Type the word “stages” into your favorite search engine and it will quickly suggest “stages of grief” as your likely query. That’s the five-step emotional process that psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross described in her 1969 book “On Death and Dying”: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
Today the Internet has added a new and sometimes unsettling dimension to those stages. Many funeral homes, for example, offer live-streaming video of memorial services, and a new San Francisco startup called 1000 Memories recently introduced a free online service that competes with the memory books from online obituary companies Legacy.com and Tribute.com.
Digital technology, many point out, holds the promise of providing future generations with more knowledge and a much richer understanding of us than we have of our forebears, which in some cases is nothing much more than words on a tombstone. But for now, much of the attention is focused on the problematic way that Facebook, as if stuck in the denial stage, copes with the inevitable and conjures a kind of Twilight Zone of the digitally undead.
Mary Alford of Florida and Val Rader of Colorado are two of many people who have lost loved ones who were active on Facebook. Both Alford’s son Peter and Rader’s brother Ed had used the site as a vital social outlet during their ordeals with cancer, sharing variously wry or poignant comments with friends.
After their deaths, the families contacted Facebook to “memorialize” their pages. The process would allow only friends already recognized on their Facebook pages to continue to visit and share memories and condolences. In both instances, the families were stunned when Facebook removed all of Peter’s and Ed’s original posts without explanation.
“It’s nice to read what other people say about Peter, but I’d like to read what he said,” explained his mother, Mary Alford. “It’s like going back and reading his journal.”
“The struggle and story of Ed’s fight was all chronicled on Facebook,” Val Rader said. “And it was a wonderful story to be a part of. Facebook erased that in one stroke.”
In Alford’s case, Facebook’s algorithms didn’t seem to comprehend her son’s death. For a few months after Peter’s page was memorialized, his friends would receive reminders from Facebook suggesting they get in touch with Peter. If Peter’s family hadn’t contacted Facebook, the digital persona would, in a sense, have lived on.
Because Facebook now claims more than 500 million users worldwide, it’s fair to wonder how many may be apparitions. “Can you imagine what Facebook will be like in 10 years if they don’t address the millions of users that will pass away?” asked Rudy Adler, co-founder of 1000 Memories.
Facebook, which developed its policy after the untimely death of an early employee, says it is reviewing its approach in light of complaints from many users. But for now, Facebook’s default is denial: Unless the Palo Alto-based company is provided evidence that someone has died, such as a death certificate or newspaper obituary, the digitized persona will reside indefinitely in its system. The request for proof is understandable: Facebook reportedly once mistakenly memorialized the page of one user who was, indeed, still alive.
For Adler and his co-founders at 1000 Memories, Facebook’s struggle helped inspire a new business model.
Now photos, video, audio and testimonials can be moved online into a permanent record. “We’re ultimately interested in answering this question: How will the Internet be used to remember a person and pass the story of their life to future generations?” Adler explained.
In the near-term, 1000 Memories has an uphill challenge against incumbent online services such as Illinois-based Legacy.com, which in 1998 began partnering with more than 800 newspapers (including the Mercury News), and Boston-based Tributes.com, which since 2007 has partnered with funeral homes and provides obituaries for local TV station websites.
Adler, 28, had worked in advertising before teaming up with Brett Huneycutt, a childhood friend, and Jonathan Good to launch 1000 Memories with seed funding from Y Combinator, a startup incubator. Huneycutt and Good, who became friends as Rhodes scholars at Oxford, later worked as business consultants. Determined to strike out as entrepreneurs, Adler recalled, they each recalled their displeasure interacting with online services after the death of a friend or relative.
For Adler, it was Facebook’s ham-handed approach to a friend’s death. For Huneycutt, it was how Tributes.com handled his grandfather’s memorial — and a sales pitch that seemed literally geared to the “bargaining” stage of grief.
It began with an e-mail: “Your free-trial Eternal Tribute “… has expired and the photos, music, video, and templates have been disabled.” But the “Eternal Tribute” could be reactivated: “If you purchase within the next 30 days, we’ll offer you a 20% discount; a $30 value when you use the promotional code KEEPTHEMEMORY upon checkout.” The pitch continued, suggesting that the Eternal Tribute “is a forever place for family and friends to share, enjoy and honor their memory. Don’t let it fade away.”
Tributes.com president Elaine Haney counters that its service — with prices ranging from $50 to $299 — is much more affordable and longer lasting than the conventional newspaper obituaries often augmented by Legacy.com‘s online guest book. (The Mercury News’ basic rate is $9 per line and $108 for a photo. Longer obituaries may cost upward of $2,000.)
Like many Internet startups, 1000 Memories has embraced the so-called “freemium” business model, offering a basic service at no cost and charging a premium for extras, such as uploading video, which increases storage expenses. The startup also anticipates partnerships that would enable it to take a share of profits for items such as flowers ordered from the site or for the creation of a physical memory books.
Meanwhile, Facebook says it is evaluating the way it copes with the inevitable fates of its users. When the company explained its policy in a blog posting, several users posted comments in tones that fell far short of acceptance.
“I want back the posts my friend made on my wall,” one user said. “I hate you guys, Facebook.”
Contact Scott Duke Harris at 408-920-2704.
