Even as our years together accumulated, thoughts of Stephanie still made my heart flutter. I often
told her how much I treasured her, and in extremely mushy words, and she often
said much the same to me, and I am so glad that we said it out loud, and
frequently.
If there's someone you love, say it out loud.
The last time I told Stephanie, at length and in detail, how much I loved her, she smiled hugely and said
incredibly romantic, loving things to me. It was a mushy conversation that lasted perhaps five minutes, and the memory, from a week or so before she
entered the hospital, is etched into my head.
Sometimes I wonder, when was the last time she was able to relax and read a book, without a
care in the world? When was the last time we looked into each other's eyes
without both of us being full of worry? Those are questions I can't quite answer, but to be sure, there weren't many happy memories in the last few weeks of her life.
There are smaller questions, though. When was the last time we walked down that street, past that school?
When was the last night we called out for pizza? When was her last of everything?
Stephanie loved a "State Street date," where we
did something on State Street's several blocks of "no cars allowed"
pedestrian mall. There are lots of restaurants, lots of charming little shops,
and not too many chain franchises, at least not yet. In the years when she
walked, we did State Street dates two or three times every summer, but once she
was in the wheelchair, we visited State Street less often. She still loved it,
though, so I scold myself that we didn't visit State Street even once this year,
or last year. To my recollection, our last State Street date was in the winter
of 2016-17, when we ate at a sandwich shop on State Street, before attending a
Badgers women's hockey game. I'm a big dumb boy, and I should've taken her to
State Street more often.
Our last scenic drive was 2017's autumn cruise. Every fall,
when the leaves were in full orange and red colors, we followed pretty much the
same route across several counties and up an impressive hill in the middle of
some state park. Stephanie did the navigating, though, so I have next to no
idea where or what that park was, and I can't take that drive without her this
autumn.
We liked going to Madison's zoo, and went at least once
every summer. Our last visit was in July. The seals wouldn't come out and see
us, but we listened to a long talk by a staffer about one of the animals, which
is the oldest living one of its species in captivity. The talk was interesting,
but I can't remember what the animal was; I think it was some kind of a biggish
bird. I doubt I'll ever return to the zoo – we had so many happy memories
there, and they're all much, much sadder memories, now. So that was our last
visit to the zoo. Her last, and my last.
Our last trip to the library was toward the end of July. Steph
checked out a dozen books; I checked out one. Library books are due back in
four weeks, and while Steph was in the hospital, a few days before she died, I gathered
the books we'd checked out, mostly unread, and return them to the library.
Our last time playing bingo was April 23rd, at Potawatomi in Milwaukee. We
didn't win, didn't come close, and it didn't matter. Stephanie was always happy
playing bingo, and it was contagious, so we were both happy.
We went to three Beloit Snappers games in 2018, but I don't
know when the last one was. It's not on my bank statement, so I must've paid
with cash instead of plastic. I also don't remember whether the Snappers won or
lost. We had a good time, though. We always had a good time at Beloit baseball
games.
Our last movie at a theater was A Wrinkle in Time.
Stephanie had loved the book as a kid, and I had liked it, but we both thought
the movie was a big blob of nothing much. Our last movie at home was Hairspray,
the John Waters original, which we'd seen before but it's always fun. Our last
movie at the Wisconsin Film Festival was Notorious R.B.G., the
documentary about Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg; Steph was a tough
dame, and you couldn't ask for much tougher than Ginsburg, so we loved it. And
our last movie at Madison's Cinematheque was Columbus, with John Cho,
which was excellent, and had nothing at all to do with Christopher Columbus.
Like most of our favorite movies, we probably would've wanted to see Columbus
again eventually, but there will be no eventually.
We loved going to movies at the drive-in, too. Usually we
went to the Highway 18 Drive-In outside the town of Jefferson, or sometimes we
went to the drive-ins in Monroe or the Dells. But this year our summer was
shortened by two hospitalizations, and a long stretch where Stephanie wasn't feeling
well, so we didn't get to the drive-ins at all.
The last play we saw was Our Town, by Thornton
Wilder. It was a student production at Madison College in April, with the
protagonist re-imagined as a young woman instead of the usual older man. It was
very well done, we had a terrific time, and Stephanie wore her favorite
super-fancy dress.
Our last dance was in 2008, when we went to see a
Dean Martin impersonator, Joe Scalissi, at Monona Terrace in downtown Madison.
He put on a great show, really captured the essence of Dino. Steph was a good
dancer and I was not, but we Fred & Gingered the night away.
Our last leisurely afternoon at the neighborhood coffee and
tea shop, Jade Mountain, was on Sunday, August 12th. It's easy to remember the
date, because my family was coming to visit the next day.
Stephanie talked about that for a while at the coffee shop, before she started
feeling ill and wanted to go home.
Our last restaurant meal was take-out from Hong Kong Cafe,
on Friday, July 27th. She had the moo-shoo pork, as she usually did. I don't
remember what I had.
The last of her leftovers was a beef stew she'd made many
months ago, probably last year. It was too freezer-burned to eat, but a few
days ago I let it thaw, then popped the lid off and inhaled, and oh, it smelled
of Stephanie's always-excellent stew. I miss her for a thousand things more
than anything she ever cooked, but that wondrous, delicious smell brought on
yet another wave of memories and tears.
The last treat I brought home for her was a mango smoothie
from Culver's, on Monday, August 20. She loved their smoothies, and I loved
bringing her little treats. She finished the smoothie in one sitting. It was
maybe the most she'd eaten in weeks, and I thought that was a good sign, but
what the hell did I know?
Our last meal at home was the next night, Tuesday, August
21. It was nothing special. She had a bowl of tomato soup from a can, and a
chunk of French bread warmed up in the toaster over. She only nibbled at both,
and wasn't feeling well. The next day I took her to the emergency room. She
spent eleven days in the hospital, and never came home.
The last time she laughed was on Saturday, August 25, in the
hospital. I don't remember what she laughed at, but Steph could find humor in
almost any situation. She was awake and lucid most of that day, chatting and
frightened to be in the hospital, but she was Stephanie, so of course she found
things to laugh at. She made me laugh, too, as she always did. The
situation was scary, but neither of us thought she'd be dead in a week. I'll
never understand that; one day she was getting better, and the next day, she
was almost gone.
Our last kiss was in the hospital, but that was a kiss of
fear. Our last real kiss was the night before she went to the emergency
room, when I came home from work. I don't even remember it, but we always said "I
love you" when either of us came home, and we always kissed.
Our last conversation was in the hospital, too, an awful
place and an awful conversation. We'd had similar conversations in the past,
dialogue we replayed with slight variation almost every time she was
hospitalized. There wasn't much that she abhorred more than hospitals – needles
and nurses, being tethered to tubes, no privacy, no sleep, no autonomy, and an endless
parade of people all asking the same questions and poking at the same body
parts. It was Saturday afternoon, and she'd been in the hospital for several
days, passing in and out of lucidity. At that moment, though, she was lucid
enough to understand where she was, and she hated it.
"I can't do this," she said.
And I said, "Yes, you can. I know it's awful, but you've
done it before, and I'll be here to help. You'll pull through, you'll
recuperate, you'll be back, and we'll have good times like we always have."
She asked, "Really?," and I could see the doubt
and panic in her eyes. She was scared, and she needed reassurance, and I
thought I was telling her the truth.
"Really," I said. "Don't worry. Everything's
going to be OK."
But nothing turned out OK, nothing at all. Stephanie died a
week after that last conversation.