StephMemorial: Dreaming of her eyes

Often I have dreams of Stephanie, and it's as if I'm spending time with her again. We're walking through Olbrich Gardens, or at the Arboretum, or we're at the library, or on a picnic, or putzing around the apartment getting ready to visit her parents. Whatever we're doing in a good dream, we're doing it together and that's what makes the dreams so much fun. I see her eyes, and it makes me smile. I see everything in her eyes — her blazing intelligence, her love for me, and the extra twinkle when she thought something was funny.

Those dreams are the best thing going on in my world, and I have those dreams often, and wish I could have them even more often. I awaken wistful, crying as I re-realize that she's gone, but in pretty good spirits, at least by post-Steph standards.

Of course, I'm never fully happy, never anything approaching the routine, everyday happiness when she was with me — that's a feeling I no longer know and never will again. But I'm happier than the new normal. Stephanie would cutely accentuate the last syllable for extra emphasis— "happy-er."

Last night was one of the un-happy-er dreams, though. In the dream, Steph was in the nursing home, and I was in our apartment alone and without her, and it felt like I hadn't visited her for a week. I wanted to kick myself for being anywhere but with her, and in the dream I rushed to see her immediately. And when I got there, Steph wasn't even mad that I'd been away, she was just glad to see me. She said, "I love you," and again I saw everything wonderful in her eyes, and again I woke up crying.

Of course, when Stephanie spent several months in that awful nursing home a few miles from here, I lived there, too. Unless I was at work or running errands or at home doing the laundry, I was with Stephanie, sitting or sleeping in a chair beside her bed. So that strange, embarrassed, sinking feeling that I'd forgotten to visit her? It never happened, and never could've happened. But even dreaming that it happened made me feel like a skunk.

I prefer the happy dreams that star Stephanie, over the unhappy dreams like last night's, where we're inexplicably separated. But in last night's sub-par dream, at least at the end of the dream I was looking Stephanie in the eye, and dang me, that was marvelous, always.

She had beautiful eyes, a mellow, easy-going green you might mistake for brown if you weren't looking closely. But I always looked closely. Good days or bad days, Stephanie's eyes were always two matched miracles.

Looking into Stephanie's eyes was spectacular, because I could see all the way inside her head. Not literally, of course; I couldn't see behind her eyeballs, but somehow in Stephanie's eyes I could see Stephanie's soul, her warmth, her intelligence, and always I could see her mood.

I suppose they were standard-issue eyeballs like everyone has, but to me they were the front porch of her face, and I just wanted to pull up a chair and loiter, spend all day and all night looking into those eyes. Dang me, I loved looking into her eyes. Looking into Stephanie's eyes was the best — the best-est thing that ever was or ever could be.

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.