Hacked

Judi Meirowitz Tischler, Age 76

On the day of the blizzard I was hacked. I remember the minute it happened, a quick click and I tumbled down the techno rabbit hole. A flood of emails, calls and texts from close friends and people I hadn’t spoken to in years confirmed what had happened. I had released a bogus Birthday party Evite to my entire Contacts list.
“Change your Google password immediately”, came at me from every direction. I froze. The snow was pounding, the wind was blowing. My dreaded comeuppance had finally arrived, the piper had come to call. For years, through luck and a timidity that kept my skills rudimentary, I had coasted along the technology highway in the slow lane, managing to learn enough to participate in basic email and zoom communication, pay bills, make reservations, and search the internet. My hunt and peck typing skills had sped up but were still limited to the use of one finger on each hand, middle on the right, index on the left.

The Evite explosion that evening brought me to a full stop. Propelled by the fear of my entire retirement savings being emptied into some faceless demon’s vacation adventure account, I took many deep breaths, ratcheted down my panic and called a trusted human for help. Sanity restored, I accepted the damage.The alerts from friends lasted a few more days and then stopped.

The journey of reconstituting my internet self confidence, and signing up for a workshop at the new Senior Center, is not the subject of this essay. I shared it with you in order to set the scene. This is a redemption story of a different sort.
Why had I opened the initial infectious email, the innocuous Evite to a Birthday Party from someone who had once been my friend? Why didn’t I suspect something nefarious? Why had I not realized it was a hack?

I have rarely had a falling out with a friend that didn’t get resolved or defused. I have had friendships dwindle or drift apart as interests and circumstances change, but not crash and burn. I cannot remember cutting someone out of my life completely because of an incident. Except once, several years ago, when a huge disagreement including public insults leading to nasty gossip, resulted in a ruptured relationship. Although we continued to be in the same community circle, this woman and I were no longer friends. Our twosome was over. When we
both showed up at an event, I avoided her completely. I even became a tale bearer myself, which is against my nature. Just the sight of her or the mention of her name set off something unfamiliar in me. I was really mad and not seeking reconciliation or apology. I was done and she knew it.

Then out of nowhere, on my screen, appeared an Evite to her Birthday Party. Everything about the content was wrong. She has an August birthday, so why throw a party in New England in February, the calendar’s most inhospitable month. I was familiar with her lifestyle and interests. The day, location and planned celebratory activity were completely wrong. Had I hesitated for even a minute and registered these inconsistencies and had taken stock of the uncomfortable feelings that were quickly taking hold of my body, I would have hit Delete and spat out some
nasty curses.

But I opened it, providing access to my Contacts. It replicated, substituting my name for hers as the guest of honor and host. I must admit to anthropomorphizing the virus and getting satisfaction that it must have been stymied while looking to infect, as it came upon roadblocks. Consistent with not shutting the door on relationships, my Contacts still contain the names and email addresses of dearly departed friends and relations. The final Delete belongs to a higher power.

Had it been curiosity or a feeling closer to loss? Is there a possibility that I miss this friend? We had not been close but were on each other’s radar for specific events that recur yearly. We had frequented each other’s homes, shared similar political views and had some interests in common. Our temperaments are quite different, requiring negotiation, but we had managed our time together amicably, usually in the company of others. But the blow up had been bad and public and hurtful.

I am writing this essay, in the waning hours of the spring equinox, a time when I often prepare a seasonal letter to friends and family. My natural inclination to be inclusive is strong, even more so during these divisive times filled with hate and violence. After composing my brief annual note I typed 30 names and email addresses into the recipient name bar and paused.
Adding her name, I hit send.
With that stroke, I unloaded this sack of angry feelings which had become too heavy to lug
around.