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Have you ever forgotten your phone? When did you realise you'd forgotten it? I'm
guessing you didn't just smack your forehead and exclaim 'damn' apropos of nothing. The
realisation probably didn't dawn on you spontaneously. More likely, you reached for your phone, pawing
open your pocket or handbag, and were momentarily confused by it not being there. Then you did
a mental restep of the morning's events. ***.
In my case, my phone's alarm woke me up as normal but I realised the battery was lower
than I expected. It was a new phone and it had this annoying habit of leaving applications
running that drain the battery overnight. So, I put it on to charge while I showered
instead of into my bag like normal. It was a momentary slip from the routine but that
was all it took. Once in the shower, my brain got back into 'the routine' it follows every
morning and that was it. Forgotten.
This wasn't just me being clumsy, as I later researched, this is a recognised brain function.
Your brain doesn't just work on one level, it works on many. Like, when you're walking
somewhere, you think about your destination and avoiding hazards, but you don't need to
think about keeping your legs moving properly. If you did, the entire world would turn into
one massive hilarious QWOP cosplay. I wasn't thinking about regulating my breathing, I
was thinking whether I should grab a coffee on the drive to work (I did). I wasn't thinking
about moving my breakfast through my intestines, I was wondering whether I'd finish on time
to pick up my daughter Emily from nursery after work or get stuck with another late
fee. This is the thing; there's a level of your brain that just deals with routine, so
that the rest of the brain can think about other things.
Think about it. Think about your last commute. What do you actually remember? Little, if
anything, probably. Most common journeys blur into one, and recalling any one in particular
is scientifically proven to be difficult. Do something often enough and it becomes routine.
Keep doing it and it stops being processed by the thinking bit of the brain and gets
relegated to a part of the brain dedicated to dealing with routine. Your brain keeps
doing it, without you thinking about it. Soon, you think about your route to work as much
as you do keeping your legs moving when you walk. As in, not at all.
Most people call it autopilot. But there's danger there. If you have a break in your
routine, your ability to remember and account for the break is only as good as your ability
to stop your brain going into routine mode. My ability to remember my phone being on the
counter is only as reliable as my ability to stop my brain entering 'morning routine
mode' which would dictate that my phone is actually in my bag. But I didn't stop my brain
entering routine mode. I got in the shower as normal. Routine started. Exception forgotten.
Autopilot engaged. My brain was back in the routine. I showered,
I shaved, the radio forecast amazing weather, I gave Emily her breakfast and loaded her
into the car (she was so adorable that morning, she complained about the 'bad sun' in the
morning blinding her, saying it stopped her having a little sleep on the way to nursery)
and left. That was the routine. It didn't matter that my phone was on the counter, charging
silently. My brain was in the routine and in the routine my phone was in my bag. This
is why I forgot my phone. Not clumsiness. Not negligence. Nothing more my brain entering
routine mode and over-writing the exception. Autopilot engaged.
I left for work. It's a swelteringly hot day already. The bad sun had been burning since
before my traitorously absent phone woke me. The steering wheel was burning hot to the
touch when I sat down. I think I heard Emily shift over behind my driver's seat to get
out of the glare. But I got to work. Submitted the report. Attended the morning meeting.
It's not until I took a quick coffee break and reached for my phone that the illusion
shattered. I did a mental restep. I remembered the dying battery. I remembered putting it
on to charge. I remembered leaving it there. My phone was on the counter.
Autopilot disengaged. Again, therein lies the danger. Until you
have that moment, the moment you reach for your phone and shatter the illusion, that
part of the brain is still in routine mode. It has no reason to question the facts of
the routine; that's why it's a routine. Attrition of repetition. It's not as if anyone could
say 'why didn't you remember your phone? Didn't it occur to you? How could you forget? You
must be negligent'; this is to miss the point. My brain was telling me the routine was completed
as normal, despite the fact that it wasn't. It wasn't that I forgot my phone. According
to my brain, according to the routine, my phone was in my bag. Why would I think to
question it? Why would I check? Why would I suddenly remember, out of nowhere, that
my phone was on the counter? My brain was wired into the routine and the routine was
that my phone was in my bag. The day continued to bake. The morning haze
gave way to the relentless fever heat of the afternoon. Tarmac bubbled. The direct beams
of heat threatened to crack the pavement. People swapped coffees for iced smoothies.
Jackets discarded, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, brows mopped. The parks slowly filled
with sunbathers and BBQ's. Window frames threatened to warp. The thermometer continued to swell.
Thank *** the offices were air conditioned. But, as ever, the furnace of the day gave
way to a cooler evening. Another day, another dollar. Still cursing myself for forgetting
my phone, I drove home. The days heat had baked the inside of the car, releasing a horrible
smell from somewhere. When I arrived on the driveway, the stones crunching comfortingly
under my tyres, my wife greeted me at the door.
"Where's Emily?" ***.
As if the phone wasn't bad enough. After everything I'd left Emily at the *** nursery after
all. I immediately sped back to the nursery. I got to the door and started practising my
excuses, wondering vainly if I could charm my way out of a late fee. I saw a piece of
paper stuck to the door. "Due to vandalism overnight, please use side
door. Today only." Overnight? What? The door was fine this morni-.
I froze. My knees shook. Vandals. A change in the routine.
My phone was on the counter. I hadn't been here this morning.
My phone was on the counter. I'd driven past because I was drinking my
coffee. I'd not dropped off Emily. My phone was on the counter.
She'd moved her seat. I hadn't seen her in the mirror.
My phone was on the counter. She'd fallen asleep out of the bad sun. She
didn't speak when I drove past her nursery. My phone was on the counter.
She'd changed the routine. My phone was on the counter.
She'd changed the routine and I'd forgotten to drop her off.
My phone was on the counter. 9 hours. That car. That baking sun. No air.
No water. No power. No help. That heat. A steering wheel too hot to touch.
That smell. I walked to the car door. Numb. Shock.
I opened the door. My phone was on the counter and my daughter
was dead. Autopilot disengaged.
(***.)