GIVEN HOW MUCH I write about privacy, it’s a little surprising that I now have a radio transmitter in my chest. But that’s the sort of thing that happens when you walk into an emergency room with a heart rate that won’t go above 30 and the next day roll out of surgery after the emergency implant of a cardiac pacemaker. That pacemaker is equipped with radio frequency telemetry that allows it to transmit details about my health to medical providers and to be fine-tuned by a technician.
The device keeps me going, but it also disturbs the hell out
