StephMemorial: Like the floor dropping away

I had the love of a wonderful woman, and loved her in return. It was pretty terrific, for both of us. She was the foundation for everything in my world, and I know that she felt the same about me. I tried to make her happy, and I'm pretty sure that — most days — I succeeded. She certainly made me happy, just about every day from the day we met til the day she died.

Did I worship the ground she walked on? No. That's silly. The ground she walked on was just ground — dirt or concrete, grass or pavement. It would be absurd to worship the ground she walked on. It's not much of an exaggeration, though, to say that I worshiped Stephanie.

I loved her, and still do, for so many reasons. Because she was weird like me. Because she could make me laugh. Because she made me care. Because she didn't have to explain herself to me, nor I to her. Because unlike me, she was smart, and kindhearted, and able to fix a garbage disposal. Because whatever the situation — good bad, or ghastly — her presence made it better. I've never been much of a man, but she made me feel like I was. She was so much more than I deserved, and I was less than she deserved, but we were a good match.

It is amazing to me, flabbergasting, that we ever had each other. Our time together was full of troubles, yet far too perfect for here on Earth. And it's like the floor dropping away, that she's gone.

There are still times when I'll briefly fantasize that it's all a bad dream. That she's alive and well. That she'll come walking down the hall – not rolling, but walking on both healthy legs – and into the kitchen, and she'll ask me, "Where's the spaghetti pot?"

The spaghetti pot is in a cardboard box in the next room, with a whole lot of Steph's stuff that didn't earn a spot in the Shrine. I don't cook much, and when I do it's not spaghetti, so I've moved a lot of Steph's things — some to the Shrine, some to the spare room, some to the basement, some to Goodwill.

Stephanie isn't going to need the spaghetti pot. She's not going to walk down the hall and into the kitchen, ever again. I'd be ecstatic if she did, but she won't. I'm getting used to that, slowly and sadly, but it sucks like a Hoover upright.

Welcome to StephMemorial

Stephanie Webb was my wife, my closest friend, my angel. We were together from 1997 until 2018, and for all that time we were head-over-heels in love. She was the best thing that ever happened to me, or ever will.

Who was Stephanie? She was complicated, and sometimes difficult. She was brilliant but insecure, eloquent but introverted, strong-willed but soft-spoken, tough as titanium but always vulnerable, a dreamer but utterly down-to-earth. Sometimes she was deeper than the Marianas Trench, and other times so silly you'd be giggling for hours.

She wasn't famous, and she was never arrested or made headlines. She worked ordinary office jobs, but after hours and on the weekend she was adventurous — oh, the places we've been (though always on a budget). She developed major medical problems toward the end, but other than a few dark days she generally kept an optimistic outlook. She was 26 when we met, and 48 when she died.

This domain was created to post her obituary on-line, so old friends who'd been out of touch could Google her name and know that she'd passed away. After writing the obituary, though, there was more to be said. And then, more still.

I don't want to forget any of the moments we spent together, the things we did, or the promises we made, kept, and broke — but I'm old and sometimes forgetful, and it's not likely that my memory will improve with age. So I'm writing it. Almost all of it. I reckon that's going to take the rest of my life.

I can't tell you everything about Stephanie, of course. As well as I knew her, there must be many stories she never told me, and many stories she told me that I've forgotten. There are also, of course, some stories that I'm not going to share.

She didn't often speak about her childhood, her adolescence, her first years of adulthood, and her answers when I asked were usually brief. She got the recipe for Stephanie exactly right, that's for sure — but I wasn't there while she was creating herself, day by day and bit by bit, so my focus will be on the time we had together.

It was delightful and never dull spending those years with her, and it's my hope to convey some small smidgen of the joy of Stephanie. Of course, her spirit can't be captured and posted on-line, and there's no doubt that I'm going to fail. But I am going to try.

I am under no illusion that this site will be popular. That's not the point. When I write about Stephanie it's like spending more time with her, or re-spending old times with her, and that's the best thing left in my life.

My name is Doug, and I'm (still and always) Stephanie's husband. If you knew her, or have something to say about the website, or if you've spotted a typo, you can reach me via the form below.