Read it? OK. Let’s continue.

It’s an incredibly sad story: the tale of a woman called Shana who dies not long after giving birth. That’s tragic beyond belief, but what is really peculiar about this particular story is the way it’s presented: through Facebook updates and annotations.

That’s interesting in and of itself: it was certainly enough to make me look. The novelty factor meant it got more attention than you might have expected, and plenty of reactions. They were both emotional (“it brought tears to my eyes” and “it made me tear up”) and formal: BBC journalist Dave Lee said the “format […] facilitates an impact which will leave you speechless”.

I understood those reactions — it’s a very sad story, presented in a way I haven’t really seen before. But I reacted to it in a way that, to be honest, surprised me. I’ll tell you what happened.

At first I was intrigued by the idea, and by the story. Then I felt sad as I realised what was unfolding in front of my eyes. Shortly after that, however, I began to feel that I was really intruding. I figured that everyone quoted had probably given permission for their comments to be used, but the feeling didn’t go away. I carried on reading but by the end, though the extent of the tragedy was clear, I just felt a little bit dirty.

I said so, on Twitter, suggesting that “This story of a family tragedy is presented in an interesting way that feels oddly impersonal to me”. I expected to be pilloried, or at least for everyone else to disagree with me. Turns out there were a few people who felt the same way I did.

So I’ve spent a little bit of time trying to understand my reaction. There are three elements to it that I can see right now, although I’m not sure I’m finished yet.

First, and probably worth putting in here as a qualification, is the fact that my aunt died a couple of months ago, shortly after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. With four kids and just short of her 40th birthday, it was a horrible thing for everyone.

The world being what it is, there was a lot of activity on Facebook — first between her and her friends and family and then, after she died, between each other. With most of it happening while I was in another country, it was a vital connection for me to understand what was going on. I thought this would connect me to Shana’s story, but as I read I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be reading my aunt’s life and death in the same way. And then I thought of other people I am connected to who have suffered their own personal tragedies — some of whom I don’t even know — and imagined what it would be like to see their stories on display. That made me uncomfortable.

The second point rolled on in part from the first: why. This was agitated, as well, by what little news sense I have. I just couldn’t work out why this story — this particular story — was being told. Family tragedies are clearly not nice, and Shana’s death was obviously traumatic for everybody. But tragedies, like it or not, happen all the time. We’ve probably all experienced one, or several. And although I was looking at Shana’s Facebook feed, I didn’t feel especially connected to her. I knew a few details, but I still had no real idea about who she was, what music she liked, what she actually did for a living, where she lived. And without that, I didn’t understand why this story should be elevated above those of other lamentable tragedies. Part of me suspected that it was because it was available, passed on by somebody nearby and pre-packaged thanks to Facebook. That made me uncomfortable.

A third sensation also grew as I made my way through: I felt like there was a lack of information. Part of this may be simply because I’ve been thinking a lot about context recently, but while the annotations gave some background, I didn’t feel like they gave me the real story. And nor, in fact, did the updates. Shana herself had said plenty about staying in hospital, but she hadn’t actually said a lot about her illness. A few points of clarification came from her husband, Jeff, but by the time I got to the desperate climax (which, coincidentally, happened to be on my birthday) I felt listless. What was this thing she died from? What were all the comments I couldn’t see? Did nobody on Facebook understand the seriousness of her illness? It seemed so sudden, yet over a month had passed from the first mention of peripartum cardiac myopathy. I still had no idea whether her story was shared by millions of other people or was unique.

So I went looking for more information. Wikipedia tells me PPCM occurs in between 1,300 and 4,000 live births in the USA. Another quick search helped me realise that’s up to 10,000 woman affected each year in America. Around 98% of women affected recover, I found, and 50% regain full cardiac function. Many can’t have more children as a result. But that’s all from Wikipedia and the web. The article itself, meanwhile, told me that the M&Ms at her son’s bris had his name written on them. Suddenly, without the facts or context to understand what I was reading, telling this story didn’t seem to have any purpose beyond some form of grim entertainment. That made me uncomfortable.

Ultimately, I felt like I was looking over somebody’s shoulder at a tragic event in another person’s life. It broke some of the conventions of storytelling: there was no resolution (bar death) and no reason to look beyond the desire to have your heartstrings plucked. It felt like rubbernecking.

Chris Maillard, a seasoned journalist, had another take. He pointed out that the story is very much in the vein of the true life tales you see in tabloids and local papers.

I think he’s right, and ultimately, it’s this characterization that explains a lot of my feelings towards the story. I realise that those articles have a place, and that lots of people enjoy them — just look at the circulation of a magazine like Take A Break, which stands at around 900,000 in the UK. But on a personal level I don’t like them very much.

So that goes some way to explaining the two, very different reactions. And I have to admit that, for all my discomfort, I read to the end. The fact remains that it’s got merit as a story and it’s interesting as a form.

So what?

I’m certainly not suggesting the Washington Post were wrong to run the story. I think their treatment raises lots of questions for me, but I think it’s admirable that they’re trying new things (especially when you read about the work that went into it, as you can in this Nieman Storyboard Q&A).

The really interesting part is that I am absolutely sure we’ll see a lot more of this sort of treatment in the future. Facebook and Twitter give us these ready-to-air soundbites of people’s lives and the thoughts they share with the world. It’s the kind of framework that Storify, among others, is helping people to create.

What this story shows is that we can share narratives through these tools, but it’s still early days. I think as the form evolves, it needs to go somewhere further, somewhere deeper or where the boundaries are more clearly defined.

I don’t know where that is precisely, I just know that I don’t want to feel like a voyeur or an interloper. I think this story shows how the little pieces of social media sometimes can’t answer big questions. Somebody’s Facebook stream is often a very personal space — but getting inside it doesn’t necessarily get you closer to the truth.