STAGES OF GRIEF

Some time ago, I read a New York Times article that told the story of people who had lost their iPods or had them stolen. It said the people actually went through the stages of grieving one might expect if they had lost a family member. I thought it was all a bit silly, until last Thursday.

I came home from a lovely day of skiing up and went to sync my iPod up with my computer when I get a distressing message. It says that my iPod had become corrupted. At first, I can’t figure out what that means. Had my iPod floated no-bid contracts for Iraq reconstruction to Halliburton? Had my iPod accepted campaign donations in exchange for a peerage? (That’s an appointment to the British House of Lords, for all you non-political nerds.) These scenarios strike me as unlikely, so, without really knowing it, I enter:

Denial
Whenever my iPod won’t sync, I just unplug it and plug it back in. In a matter of seconds, I’ll see that little circle and slash that tells me that all is well. But it’s not working this time. I repeat the process a few more times, with similar results, then I reset my lil’ buddy. No luck.

Finally, I resign myself to more drastic measures. It’s time to “restore” the iPod. This maneuver wipes out pretty much everything on an iPod and brings it back to its factory settings.

I really don’t want to do this, because I have about 6,000 songs on my iPod and I don’t want to wait 12 hours for them to re-sync. But I love my little iPod. Julie gave it to me for Christmas in 2004. It was a beacon of light during my dark months in Texarkana. When Apple began supporting podcasts, it weaned me completely from broadcast radio (which is a good thing in Texarkana).

I hold my breath and hit the “restore” button on iTunes. After a few minutes, it instructs me to disconnect the iPod from my computer and plug it into a wall outlet. I do as instructed and plug my iPod back into my computer. That’s when I arrive at:

Anger
Some software updater comes up on my screen, and moments later, my computer crashes. Once things are up and running again, I try once more. iTunes instructs me to “restore” my iPod again, but I get an error message that says I don’t have enough software to restore it. But of course I don’t have enough software! That’s why I’m trying to “restore” it!

At this point, it’s 6 AM. I have been at it for more than 8 hours. I go to bed for some brief, fitful sleep. I dream that my iPod is better, that all I had to do was give it a little rest, and it would come back to me. (I wish I was joking about that last detail.)

I wake up 3 hours later, head back out to my computer, and find myself:

Bargaining
With no food and little sleep over the past 14 hours, I’m starting to lose my mind. I can’t stand the thought of my little iPod dying. But I can’t seem to bring it back from the dead. I’m also starting to realize that I’m being completely irrational, but it doesn’t calm my anxiety.

After spending hours going through Apple’s customer support menus online, I feel I may have made a breakthrough. My computer recognizes my iPod, and I’m allowed to rename it, and all that’s left is a single button push to complete the restoration process. I hit the button, and the waiting game begins. Hours pass. I get on my knees and start praying to my computer.

“Please. Please. Let this work. I’ll do anything. Please.”

Then the bad graphic comes up again, and it’s obvious that all is lost.

Depression
The last page on the Apple site tells me my iPod must be mailed in for service. I start filling out forms and contemplate life without an iPod for 6 weeks. I’ll have to lug around CDs. I’ll have to listen to (say it isn’t so) the radio. I’ll only be able to listen to programs when they’re actually broadcast. I t seems too awful to imagine. Then I get to the part where the web site cranks out a price estimate: $255. The cost of a new video iPod: $249.

I rest my head on my computer keyboard and fight back a sob. (I really wish I was making that last detail up.)

Acceptance
About this time, Julie walks into the living room. She’s been busy working all day and has watched this drama unfold from afar.

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“Bring my iPod back to life.”

“I can’t watch this anymore, let’s go.”

“What?”

“Valentines Day is two weeks away. We’re getting you another iPod.”

We drive to the store. I’m dressed in black. I pick out a black iPod. I feel like owning another white one would be too much like trying to replace a beloved pet. I am still grieving! A little respect for the dead, please.

I get the new iPod home. I name it “Matty” after me, but with a “y” at the end. All my songs sync overnight. But can I make myself vulnerable again? Can I allow myself to be hurt again? Time will tell.

I’m growing to love my new iPod, but I will never forget my first. Bon voyage, my beloved storage device. Bon voyage.