When a Mac is more than just a computer: how grief creates attachment to things
“It’s just a computer,” I tell myself, “at the end of its useful life. Get rid of it.” But it’s so much more.
“Two left-hands,” Jack would scoff about others. There was nothing he couldn’t apply his golden touch to, including fixing my fridge which was how we met. I fell fast for him and enjoyed the benefits of having everything around me function. Well, eventually - he was equal parts MacGyver and procrastinator.
His love for tinkering and figuring extended from the mechanical to motherboards; nothing pleased him more than a new computer to faff about with. In the early months of our relationship, before I learned the financial pressures he was under, he handed me a $100. “Hold this for me, please,” he said.
“Sure. Ah, why?”
“Keep my extra cash until there’s enough for a new laptop,” he replied, knowing he didn’t have the will power.
Months later, we headed to Best Buy with a nice fat wad. Best Buy was Jack’s heaven. Even with his research, we spent an hour selecting an Acer small enough to slip into a side pocket of a carry-on. Jack couldn’t travel without a computer.
That Acer was his constant companion. It was not, however, his last computer. A year before he died, Jack sold his shop and did service calls from home. His lung cancer treatments had stalled the spread but odds were the cells were gathering forces somewhere in his brain although we didn’t yet know that for sure. Debts paid, he had some leftover cash for a few luxuries, primarily a truck and a MacBook he’d lusted after.
The Mac arrived all shiny and pretty — so different from his workhorse Acer.
“Jack, have you ever used a Mac?” I asked. For me, learning a Mac seemed like a project, probably doable, but not fun and not easy.
“I’ll figure it out,” his response.
He puttered and pottered and showed me cool things, but always with the Acer on his desk in the background. He never admitted it, but I think he was intimidated by the Mac.
Months later, Jack’s cancer spread and he chose a medically assisted death. With planned death, couples can have conversations about practical matters - at least we did.
“Can you write down your passwords?” I asked.
“Good idea,” he said.
I saw a scrawled list on his desk days later. “One thing done,” I thought, feeling a rare sense of accomplishment, amid the caregiving and grief.
After Jack died, I gathered his four adult kids together. I read the will over brunch and we exhaled - just five days earlier Jack had died with us all present, and then we’d celebrated his life with friend and family. His two older sons were flying back to Europe that evening, a whirlwind week. We laughed, cried, and swapped stories. I offered them things they might want. One wanted his glasses, saying he’d wear them. Another took the brass talisman that hung from Jack’s rearview mirror as a memento of his crazy driving. I pulled pictures out of albums to divvy up. They selected clothes including from his impressive sock collection. Not sad by the loss of items - in fact, I was pleased they were finding loving homes.
“Can I have the MacBook?” Jack’s youngest son asked.
I took a breath, “I haven’t decided what to do with it yet. Can I let you know?”
He nodded and let it drop.
I got working on sorting out the estate. First task - find those passwords. I shifted a few papers on the surface of Jack’ desk. I realized this was an archaeological dig of sorts - layers and layers of bills and cigarette ash but no passwords. I made some educated guesses and hacked into accounts. The MacBook stumped me though. It didn’t matter; barely used, I knew it contained nothing relevant to the estate.
Months went by. The MacBook, the Acer, and his office desktop sat untouched amid the chaos of his desk. I reflected on the pride he felt about the Mac and the pleasure it gave him just to own it. I felt guilty I hadn’t tried to use it. The password was a convenient hurdle.
Finally I steeled myself and entered the Apple Store. I waited —fidgeting and fretting and harrumphing —for help from the ‘genius bar.’ The young woman marshalling the line struck up conversation. “What are you here for?” she asked.
I looked at her darkly, said, “the computer. It was my dead husband’s,” and dissolved into tears.
She embraced me and as she did, said quietly, “What was his name?”
Floodgates opened. I told her my love story with Jack and his side-affair with his MacBook. She smiled and nodded, acting like it was standard for people to sob and sniffle in the Apple Store. She found me a grey-haired genius and with him, I cracked the passwords for Jack’s Apple ID, allowing a new profile for me.
I left the store enveloped in a wave of love from Jack. “Good girl,” I heard him say. (The expression would make me bristle from anyone else but was charming from Jack.)
Learning the MacBook seemed an insurmountable challenge and I delayed doing it. Finally, in early 2020, I forced myself - I donated my old laptop to my office and started cautiously using the MacBook as my primary home computer.
Two weeks later, it was just me and the Mac, figuring out the pandemic work from home life. I’m proud I made it work; with a dongle, external keyboard, and external monitor, I move back and forth between the remote desktop - a PC - at my office and the MacBook. More than my paid work though, the Mac is my window to the outside world. All my writing has appeared on this screen, through the magic of these fingers on this keyboard. Every writing course has come to me through the Mac. Social interaction has all been through images on this monitor. In turn, it has taken my image and put it on other monitors in Canada and beyond.
Many of Jack’s beloved possessions have migrated out of this house but the MacBook remains a significant reminder of him. At the same time, it’s a symbol of my solo COVID experience. And now it’s old, past its best before date and I need to move it to the back of my desk. It’s an unexpectedly difficult decision.