Life After (Blue Screen of) Death

What had claimed its place in my life as the nadir of the previous week has, within one week's time, turned around and become a highlight of this week: I am happy to report that there is life after Blue Screen of Death.

As with almost everything else our family has become accustomed to doing in this inter-connected life, we had put out an online plea for help after a Windows update killed my desktop computer. (Well, at least it seemed to have killed my computer.) All we were hoping for was to be able to retrieve the data and maybe replace the part which seemed hobbled by the "new and improved" version of Windows 10.

Thanks to crowdsourcing, the answer came back, sending us to an IT guy about a half hour's drive away. In less than a week, his report came back: the data was saved, and with some tech wizardry, my computer was up and running again.

That was the good news. The bad news—certainly not anywhere near the magnitude of what could have been—was that the end result was the electronic version of taking my "analog" file cabinet, yanking all the drawers out and dumping them on the floor of my office. Gone were all my nicely-organized folders, with carefully-thought-out filing system. I would have to reconstruct all that. But at least the documents were there.

There was another problem. Just as if I had received a new system—which, in a way, I had—I would need to set up each account I had, once again. That meant uploading each program, entering passwords and organizing the choices, just like I wanted it. Considering all the DNA accounts I administer—and all the companies where I hold those accounts—that was an afternoon's workload.

But I did it, still on the high of realizing I got my computer back, up and running, with all the files intact. Really, what more did I want? I got my wish. And with that, I'm satisfied.