They’re tracking me!
C.E. Grundler
Yes, it sounds like something a certain paranoid character of mine might say, but the fact is I’m sitting here right now with a microchip implanted beneath my skin. It’s amazing to consider where technology has gone in recent years, and where it will go in years to come. But it’s a strange feeling, physically, an unfamiliar presence tugging the slightest bit as I move, the incision and staples itching as the skin heals. And mentally, it’s even stranger. There’s something a little smaller than a tiny flash drive implanted in my body, tucked close to my heart, reading each electrical impulse, tracking every beat and anything else that might be going on. Tracking, recording, then sending a wireless signal to a reciever each night as I sleep, uploading data for my cardiologist. With any luck, somewhere in that data we’ll pinpoint what’s going on, or more specifically, off on random occasions.
Recently, I’ve been going through more of the medical system than I prefer. But I’m not just a patient — I’m a writer. Let me loose in a new, unfamiliar enviroment, and I immediately switch into research mode. I explore. I ask questions. Lots of questions. And I listen as others go about their daily routines caring for us patients. Just like boatyards or any other business, hospitals have their own pulse and rhythm, but it’s one I’m not familiar with. Put me on a bed hooked up to wires and monitors and IVs, and I’m filling my mental notebook with every sight and sound, filing away the experience of being trapped for hours upon hours in a web of wires and tubes, unable to even stand without aid. The most interesting thing I learned yesterday? Heart rate monitors have alarms (makes sense) that go off when the beat drops below a certain point, initially 50 beats per minute. Red lights start flashing, alarms start sounding, everyone rushes over to see that you’re fine. After the alarm kept tripping, they lowered it, again and again. And again. Apparently, my heart likes to idle somewhere around the low 40s, and even into the 30s. Normal resting heart rates should fall around 60-80, though highly trained athletes can run lower. I can say with all honesty that I’m neither highly trained or athletic. Thus, the chip.
Now I can set off some security systems, and I have a little card to explain why RFID readers might find me more interesting. It’s MRI safe, but I have to be aware of the electromagnetic fields around me, including which pocket I keep my phone in and which ear I hold it to. I’m not supposed to linger near the electronic surveilence gates in stores and libraries. I’m okay around microwave ovens, but need to stay two feet away from induction cooktops. And I’m supposed to give wide berth to portable radio and HAM transmitters. And for the next week, while everything heals, I’m on much restricted activity, which leaves me plenty of uninterupted writing time, and a little more insight into Hammon’s world.
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