StephMemorial: Punch him in the face

My default these days is "low-level grumpy," and from there my moods range from an upside of "blah" to a downside of "extreme grumpiness." This morning was "blah," which is as good as it gets without Stephanie. I was cleaning out the apartment, going through some of Steph's old stuff, and a can of trash was full, so I wheeled it down the hall toward the dumpster.

Halfway down the hall is the stairway to the building's second floor. Through the slats of the steps, I saw a pair of shoes and the wheel of a bike, and knew it was NosyNeighbor, the creepy ex-cop who always raised the hair on the back of our necks. Immediately, my jaw clenched, my sphincter tightened, and my mood soured like last month's milk.

Nosy Neighbor turned the corner at the landing, continued down the stairs, smiled at me and took a breath, and there's no doubt that he was about to say something truly annoying — but I scowled and shook my head "no." He frowned and said nothing, walked out the front door, mounted his bike, and pedaled away.

Nosy Neighbor never talks to me these days, not since Steph called the cops on him, six or eight years ago. He makes eye contact with me, smiles, and then remembers to shut up. Thank you, Stephanie.

Sometimes, though, I'm wishing he would say something — because, you see, I have always wanted to punch him in the face. The man is strange and sinister, like an assistant to the bad guy in an old movie. He's always chatting with our neighbors, asking nosey questions. Just moments after I saw him this morning, when I emerged from the back door with my trash, he was on the sidewalk between me and the dumpster, where he'd cornered an old lady who lives in the adjacent apartment building, and he was asking her about her plans for the weekend. He never says a word about himself, but always asks about everyone else's comings and goings. He probably has an Excel spreadsheet listing what time I leave for work every weekday, and what time I return home, all down to the minute.

Most important, though, and most aggravating, that man frightened my wife. For that I still want to punch him in the face. Stephanie completely put him in his place, successfully shutting him up, apparently permanently. She handled him perfectly — and yet, it still angers me that he angered her. There remains a Neanderthal part of my brain that still wants to defend my wife, by beating that man until he's bruised and bloody.

Which is ridiculous, of course. I haven't been in a fight since I was a teenager, and my record was never impressive — one win, two losses, one draw. Nosy Neighbor is an ex-cop in good shape, and in the other corner, I'm a wimpy guy. Our trash cans have wheels, because I don't have the muscles to actually carry a heavy bag of trash to the dumpster. So if I ever punched that schmuck, my fight record would immediately drop to 1-3-1 and no doubt I'd need dental work. Plus, of course, Stephanie wouldn't have wanted me to punch him, so I never did, and never would. Dang it though, I'll always want to.

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.