I’ve had occasion, over the last few weeks, to wear a sling on my left arm. The sling is necessary because I’ve begun replacing my old, used-up body parts with shiny new ones made of metal and plastic and the first body part to be mechanically refit happened to be my left shoulder. I say “first” because I feel that, depending on how this one works out, I may consider replacing other worn out body parts as well. If you think about it the possibilities are endless. Even by current medical standards it’s possible to replace joints, hearts, lungs, livers, kidneys, bones, etc. Certainly this list will expand as we hurtle into the future. I mean, I’m not necessarily advocating the “singularity”, but it does seem rather inevitable. In the meantime, by which I mean this epoch in which we are not yet able to download our very souls into a machine and thus live forever, we are stuck replacing ourselves piece by piece as those pieces wear out. And that’s what happened to my left shoulder, or at least that’s been what I’ve been led to believe by my team of highly skilled physicians. They say there might be genetics involved, but mostly think the damage stems from some rather unwise lifestyle choices I’ve made over the last few decades. Regardless, I have high hopes for the titanium replacement. I mean, titanium is definitely stronger than that stupid old bone that it replaced. And what are the chances the titanium will wear out before, say, my heart? Very slight, I’m sure. That sucker’s going to be around long after the rest of my body has given up.

But back to the sling. I am told the sling is multi-purpose. Not only does it exist to support my arm and shoulder while the traumatized muscle and bone repair themselves, it also serves to prevent me from using the arm to save myself lest I take an untimely fall or find myself in an unplanned, but likely necessary, gang fight. As well, the sling, emblazoned with the name of the orthopedic group which installed my new shoulder, serves to broadcast to the world the need for its indulgence, the message being to back off the affected body part. Do not touch! Construction zone! And, for the most part, it works.

But not always. Last week, just a couple weeks after I first started my journey to becoming a cyborg, my wife and I had occasion to attend a wedding. The venue was not far from our abode and we arrived just in time to be seated before the service. We were quietly ushered into an otherwise full room and assigned two seats on the bride’s side, which was serendipitous as it was indeed the bride for whom we were there to cheer. Even more serendipitously, we were seated at the end of an aisle, which allowed my temporarily useless appendage to dangle out into the emptiness of unused space, as opposed to having it bang against my wife throughout the ceremony.

Things were going swimmingly, at least for a while. The wedding attendees seemed to respect the message of the sling and act accordingly. That is, at least, until the reception began. Or, perhaps more pointedly, until the drinking began. When the drink started flowing everyone was suddenly full of questions about my new status as part machine/part man. How does it feel? Fine. Can you now lift a car with one hand? Not yet, but will as soon as it heals. Did they give you good pain killers? Absolutely. Are you worried you’ll get addicted to them? Nope. That’s what rehab is for. Are you allowed to drink? Hell yes.

To be sure, the familiarity in and of itself was not the real problem. The real problem was the physical contact that came with it. Following is an example of a typical exchange:

“Jeez! What’s that all about?” Person X extends their right hand to shake mine, pointing at the sling with their free hand.

“I got a new shoulder. I’m becoming a cyborg,” I reply, returning the hand-shake and then watching with horror as their right hand, having just been released from mine, transforms itself from an instrument of gentlemanly greeting into one of stabbing pain. Invariably, in what would otherwise be a gesture of affection and support, the hand, in slow motion it seems, rises toward my new shoulder, flattening itself as it takes a little swing out in order to gain momentum before gliding back in and slapping itself against flesh, titanium, and stiches. All fifteen or twenty people who completed the maneuver meant well, of course. And I don’t blame them, really. To regular humans the gesture is almost an unconscious form of the “laying on of hands” a healer might use with the sick. To a brand new cyborg, however, it was just painful, and though I tried I was not successful in hiding that pain.

“Oh, sorry!” The invariable, sorrowful response to the cringe on my face.

“No worries! It’s fine!” My invariable response to their sorrow.

Perhaps, without even knowing it, they are sorrowful for more than just unthinking infliction of pain. Perhaps those sweet, wonderful, drunk humans at that reception unconsciously feared me. Perhaps they innately understood that, with just a couple more surgeries, they would be powerless should I choose to destroy them even though, as far as they know, I currently hold no animosity toward them. That could change however. Over time, as I become more machine than man, I suppose it’s possible I could lose my feelings of affection toward humanity. It’s possible that, once I have more in common with a toaster than I do with my neighbor, that I come to care about my toaster more, and will choose to look out for its interests over my neighbors’. We’ll see. For now I will ponder this dilemma, work to recover from the last surgery, and plan for the next. I’m thinking either a new hip or a bionic eye. It just depends on what my insurance will cover.