The Digitization of Grief
Signing Out for the Last Time
Christmas 2022 was my first without my mother. She had passed in August of 2022, dying in her sleep as she always wanted.
My dad and I had affectionately nicknamed her “the squirrel” for her nervous tendencies, and her penchant for accumulating massive amounts of stuff, filling every nook and cranny, so much so the contents of which were often forgotten. Books, DVDs, tchotchkes, files, and mementoes all hidden in plain sight in a lovely, modest apartment, now the responsibility of my father.
Upon her passing, he focused on clearing out the junk and keeping the best things of hers with gusto, so much so it took a heavy toll. He was hospitalized in early November for a week, and within days of him coming home, my mother’s memorial service soon followed. By the time Christmas came, I thought exhaustion had wrung our emotions to the brink.
After such an ordeal, I assumed opening presents Christmas morning would be the most emotional moment of our time together. But it wasn’t.
The new normal of death today is clearing and managing a loved one’s digital life. Adding to the stressful pile of par-for-the-course archaic paperwork, we now have to manage their email, social media, and cancel subscriptions. Strangely, nothing was more emotional to me during the entire process than canceling her Netflix.
I think it’s because my mom and I used movies to communicate to each other. Although we were very close and said “I love you” all the time, it was our regular exchange of movie quotes and obscure references which truly connected us. Her love of movies became mine as soon as I could climb into a theater seat. She generously brought me to Sleeping Beauty at least 10 times. Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (which my childish hearing made me insist it was “Two-Famed”) must’ve been at least 20 times. Poor woman.
When my father and I sat down and logged into her Netflix account, it was a digital farewell I hadn’t anticipated. In her “Continue Watching” sat several charming period pieces left halfway viewed. Her “My List” was now a rich and varied plan of entertainment never to be realized. The “Hi, Patricia” at the top, now a greeting I will never hear or read again.
By glimpsing into her Netflix, a bizarro version of mine, she lived again for a few moments. What would she see next? What was she watching? What did she like or not like? What was she just about to recommend to me? I’ll never know.
It was over almost too quick. Just a click or two and we were confirming “Finish Cancellation,” a big, blue button confirming this member — since January 2006 — no longer needed this service.
And with that, the account was rendered moot, with nothing left to do but sign out.
As we did, my dad and I waved to the screen. We opened up the app on her phone, and I cried as we kissed the screen and signed out for the last time.
In the latter years of her life, our relationship had grown a bit strained and complicated. We argued over silly misunderstandings and frustrations, which led me to call her less and less. The texts from her went from hopeful and buoyant, to strained and bleak. The puppies and kitties of instagram gave way to short text updates on how poorly she’d slept that night, or new concerns over my dad’s health weighing on her. I did my best to be there with words of comfort in reply, but would often get no replies in return.
Yet, our connection over movies never waned. We still found little clips or funny quotes to send each other when we were down. One of our favorites was from Rescue Me, where the father and son talk about baseball, but subtitles explain what they’re really expressing.
Another was John Candy from Splash reacting to Tom Hanks’ story of Madison showing up naked at the Statue of Liberty: “Well, I’m all for it, of course!”
Our tried and true standby was Dr. Emmett Brown at the end of Back to the Future, “And then…everything will be fine!” whenever we were worried about something.
Occasionally, when I scroll instagram, a cute post will pop up with “liked by goodwinwriter” near the caption. It’s a haunting jolt, as if she just did so within a few hours or days. But sure enough, the post will be something from over a year ago, and the algorithm wanted me to see it right then for some reason. I didn’t even realize the “suggestion” function went back in time that far, but apparently it does.
Much has been written about one’s life after death online. What are you supposed to do with their facebook account? Their blog or web site? How often should you be checking their email to keep it alive? Somewhere I read that if you don’t log into an email account for 6 months or so, most likely it’ll be disabled or emptied out when you log back in. When will I be free of having to “check in” on these accounts just to keep them active? Or after some time, will I just forget to do it for years, then remember, only to log in and be warned of the impending clear out due to my unintended negligence?
A week after she passed, my dad and I played Wordle as we did every day, and as silly as it sounds, we felt it was made just for us that day.
“Don’t worry, I’m flying. I’m having a great time. — Patty”
As I said earlier, the rigor of clearing out my mother’s accumulated maximalism took its toll on my father. It must have shown, because shortly after she passed, several people felt the need to tell me the apparently commonly-known fact that often the surviving spouse usually doesn’t last more than 6 months.
Before the holidays, he was hospitalized for a week due to heart issues, then sent home with a new regimen of medication. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. He passed in mid-March, just a tad longer than six months after my mom.
A few days after making arrangements at the funeral home, I got a text from them notifying me his obituary link was ready. Of course, I hadn’t written it yet, so what I was sent was a link to an empty page. There’s no good time to get a text like this, and it only reminded me of the almost ridiculous task before me of summarizing his wonderful life in a few paragraphs and have everyone in the family read to share their feedback, as soon as I possibly could.
Bumping into these ghosts in the machine is much like stumbling upon a box of old journals, but with none of the tenderness. Cold screens, alphanumeric logins, and ticking clocks all chip away at my peace as I wonder how to handle what can only be described as mere shadows of their existence — photocopies of photocopies of their impressions on the world. I love and appreciate being able to read through old emails or texts, but they make me appreciate the physical artifacts I have all the more. Even a footprint in the sand is a welcome memory — a moment in time where their weight was felt, a path forged.
At this point, I’m trying my best to interpret these digital encounters as signs or messages. Maybe I don’t get a text with a silly cat video from my mom every few hours, but when I open up Instagram and see one, I like to think she’s sending it to me. Even my Momentum dashboard has felt more encouraging than usual — telling me to be patient, be fearless and trust myself — sentiments my father always shared.
Are my parents in the algorithm now?
The last message my mom sent me was through a movie, like always. Paused on her iPad when my dad found her, the movie title itself begged a simple question I now must answer.
Learn more about my parents and their work at the links below…
Patricia Goodwin — Holy Days, Low Flying, Jave Love. See her videos on YouTube here.
Tim Goodwin -
Here’s a great video of him promoting his book, Notes on Living Life Well, a few years ago.
