Passwords: Because you can’t always rely on your face

TOP 5 EMOTIONS YOU FEEL WHEN YOUR FACE FAILS TO OPEN AN APP: 

• Guilt

• Remorse 

• Hopelessness 

• Desperation 

• “Wasn’t this supposed to make life easier?” (Right after your sibling says, “Just let me know what you need.” And then vanishes.) 

Admit it—you use the same damn password over and over, rearranged like magnetic poetry. 
Sometimes an exclamation point. Sometimes a number. Sometimes a passive-aggressive asterisk. 

Here’s how it goes for me: 
I need to check my bank account. 
Pick up phone. 
Swipe to app. 
Click app. 
Look lovingly at phone. 
Phone looks back at me like it’s never seen me before. 
Try again. 
Where are the glasses I just took off so I could see my phone? 
Put down phone. 
Put on glasses. 
Phone tries face again while I’m mid-put-on. Still no dice. 
App says: “Please enter password.” 
Cue: Trudge to bedroom. Sock drawer. Password book retrieval. 
Flip flip flip... found it. 
Return to desk. 
Suddenly remember: I cannot function without this password book. 
It’s my pet rock. It travels with me. TSA has questions. 

But here’s the thing: My Gen X friends keep asking the real question: 
When do we ask our parents, “Where do you keep all your passwords, you charming hoarder of secrets, water bills from 1989, and coupons that expired during the Bush administration. The first one.”  

The answer: Before it’s too late. 

Let me tell you about my dad, Stephen Nahmanson. 
To many, he was “Stevie”—the Brooklyn-born, Sedona-living-and-hiking, heart-attack-having mensch who refused to stay down. 

What my dad seemed to love most about hiking was… having heart attacks. 
No, really—but every time he put on khaki shorts and smeared that thick white stripe of zinc oxide down his nose, it was basically a countdown. 

Every Tuesday he’d head out with his hiking group, the Sedona Westerners (because, duh). 
Then, a few red rock steps in and…he’d have a heart attack, get airlifted, stented, stabilized—and call me, cheerful as ever. 
“Hiya honey! I had a heart attack, but I’m fine.” 
OK, Dad. Whatevs. 

This happened more than once. Possibly more than twice. Honestly, there may have been others—we lost count. 

But after one of them, he said something different. 
“The doctor says I need someone at home with me when I’m discharged.” 

I called my sister Emily. 
“Hey Em, I think we need to go visit Dad.” 
She agreed. 
We flew from San Francisco to Phoenix, rented a car, and headed to Sedona. 
Hung out with him while he convalesced and we watched reruns of The Brady Bunch. We made sure he was stable. We flew home. 
Life resumed. 

Fast forward a bit: 
Sandra (then my partner, now my spouse) and I were throwing a flat-warming party in our new place—smack between the Mission and Castro, a zone we lovingly called The Mistro. 
It was the early aughts, and we had a taco truck parked outside before that was even a thing. 
As we planned, Sandra said: 
“We should invite Stevie.” 

I looked at her. “Why?” 
She looked back, very intently. “Because we haven’t seen him in a while. He would love this party. Everyone loves Stevie. He should meet our people—coworkers, neighbors, friends. It’ll be fun.” 

And she was right. Sandra always had a lot of love for Stevie. Honestly, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have nearly as many good memories with him as I do. 

So I called him. 
“Dad, we’re throwing a party this weekend—want to come?” 
“Absolutely!” 
Classic Stevie. Spontaneous. Game for anything. 

And then I added: 
“Great. If you do show up, you're also bringing every password, account number, and your will. Because if you drop dead mid-party, what the actual f*ck do you expect me to do?” 

Not usually a fan of rules, he surprised me. 
He showed up with a duffel bag and a manila folder labeled “DAD.” 
Inside: a spreadsheet, a few bank accounts, a 401K, all the passwords, and a very straightforward will. 
Half to me. Half to Emily. 
Executor: Yours truly. 

Before the party started, he came over to me—on one knee (because: community theater flair)—and flipped through the folder like a magician revealing the trick. 
It was weird. It was touching. And it made me feel... safe. 

If something happened, I had the folder. I had the file. 
I had a way forward. 

Two years later, he fell off a cliff and died. Literally. 
That file folder became everything. 

Dōteworthy 
Ask your parents where the passwords are—before their answer is, “What’s a password?” 
Check out Everplans—a digital vault for everything from passwords to wills. It’s like the grown-up version of hiding things in your sock drawer... but searchable.