If you had asked me a month or two ago if I had ever had a spatial immersive experience, or what the chances were that at the age of 60, I would become an early adopter of virtual reality goggles, I would have said it was about as likely as a tech giant from Silicon Valley being appointed to “disrupt” the US federal government.
Let me explain the unlikely series of events that led me to the latest in technology.
Over the years, I have had to perfect acrobatic positions that would qualify me for the Cirque du Soleil in order to avoid discomfort while working on my computer. Despite moving to a standing desk and multiple rounds of tedious physio, I am no longer able to use my right arm without mind-bending pain, which obliterates any chance of creative focus for sustained periods.
The last year in particular has felt like a tortured battle against diminished cognitive functioning and brain fog, the result of my steady use of ineffectual anti-inflammatories. I’ve never done so little work in my life, nor had so much time on my hands. I am now armed with MRI scans that show a ruptured shoulder tendon, three herniated neck discs which are compressing the nerves running down my arm – and NHS surgery dates to fight my malingering guilt.
In order to cope, I’ve learned to cultivate curiosity, a great source of distraction, which I frequently practise through the art of the urban walk. I leave the house, open to where adventure might take me… because you never know. Last week I ended up shuffle dancing to an excellent DJ at the Camden Assembly pub in the middle of the afternoon.
Two months ago, I left the house for what I thought would be a stop in a museum, but found myself instead in a store looking for a charger for my iPhone. While standing there, I explained to an empathetic young sales assistant that I am a benched writer, that my right arm has been temporarily disabled and asked jokingly whether he had a gadget that would enable me to get food into my mouth with my left hand, without stabbing myself in the eye with a fork.
When he asked if I’d like to try a ‘mixed-reality headset’, I looked clueless. He explained they were used for multimedia experiences such as watching films and gaming that you view on virtual screens. He suggested that the eye tracking, coupled with voice control in the accessibility features, could put me back in action.
Next moment I am seated in the demonstration area wearing a pair of thick and heavy glass goggles. After a quick set up, a little green dot hovers in the air. I tap my thumb and finger together and the familiar group of app icons appear in a transparent visual overlay. The pixelation of the graphics renders the icons more distinct than the chair in front of me. The eye tracking is the most surprising. All I need do is look at the app I wish to launch, tap my finger and thumb gently together and the program opens. I can move multiple screens closer or further away from me, like furniture in the room.
I try other programs, open photos and expand them to lifesize. I watch immersive videos where dinosaurs appear as real as any fully blown nightmare, except they’re kind of adorable and check me out in the same way I keep gaping at them. I recall a parenting moment when my son was a toddler and was struggling to work out whether or not his stuffed animals were real. He was relieved to be told that, despite the stuffed replica, there was no such thing as a Gruffalo. Once he understood it was an optical trick, he didn’t have to ask the difference between real and pretend again.
Navigating my way around different programs feels a bit like learning to get my balance on a bicycle. I grow disoriented. The speed of movement requires constant adaptation to spatial and visual cues. I begin to relax. I even reach out and interact with digital objects – a butterfly lands on my finger. I find myself reacting with the same sort of wonder that I experience in the real world.
And then the denouement. I am shown a little dial on the side of the goggle that allows me to control how much reality I want to stay immersed in. The real room disappears, leaving me surrounded by a mountain scene. I gasp in amazement. Its spatial depth, the light and shadow, render the scene so viscerally vivid I feel the space around me. Even though I know it is not real – and that distinction is clear – I experience a mood shift as if it were. It’s a bit like going into the tube at Piccadilly Circus and surfacing at the next stop to find yourself on a beach in the Bahamas.
If the possibilities in these immersive spaces sound slightly terrifying, think about the historical adaptations of neural cognition and spatial awareness we have made as a species and the consequences for cultural and scientific progress. Take the visual arts at the time of the Renaissance, the radical shift of spatial perspective from two dimensions to three in painting, or how physics evolved because we were able to imagine the invisible behaviour of the universe not available to the human eye.
In a matter of minutes, I was moving in and out of programs with ease; using my eyes and hands, my arm relaxed with no nerve pain firing. I view software that shows breakthroughs in medical training, immersive experiences that can be used in educational environments, in art, architecture and design. Watching it, I found myself overwhelmed with tears at the thought I may be able to work in the months leading up to surgery and during rehabilitation.
Until my thoughts moved to my next dilemma. How was I going to break the news to my husband? Thirty years of marriage and the rule has always been, we consult with each other on purchases over £100. How was I to explain to him, over the phone, the profound hope that has just descended on me? The shift in my mood, the difference in vision I’d had for the next year of my life? I felt like someone had given me a smart drug, a magic cure for brain fog. In fact, I’d trade painkillers for the goggles, anytime.
There was only one answer. I’d have to bring them home so he could try them himself. I snap a picture of the unboxed purchase and texted him with the message, “DO NOT HAVE A HEART ATTACK, I CAN RETURN THEM”. He texts back immediately, “I AM HAVING A HEART ATTACK”. I leave the store with profound creative thoughts and the new virtual reality goggles, carrying the bag with my left arm. I get on a bus going the wrong direction, not picking up the visual clues for another 10 stops.
The negotiations once I make it home go on long into the night. We spar over reviews. He concedes there is a consensus that they are comparatively the best in VR headsets, but it’s only virtual reality. I say that is like arguing a smartphone is only a phone. He points out even the influencers and early adopters are predicting market failure because the price is so grossly prohibitive (from £3,499). Why don’t I wait until the price comes down? I point out that waiting defeats the purpose, which is to enable me to work and help me mentally survive the next year. He’s convinced. He gets it and is actually relieved for me. Moved even. The goggles stay.
After a couple of days of coaching on the accessibility features, I am able to block any gesture from my right arm, forcing me to make the break in the part of my brain that still wants to steer with the right side. It accelerates my learning to go hands-free on my other devices. And it’s a good thing because I can only use the goggles for a couple of hours a day before my neck spasms with the weight. But I’ve learned a hack for that, by laying down so my face acts as a table of sorts.
Though I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the bug eyes in public, I have to admit, after getting through the panic attacks I experienced after taking them off – the result of physical disorientation and fear of their seductive allure – I am beginning to feel at ease with my new hip identity.
This despite the immense amount of ridicule and sceptical concern directed my way from friends and family alike. I haven’t been the target of this much piling on since getting busted after trying a joint as a teenager. Am I in danger of letting go of the struggle to be human in a real world? Watch this space. This article was written hands-free.
Dancing with the Octopus by Debora Harding is published by Profile Books and Bloomsbury USA. Buy it for £9.99 at guardianbookshop.com
