StephMemorial: Knock on our door

Stephanie and I liked Doctor Who, the British sci-fi show about a goofy space-alien who has a time machine, and zips up and down history getting into scrapes. We watched the show together, and I miss my wife tremendously, so this was probably inevitable.

In my dream, I was re-watching an episode from the mid-1990s, when Doctor Who visited San Francisco (yeah, I'll admit it — I dreamed of watching Doctor Who). There was a brief glimpse of a streetcar in the background, and at that moment the episode transcended my dream. I woke with a jolt, and as sometimes happens, I was awake but confused about what's reality and what’s a dream.

Stephanie and I lived then and there, of course, in mid-1990s San Francisco. Factually, Steph moved to the city in 1997, a year or two after that episode of Doctor Who had been filmed — but I was barely awake so facts wobbled like Jello. It somehow seemed perfectly plausible that I could board that streetcar, and it would take me to our apartment on Duboce Avenue, way back when. Stephanie would be inside our apartment, and if I went up the stairs and knocked she'd open the door and we could talk and she'd be alive and everything would be marvelous.

Except, wait a minute. I'll be obviously twenty-two years older than she'd expect, greyer and skinnier, so she might freak out when she sees me. And if she's in the apartment I'd probably be there, too — mid-1990s me — so I'll have to explain to both of them that I'd come back in time. Which means, I'd probably have to tell Stephanie that she's dead, which would be an unspeakably sad thing to say, especially to say it to her.

And still, I wanted to ride that streetcar and climb those stairs and knock on our door. Maybe it would be romantic, or maybe it would be chaotic or comedic, or maybe Steph wouldn't believe me and she'd call the cops, or maybe 1990s-me would get flustered and punch me — there were all sorts of ways that knocking on that door could go wrong, but none of it mattered. I wanted to see Stephanie. "Wanted" isn't the right word; I was ecstatic that I'd be seeing Stephanie.

It was too late, though. The fog in my head was lifting, and it's 2019 not 1997, and I'm in Wisconsin not California, and Stephanie is dead and won't answer any knock at any door. It had taken perhaps a minute and a half for me to shake the dream and know again where and when I am, and to remember that time travel is a fiction. A minute and a half to go from the frenzied anticipation of "Oh my god, I'm moments from seeing Stephanie again" to this dull, sad reality where we've spoken for the last time, a long time ago.

The cat leapt into my lap, knowing somehow as she sometimes does when a ball of fluff and claws might be helpful, and the next twenty minutes were spent typing this and petting the pet. The time-travel dream was ridiculous, of course, and shifting from euphoria to grief in a minute and a half has left me freshly devastated and very wide awake.

The alarm clock rings in five hours, but I'm probably not getting back to sleep, and I'll be a mess at work tomorrow. And still, what I wouldn't give to ride that streetcar to Duboce Avenue.

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.