Every alert was a tireless whiny toddler tapping my shoulder: “Answer me. Aaaannnssswweeer meeeeee. ANSWER ME NOW!” Even worse, I became aware of how often I check my device even when it is silent (just as I had those newborn babies.) I was constantly attuned to it — while driving, standing in an elevator, walking down the street and even while watching TV or in face-to-face conversations.

Without my device, leaving the house became an exercise in mindfulness. I needed a plan before I departed. My archaic paper lists of “Things to Get” and “Things to Do” made a strong comeback. I used my computer to look at maps, plot my routes before I left, and if I didn’t know the location of my destinations, I printed directions. If I took a wrong turn, no insistent voice suggested I “recalibrate.” I had to get resourceful and figure it out.

One of those three days was mostly taken up by a yoga workshop, where in theory, I wouldn’t be using my device much anyway. But when I checked in, the organizer asked how I was paying. I hadn’t brought my checkbook. I don’t carry one any more. Credit cards were not accepted, only PayPal, an app that was on my currently nonfunctional device. The event organizer told me I could pay when I got home to my computer, but that clearly was going to put her in a bind. I began fretting — not the state of mind that fosters a satisfying yoga workshop. And then my brain, my beautiful, fully functioning biological brain, turned on the light. At lunch break, I could dash to the ATM and get cash. Problem solved, peaceful mind restored.

On Monday, I didn’t even think to check whether my device had been restored until mid-morning. Instead of checking headlines, social media or email first thing in the morning, I sat on my balcony, my 3-year-old granddaughter cuddled in my lap, and watched the sunrise. I savored my first cup of coffee. I wrote in my journal, then got ready for the day. It wasn’t until I sat down at my desk mid-morning that the rose-gold rectangle got my attention. Oh, yeah. That thing. I turned it on. It was functioning just fine.

Had I missed it? I had. Was I relieved that it was functioning normally? I was. But I knew it was time to renegotiate the relationship.

I have loved and depended on my device for a long time. I’ve invested a lot in the relationship. I have no desire to navigate the world without its usefulness. Breaking up isn’t an option. But I am choosing to set myself free from its incessant demands. I’m not going to let it resume its place as the center of my attention.

I’ve re-arranged my home screen so that it only has my most used apps — camera, calendar, and communication. After culling my apps down to the most useful and used, I moved them to other pages so I have to consciously look for them. I’ve turned off all notifications. I’ve turned on the “no notification while driving” service. My biological brain is going to call the shots now. My electronic brain will provide back up. My life is going to get my attention and focus, not what is beaming from the little rectangular screen.

If you’re like most people I know, you could quickly and easily compile a long list of valid reasons to defend your device dependence. Connection to the world. Navigation. Answers. Work. School. Kids. (All things, by the way, we managed to attend to just fine in the days before these devices became ubiquitous.) Maybe you can’t imagine living without it. And maybe you don’t even want to engage that thought experiment. I get it.

But what if you had to? What might you discover?

I got an apologetic email from my cell service provider. Truly sorry for the inconvenience, it said. They were grateful for my business and my patience. The team, thanks to my three-day deprivation, was able to learn something new so other customers wouldn’t suffer. As a token of appreciation, they asked me to please accept a $100 credit on my monthly bill.

Guilt washed over me for (not quite) yelling at those customer service reps. In the end, the lessons I learned about myself and my life were far more valuable than $100.

But what the hell. I’m still going to take the credit.