After years of blunders, the company finally hit the mark when it comes to death and loss by letting users choose what their networks can see after they die, and who can manage them.
Our first real date was on Valentine’s Day 10 years ago. Many times in the five years since my partner died, I’ve flashed back to that day when we became, officially, more than just friends.
On my first Valentine’s Day without Evelyn, I spent hours paging through old photographs. Those pictures speak to our love and her resolve, but they don’t tell the whole story.
Between the time we decided to stop treatment and the time my baby son died, I felt desperately alone — pulled between my ‘cancer family’ still fighting to save their children and the bereaved families on the other side of this battle.
My grandma called daily and, I sometimes sent her to voicemail — rationalizing that I was just too busy to pick up. In the wake of her death, I cherish those recordings.
Dying while doing what we love is how we’d all like to go out. But as I watched my friends risk everything for the thrill of the climb, I felt compelled to remind them of the difference between challenge and folly.
In a sold-out movie theater, watching the film based on Cheryl Strayed's bestseller, I saw my own experience with mother loss play out on the big screen.
To distract ourselves from Dad's fatal diagnosis, my brother and I planted ourselves in front of the TV — inhaling a steady diet of "The Jetsons" and "The Dating Game."
A few weeks before Thanksgiving, my 12-year-old son went out to play in the rain and never came home. That year, everything about the holiday just felt wrong.
I had just given birth to my third child and was training for a half-marathon when I had a heart attack. And as I lay in my hospital bed, I could hear the woman in the next room dying.