~ A fictional story.  I was inspired to write this story in hopes the question would resonate with others. So much hatred, bitterness, and just plain stupidity sometimes thrown about on social media.  Would we change or at least think before using Facebook if we knew our loved ones would one day read and memorialize our words. ~

It had been three years since grandma passed and now grandpa is gone too.  Grandpa became very depressed following her death.  She was the nucleus of the family even while she was sick.  When she passed grandpa seemed to have lost his purpose.  He was there for her throughout every bit of their 56-year journey together, even towards the end when the Alzheimer’s took over; he did his best to serve her needs.

Some time before grandma’s sickness, she asked me, “how do you Facebook?”   They purchased a computer and printer-scanner a few years earlier.  Grandma wanted to be able to send email to her younger sister and learn how to scan and archive old family photos, and so my dad and I helped her get set up with this technology.  When she asked me about Facebook one day with, “how do you Facebook?”  I recall laughing but supportively helped her set up an account.  I showed her how Facebook worked and taught her the basics, like status updates and posting photos, what notification and message alerts were.  She managed to post successfully after floundering a bit in the beginning.  In time, she became more comfortable and began having fun with it, making humorous posts like, “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”  Or, “Found where I left the phone when it began ringing from the fridge.”   Grandma had a great sense of humor and would even poke fun at her own disease with status updates like, “I was going to update my Facebook status but forgot what it was that I was doing.”  Always the character, my grandma.  She would also post comments and occasionally use text acronyms like, LOL, which she believed to be lots of love, clearly.  Facebook slowly, over time, became part of grandma’s everyday topic of conversation.  She’d say, “Well, I seen on Facebook…” I’d get a kick out of it, we all would.  Well, perhaps not all.

Grandpa had difficulty warming to Facebook and the whole idea of social media.  He didn’t get it; he was definitely old school.  He’d always snort back, “oh, that Facebook!”  Whenever grandma or anyone of us mentioned it.  “You kids,” he’d yell, “putting everything all out there on the internet.”  We’d laugh and poke back.  It was clear he was a bit intimidated by it all and perhaps jealous of grandma’s time spent with it.

Eventually grandma’s status updates and posts slowed considerably as her disease took more and more of her.  Every once in a while I’d get a “Like” from grandma, even when her own posts stopped.  I’d occasionally visit her page, which was stagnant; her profile picture and last status update would simply stare back stirring feelings of melancholy.  I stopped visiting her page sometime after her last status update became buried by well wishes and then too, condolences.

It had been months; almost a year since grandma passed when I read something about memorializing Facebook accounts.   I didn’t know how to approach the subject with grandpa but when I managed enough bravery I asked.  He shot back, “oh that damn Facebook!”  And was reluctant to do anything with grandma’s account.  I dropped it.

Some days later while my mother and I were visiting and checking in on grandpa, he surprised us both with the question, “how do you Facebook?”  Mom smiled, I couldn’t help but to laugh.  “Grandpa, I can help you.”  We went to his computer where I saw that he had grandma’s Facebook account open in the browser.  It was apparent he’d been surfing through it, the email and password grandma used still logged in.  “Do you want your own Facebook account, grandpa?”  I asked him.  “Can’t I just use the same one?” he asked.  “Technically, no.” I replied.  “Well, we don’t have to be technical; it’s just Facebook!” he snorted.  And so I gave him the same sort of overview and instruction I gave grandma, although grandpa seemed to know his way around more than he let on.

Over the coming weeks and months, I stopped watching for posts from grandpa.  I guess deep down I wished he had taken to it like grandma did; I wanted this connection with him so relevant in today’s world.  He was old school and that was okay.  We continued to enjoy the time we had left with him.  It’s ironic; that grandma always full of wittiness and creativity, that it would be her own mind to betray her in the end.  And grandpa, his heart so full love and compassion, would in the end, be betrayed by his own failing heart.

Some time passed after grandpa’s death when I remembered grandma’s old Facebook account and once again thought about looking into memorializing it.  I still had the email address and password we used to set it up and so I had little difficulty signing in.   For a moment, it seemed as though time stood still.  Staring at her page, there were a couple newer posts from almost a year ago but years after grandma had past.  From friends’ or distant relatives, perhaps.  Other than this and some new notifications, I didn’t notice anything unusual or different with grandma’s wall.   It wasn’t until I started reading some of the notifications that I realized grandpa did have some Facebook activity.  And so I found myself going back through grandma’s timeline, recalling posts she’d made years ago now.  I began poking around, going back earlier and earlier in her timeline—reading, searching, intuition guiding me.

I could hear the beat of my own heart in my head as it began to race.  Tears flooded my eyes, rushed down my face to hit the keyboard.  There were posts, posts I didn’t recall ever seeing.  More and more posts.  I couldn't stop from crying, I couldn't catch my breath.  Grandma’s words there on the screen took my breath again and again.  “My dear Joe, I still feel your tender touch.  You stroke my hair; your soft kisses bring me back when I’ve slipped away.  I see the look in your eye, the faint red.  You’ve been crying.  It pains me to see the fear.  I pray it’s not too much longer—this torture is too much for either one of us to bear.  Know that I’m grateful for this life you’ve given me, for all that you’ve shared, for all your love.  I will love you for eternity.”

And there were comments too, “I miss you, my dear bride.  I love you too, for eternity.”  Grandpa.  He would often call his wife his dear bride.  He found her posts too.  More posts, going back earlier and earlier.  I cried, I couldn't stop.  I’d find myself laughing too, through the tears.  More posts.  Old photographs.  The two of them at sunset, one of the last times we were all together at the lake before she died.  Their fiftieth wedding anniversary.  Their vacation to Maui.  Grandpa and his 1964 Mustang convertible.  A photograph of my mother as a baby, and grandma's comment.  “The joy of my life.  LOL" I laughed again.  My grandfather holding me when I was probably two years old.

Her timeline was filled with posts, status updates, and photographs, chronicling her life together with grandpa.  I spent hours and hours that day before calling mom and sharing what I'd discovered with the rest of the family.  We spent days and hours more going through grandma's Facebook.  Remembering, laughing, crying, hugging.  We also began changing the audience on her posts from “Only Me” to “Friends” before ultimately contacting Facebook and memorializing grandma’s account.

Even after their death, my grandparent’s continued to teach me about love and the passion they had for one another.   I think upon my grandmother learning her diagnosis and in those final years, she made it her mission to chronicle her life in hopes of not only keeping her memories alive but to share them and her most private thoughts with the love of her life.  In the end, they both left us all with something more.  It’s changed “the way I Facebook” forever.   My Facebook status today, "To my grandparent’s, I love you both for all eternity. LOL"

This story begs the question, "how do you Facebook?"