The pandemic I did is already taking my brain out of Cyborg

The pandemic I did is already taking my brain out

Hard to say when my brain became a cyborg. I noticed him through the pandemic. We were, all over the world, streaming out. I was in the middle of changing legs. My old leg, C-Leg Ottobock, started making whirring sounds. I could hear my foot thinking, or whatever the word is when our machine parts perform tasks.

I went to the prosthetist and he told me about a new device called Freedom Innovations Plié Knee. In fact they would name the knee after a ballet fucking move.

Point of sale? There were removable batteries. I could have an extra battery in my purse. I would no longer need to plug them into a wall for a fee.

Why was the prosthetist committed? Money, perhaps. But he did not say that. They never say that. He told me that I would like the new leg - they always say that - and that it would be lighter. Much lighter.

I weigh 100 pounds, so any excess weight from a machine is important.

The salesman from Freedom Innovations gave me a swag - T-shirt, keyboard.

At the next meeting, she had no idea why the Plié was fucking up. Why had I fallen on my concrete path while getting the mail? Why did the foot not understand grooves and contractions?

I think she attributed the fall to “lack of use. That's what prosthetic companies say. "It must be your fault. The technology is good. ”

I left the house, in those early months of pandemic, for steep positions. I did everything for errands - the grocery store, the gas station - but I never got out of the car. My by-election went in. I sat in the car with an unpleasant leg and my pill box for chronic pain. I was born disabled from Agent Orange. I am a neutral fighter in two wars: Vietnam and the Opioids War. One war gave me the pain; the next war threatens to keep me there.

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I saw people walking in and out of the store. How easy they walked. This one in a hurry, fast, come in and find out. That dawdling one, pausing to put on her mask, looked back at his truck.

Would I get used to the new leg? Did it just get used? Why was it all hurt more?

For the first time, changing legs, I had a cyborg companion. I hired cyborg Amy Gaeta to be my assistant. She is a PhD student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. There is so much that we do not have to explain to each other because we are both in a cyborg subject situation. So we can skip the bullshit convos about reach, reach, constant reach and get theory.

I always follow Yoshiko Dart's guide: If you have the money, hire disabled people.

It was just because I was talking to another cyborg that I realized that my brain is already a cyborg. Amy is autistic. She studies drones, so our conversations often led to how war technology is an extension of human, neurodivergent and neurotypical brain thinking, and why it's hard to hold a conversation when one is in pain.

So I already knew my body was a cyborg. I knew from 2010, when I published "Going Cyborg" in The New York Times. It was even becoming easier to explain my cyborg personality to anyone.

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