Facebook death announcements; a tribute to my cousin Michael "Jorgo" Jorgensen

When my father died last spring, my sister found out on Facebook. I thought she already knew the bad news when I posted, that somebody had already called her the night before to tell her. I was wrong.

I found out that my dad died right before my all-day final. My step-brother emailed me the night before, but I didn't check Facebook until I got to school the next day. Dad really wanted me to finish college, and I came close to finishing before he died. My final started at 10 a.m. and I had to put on my game face and swing for the fences until I finished about 4:30 that afternoon.

 Afterward, I posted, "The Good News is that I just aced my Digital Video Postproduction final this afternoon. The Bad News is that my father passed away last night, but I was too busy trying to finish school to go visit him - and I was planning on driving out there this afternoon."

My father Victor W. Jorgensen, Jr. in his natural habitat.

Dad had been very sick for over a month, and his condition quickly deteriorated from “very bad” to “much worse” over his final week, so his terminal news at 79 came as no shocking surprise. I assumed my sister already knew the bad news that afternoon when I posted on Facebook.

My friends all liked my dad, and they know my feeble sense of humor. If I had simply posted "My dad just died," they all would have worried I was taking it too hard. But a bad joke is no way to share a family tragedy.

Dad’s last Facebook message to me said, “That was my dad who stood in front of the Jeep.  His troops were afraid, and wouldn't lie the lines till that.” I asked him about my grandfather in World War II, when his prison-furloughed troops were terrified of snipers. Grandpa stood in his Jeep’s headlights and told them the snipers now had a target to shoot at.

My father, my friend, will never “Like” me again.

Discovering dead friends and family members on your Facebook wall is a sad new technological trend. If it hasn’t happened to you yet, it probably will.

A couple days ago after class, I checked Facebook at the library. A picture of my cousin Michael came up, one massive arm gently holding a newborn baby, a tiny cubit of cuteness. He beamed proudly with his dual expression of both accomplishment and unlimited possibilities. I felt so happy for him – until I saw my cousin’s message under the photo, "My brother Michael died yesterday at 35." I held Michael when he was an infant, and that news hit me hard where it hurts.

I don't always cry in the library, but when I do it's because I hurt really, really bad inside. The students using the computers around me must have been distracted listening to me try to stifle my unmanly blubbering. But to my credit, I was mostly successful on several occasions.

I have had to post twice on Facebook that the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated, as Mark Twain claims he said.

The day before Christmas a few years ago, somebody from my small hometown with my exact name died in an avalanche while snowmobiling. I knew people would see his name in the newspaper and think I was dead. After updating my Facebook status to “alive” I learned lots of my friends and neighbors had read my name on the front page that Christmas morning.  

I discovered Erik eight years ago while looking myself up on Facebook, to find out how easy it would be for my friends to find me. We had the same name from the same small town, and since my relatives settled around there, I wondered if we were related. It turned out we weren’t, but I said I would look him up the next time I was in town. His final message was, “Sounds good.” A few months later he died doing what his family said he loved the most.

Last summer I discovered a giant spike in hits for my new blog, all for the obituary I had just written for my father. They came from a Google search for “Erik Jorgensen obituary.” I knew something had just happened to one of my name-twins, and was morbidly curious enough to Google which one had just died.

The headlines read, “Erik Jorgensen dead of self-inflicted gunshot.” Erik defused bombs in Afghanistan and went missing one Friday from Mountain Home Air Force Base outside Boise, Idaho. Massive news coverage urged people to be on the lookout for the missing soldier, diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and possibly off his medication. Several days later, the TV news reported finding Erik’s dead body.

Both my parents were both born in Boise, and I lived in nearby Emmett through first grade. Since this happened shortly after my dad’s funeral and I have several relatives still in the area, I had to post something, anything. My cousin Michael’s sister told me she saw my name on that tragic news coverage. I’m glad I posted something.

Facebook hasn’t always been the traditional messenger of death.

When my step-brother was shot in the head by his step-father, and his mother found drowned fully clothed in the same house a year later, I was informed by phone. When my cousin Judy came out of the closet, then took her own life a couple years later, and when my cousin Lisa Marie was victim of a murder-suicide, Mom called and brought up the subject gently. From her tone of voice I knew it was very bad news, so I was able to brace myself for it.

Learning of Michael’s death somehow hit me much harder than any other family member’s death. I don’t know how much of that was from finding out through Facebook. I didn’t know what else to do but write on his wall, “I'll miss you, cousin. I wish I had gotten to know you better.” His brothers both “Liked” that.

Blue Mouse Theatre in Tacoma held a tribute to Jorgo

I got to know Michael a little better after seeing how many friends posted on his wall, and wished they had taken the time to tell Jorgo how much he had touched their lives. Michael performed as Eddie in “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” at Tacoma’s Blue Mouse Theatre. His “Rocky” family held a special memorial performance for him.

Blue Mouse’s Facebook page said, “Dust off your dancing shoes. Tonight is ‘Rocky Horror’ and tonight we remember the life of Jorgo and what he brought to ‘Rocky Horror.’ RIP Jorgo this one will be for you.” Underneath, a poster read, “Keep calm and do the Time Warp again.”

Michael’s wife Christina wrote on Blue Mouse’s Facebook page, “Thank you to all Mike’s Rocky family, I really enjoyed the Jorgo tribute. He would have loved it.”

My cousin Dave wrote, “The best Rocky Horror I’ve ever seen. What good friends Michael has in all of you. Thank you for honoring my brother with such a personal, lively experience. He would have loved it.”

My last conversation with my cousin Michael was asking about his expertise in videogame design: “Unfortunately no, I’m more the traditional PC game dev. Not sure the constraints on making something for Facebook.”

I just didn’t feel like going directly home after learning the bad news about Michael. At my neighborhood pub, the bartender said, “I just read what you posted about your cousin. That must be rough. Let me buy you a beer.” He said some other things too, which I just can’t recall, but at the time I thought it was the perfect thing to say to somebody. The beer itself was a kind gesture, but his compassionate words I will never forget, even though I’ve forgotten his exact words. I wish I could thank you enough, Joe, but all the words I know still can’t cover it. Keep up the good work.

It is hard to know what to say to somebody grieving, even having been on the receiving end of condolences. Over the years I’ve learned through Facebook about several friends losing parents, even both parents. I never know what to say except, “So sorry. Hang in there.” Celebrity death announcements are very common on Facebook, but there is a very different feeling from losing somebody you actually know.

I don’t want to say how many dead Facebook friends I have collected. Too many, and the number won’t get smaller. The same will happen to you someday. I’m sorry for your loss in advance.

Grandpa told me, “When Life hands you lemons, make a song.” So Michael, this ravensong is for you. I wish I got to know you better.