What Happened to My Mom's Email Account When She Died

She didn't use it that often. I don't think she knew quite how, grasping, or even wanting to grasp, the way the Internet works. but when she learned it could get letters places almost instantaneously, she wanted to partake if only because she loved to write and letters especially.

I remember sending her a letter, or maybe it was a phone call, of detailed instructions on how to set up an account and successfully compose and send messages. It read something like this:

1. Open up browser, should be called Internet Explorer or Netscape Navigator, something nautical to 'surf' the web. (This was before the days of Firefox, but now 'Safari' makes more sense.)

2. When it has opened (it might already be open) there will be a blank bar at the top of the page with the words typed in it beginning with "http://". Erase this. (I figured she had knowledge of keyboard commands since she'd used a typewriter most of her life. Though, like me, she preferred longhand.) Then, when erased, type in a new address. In your case it will be http://www.hotmail.com (alas, before the days of gmail).

3. When you arrive at the Hotmail homepage, type in your username and password. Click 'login'. This should take you to your inbox where you can read unread and new messages (and also old ones, for the sentimental and anal among us).

4. To compose a new message there should be a link in the upper left hand corner. Hit that and you will be taken to a new, blank message. Type in the address and subject and then type your letter into the blank box. Hit send when ready.

5. Be sure to log out!

Of course I got a couple calls from her asking me how exactly to do what and not understanding certain commands. Finally, though, it seemed she got the hang of it because emails started arriving in my mailbox with distinctly MHB titles: "Waiting for the shark attack at the bottom of the hill" or "LOVE EACH OTHER". Her emails, like her letters, were long and rambling, often stream-of-conscious treatise veiled as observations towards her daily environment. When she learned the "cc" tool she would send them to all six kids at once and all her adopted children in spirit. Total: usually 8.

I found it hard to read, absorb, and respond to her messages in one sitting, so there would usually be a couple stages until I was ready to respond. I often wouldn't respond to all of them, just as with her paper letters, simply because the volume in which they arrived was overwhelming. In this idiosyncratic way, I just might be turning into my mother.

But no one could write a letter like my mom--one that actually brought you into her world, and then her brain at the same time. It was a heady gift and sometimes more than I could handle. But like her I have become a letter writer, by no means as prolific, or intense, and I prefer to send mine by mail.

Part of me knows exactly what happened to my mom's email account when she died. Perhaps it even happened before she died. Email accounts become inactive and expire if someone doesn't log in for, say, 90 days. I'm sure that my mother hadn't the time to check her email in the months of sickness leading up to her death. But it's possible she checked it just enough to keep it alive. So when she left the earth, breathed her last breath, her email account did not--spam or newsletters were still directed to the account miriamhborkowski@hotmail.com.

There's something so crass about the thought of this though, an illumination of how cold and impersonal technology is. You just use it for a purpose but it has no idea of when you're sad or excited or sick.

Just like a person's MySpace account after they die, which cryptically records their last login--usually the day of death. But technology's vessel-like apathy can be surmounted. MySpace comment walls become de-facto memorials, where people can still post: "Thinking about you. Can't believe it's been a year."