COMMUNICATION | DISCOVERIES

I have the Héctor Salamanca Syndrome

Does it ring the bell?

The famous hotel bell from Don Héctor. Photo by Jonathan Cosens Photography on Unsplash

For about four days now, I haven’t been able to respond to Medium stories on my phone.

The last story I read on my phone and could actually reply to, from the device, was *Don’t Make Me Go Out at Night* by Carole Olsen.

I had just finished watching a football match, Belgium against Senegal. And as a bedtime story, I read Carole’s piece in the kitchen, on my phone. Very fitting for the night, and I agreed with her completely: these days we don’t need much more. A blanket, a book, a tea, a look at the husband, the dog, and that’s it. So I went to bed happy, sad only for the Senegalese.

**Link to the free read of the day.**

The next day I read stories on Medium and couldn’t respond from the phone. I could only read and clap. A while later, same thing. And so it went, all day. I checked other apps, all working fine, except Medium’s.

That day I answered with comments from the laptop, which sometimes wears me out.

Since the problem kept going, I decided to contact Medium’s troubleshooting service and sent a message describing it. While I slept, an IT guy wrote back: they know about the issue, they’re working on it. So it’s not a matter of my own digital incompetence.

The thing persists to this day. Yesterday I spent the whole time reading and clapping, unable to say a word. And then, at night, pling!: I have the Héctor Salamanca Syndrome. If you’ve watched Breaking Bad or Better Call Saul, you know the man in the wheelchair, with the oxygen tube in his nose and the famous bell to say yes or no to questions. That’s me now. Like Héctor. Ring ring ring. Clap, clap, clap.

And so I started thinking about all those chatbots, those forms that never reply what we actually look for. Ring ring ring.

Not everything is black or white. Sometimes Héctor Salamanca needed to express more, and he’d roll his eyes and ring harder, more often. Sometimes they listened. Sometimes they didn’t.

And then, the Le Creuset pots

The Le Creuset heavy pots. Photo by Becca Tapert on Unsplash

This year, I resolved to donate blood.

The wish comes from a frustration of my youth, when I wanted to donate blood for a university classmate’s grandfather, and my parents forbade it. “You have a long day ahead,” they said. “You shouldn’t be out on the street with nothing in your stomach and no blood in you either.”

Since the man was over eighty, they figured the hospital would find another way. I felt so guilty it stayed with me my whole life, this business of donating blood.

But on Medium, reading stories, I came across Rodrigo S-C’s piece about his long kind career donating blood. It inspired me, and I went looking for where and how to donate in the Netherlands.

Turns out, being a very organized country, it’s all centralized under one organization: you register, they run health tests, an interview, and that’s it. Welcome to the world of vampirism.

So I donated blood. Well, no, I donated plasma. They told me they have plenty of blood already, so they prefer plasma, because it’s used to make medications.

• — And who makes the medications?* I asked.
• — Laboratories. — And are they commercial? — Yes. — So I’m giving plasma to someone who makes money off me? — Yes. But well, in the end, it’s to save lives, isn’t it?*

After that donation, they kept calling. Emails. Calls. Emails, emails, emails. Ugh, I thought, these people are worse than a door-to-door Bible salespeople. But well, I thought, they’ll get tired eventually. Nope. They don’t have bots. They have people, paid a salary to call others and motivate them to give blood or plasma.

Since I had surgery coming up, I decided that two weeks before, if they happened to call, I would answer. And of course, they called.

• — Hi, I’m calling about your blood or plasma donation.*

— I’m glad you called, because I want to tell you I’m not going to donate.

— No? Why not?

— I’m having surgery in two weeks. Also, I don’t have a car and the donation center is far.

— No problem, we cover transportation. So?

— I’m not going to donate because I’m having surgery.

— Can I ask what kind? I need to put it on the form.

— Hysterectomy.

— Mm… do you own Le Creuset pots?

— No.

— Don’t lift anything heavy.

— Right, they told me that.

— I had that surgery too. And it took me a long time to recover.

— Mm… oh really?

— It was a transverse incision and I had a lot of pain. Since the doctor warned me ahead of time and I live alone, I had to rearrange my whole house for the days I wouldn’t be able to move much. And since I had a brand-new set of Le Creuset pots, I had to switch, bought lighter ones instead. And while I was at it, I got a robot lawnmower and a robot vacuum too. I barely cooked and left everything dirty until someone came to wash the pots or load the dishwasher.

— I don’t have Le Creuset pots. And I live with my husband.

— That’s it, then. I’ll mark: cannot donate blood or plasma for at least one year. Have a nice day.

— Doei. (Bye in Dutch, the whole conversation was in Dutch)

IT answered like a person. The blood bank woman got so sidetracked telling me about her surgery, she forgot to finish the form. Both of them, human, messy, off-topic. Meanwhile I clap.

Turns out I’m the bot now. My bot life is not fun. I want a bot-ex.

Thanks for reading my story.

PS: Problem persists, so now I repost your stories after being hindered to comment.