When it comes to making our family Christmas cookies, my mom has become an expert. She no longer needs a recipe because her muscle memory kicks in, guiding her through the process effortlessly. We stand side by side in the kitchen, me mimicking her every move as we roll Russian tea cakes in powdered sugar and press the bottoms of forks into the dough balls for chocolate crinkle cookies. However, despite her expertise, my mom is a Type A personality. She has meticulously scanned and organized step-by-step instructions on her Google Drive, just in case she ever needs them. She’s even made arrangements for these recipes to be sent directly to me when she passes away. So, when that dreadful day eventually comes, I’ll not only be mourning her physical absence but also standing in the kitchen with her digital presence.
Thanks to Google’s Inactive Account Manager, the cookie recipes will be part of a larger posthumous digital delivery. Three months after my mom’s departure, I’ll receive her Google Drive, containing not only the recipes but also a list of account passwords and all of her emails. This means that instead of standing in the kitchen with my mom, I’ll be standing with her digital ghost, as her presence lingers through my phone with smudged and annotated recipe scans on display.
On that day, I expect to grieve once again. As Marisa Renee Lee eloquently put it in this magazine last year, “Grief is the repeated experience of learning to live after loss.” In today’s digital age, the reminders of loss are more abundant than ever before. Memories are preserved in email accounts, frozen Facebook arguments, and even useless pings from iPads reminding us about overdue library books. If left unattended, these digital assets float aimlessly in the vast expanse of the internet. Inheriting control over these digital remains presents a personal dilemma. Do we take solace in the strange comfort they bring, keeping the deceased person’s spirit alive in small pixelated ways? Or do we shut it all down and accept their second death?
While estate lawyers have long encouraged clients to account for their digital property, there is no emotional guidebook for inheriting these digital remnants. Some logistical matters only become apparent when it’s too late, forcing individuals like Ashley Reese to navigate their grief at the Apple store. Reese’s husband, Robert Stengel, passed away at the age of 34, leaving behind a detailed list of accounts and passwords. Among the things Reese inherited were Stengel’s AirPods, which she had trouble using. When she sought troubleshooting assistance at the Apple store, an employee insisted she was wearing them incorrectly. Reese couldn’t bear to continue and simply stated, “I’m sorry, this is not mine; it’s my dead husband’s.”
Unlike ever before, we now have the ability to hold on to someone’s digital presence even after they pass away. In Reese’s case, she still keeps her iMessage conversation with Stengel pinned to the top of her Messages app. She can select his profile on Hulu and is recommended YouTube videos that Stengel would have enjoyed. When she misses him deeply, she opens his camera roll and glances at the last picture he took—a candid shot of Reese in his hospital room, unaware that she was being photographed. As Reese himself admits, this experience inflicts psychic damage every day.
Lingering in someone’s digital afterlife can be both a source of comfort and pain, often revealing unexpected details. Marie, whose mother recently died from ovarian cancer, cautions against reading too much into her mother’s digital remains. Going through her mother’s phone, Marie discovered text conversations venting about their arguments. She also stumbled upon a Twitter account her mother used to engage in debates with right-wingers, opposite to what Marie had always assumed about her mother’s political beliefs. Even her mother’s Spotify revealed surprising music preferences. Despite the bittersweet nature of these discoveries, messages from family and friends sent to her mother’s phone provide solace. It’s a heartwarming reminder that her mother was cherished by others, accessible through a simple screen. This technology, capable of capturing intangible aspects of a person’s legacy, is indeed a gift. Unfortunately, it is also highly delicate.
Websites shut down, accounts get hacked, and devices break. It’s unwise to assume that direct messages and social media memories will be preserved indefinitely. Reese’s coping mechanism involves creating multiple digital copies of her conversations with Stengel which she plans to store on her computer, Google Drive, and iCloud. Losing those memories would be devastating to her.
At the same time, these digital spaces serve as a defense against forgetting. Reese feels an urgent need to jot down any memories or thoughts she has about Stengel as soon as they occur, using her Notes app as a repository. It’s an attempt to ensure that her memories of both herself and her husband don’t fade away.
Death is often a topic we avoid, choosing instead to confront the overwhelming grief when it unexpectedly strikes. Even when my mom informed me about her Google account plans, she hesitated to use the word “dead.” Nonetheless, we both knew what she meant. Now that I’m aware of what awaits me, the records of our digital interactions hold greater significance. The Wordle scores, the DMs about our favorite Instagram-famous dog, even the silly e-cards we exchange on holidays—these treasures no longer feel like meaningless data lost in the digital abyss. Someday, they will be all that remains.
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