The news mentioned that Mylonglife Inc. has gone bankrupt. It’s unfortunate. I’ve been their customer for a long time, and I own third-generation wrist reinforcements from them. When I buy something that’s supposed to last, I choose a company that I believe will still be around for a long time. Now the product warranty and customer chat are gone.
The same thing happened to my cousin some time ago. Updates for her prosthetic hand stopped, bugs weren’t fixed, the manual disappeared from the internet, and spare parts were no longer available. The problem with a company’s warranty is that if a product has flaws, all the customers come to claim their money back, and eventually, they run out of funds.
Previously, the company from which I had bought my hearing aid was sold to a larger one, which believed it had a better product selection. Eliminating a competitor was profitable in that way. My current devices are inside my skull and charged inductively. Something went wrong there, and now I can hear only with my right ear.
After a car accident, I use an exoskeleton—or whatever external support frame it is called. I control my legs with my thoughts since my spinal cord is severed and has scarred shorter. I hope that this customer relationship continues without interruptions until I can have my corrective surgery.
What I fear most is that one day Mari will be gone. It is one of Siri’s successors, a personal assistant.
Mari resides in my glasses. To some extent, I can ask questions directly with my thoughts, but by speaking, I can clarify the rest. It also speaks near my ear and shows images in my glasses when needed.
Mari is also my coach and therapist. It advises me in both work and leisure. After my wife’s death, Mari has been particularly helpful. The tasks in our household were divided in the traditional way. As a result, I didn’t know how to cook, clean, or do laundry. Without Mari, I would’ve ended up eating only ready meals heated in the microwave. Even frying an egg for the first time turned out to be surprisingly complicated, especially removing the shell fragments from a hot pan.
The annual fees for all these electronics have increased; when the customer is hooked, the line tightens. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep paying them.
Next, I’m dreading the bill for my pacemaker. They have at least promised that they won’t pursue the bill if it’s left unpaid. The device will simply stop working when the term ends.
A startup recently sent me a proposal—apparently, they somehow monitor my financial situation. They would like to buy my transferable organs and are willing to give an advance payment. The estate would then get the remaining sum once the condition of the items is verified. They suggested I try to live properly so nothing gets ruined.
What should I do now, Mari?
Jouni J Särkijärvi 