I guess I met Stef when I was thirteen or so, which would have made her twelve, but really, I felt like I’d known her forever. She was one of those people that the moment we met, it’s like we bonded instantly on some molecular level; like we were made of the very same stuff at the core. It’s rare that it happens, two people who simply know each other like that, two magnets pulling toward each other, instantly attached, but when it does, you can’t forget it.
And I didn’t.
Everyone loved Stef. She had this shine about her, something rare in a teenager, that made you want to be near her; like if you stood close enough, some of that sparkle, that inherent goodness that radiated from her would rub off on you, and for awhile you would be better for knowing her.
I am better for knowing her.
Stef was one of the first people I knew that loved me for who I was, warts and all, and even now, seventeen years later, I think she may be one of the only people who genuinely will ever love me. Maybe it’s because she understood me in a way that most people don’t. Maybe it’s because she was my first real friend. Maybe it’s because that was her gift; her shine. I don’t know.
She walked tall, confident in her shoes, while the rest of us awkward teenagers struggled to figure out who we were, Stef always knew who she was. I learned that from her.
When my boyfriend slept with my friend, she was the only one who chewed him a new asshole. In a world where I had never had a soul on my side before, Stef was always firmly there, Team Becky all the way. She would have cut a bitch for me, no questions asked, because she was my friend and she loved me. Maybe other people had families that would do that for them, but I never had that. It had always been me against the world. I learned how to be a friend from Stef, too.
She was there when I’d gotten pregnant with my first son, holding my hand when his father, too, cheated on me. Again, she was the only one who stood up for me. I never told her how much that meant to me.
Shortly after my son was born, she got pregnant, too. Excited, we planned for this baby, a boy. When her son was born, the sparkle she’d had went out and was replaced by a sadness I couldn’t touch. Always a party girl, she took it to new levels, trying to drink away her pain.
No one knew what to do.
We tried to reach her, but nothing seemed to get through. She tried rehab, three times. She was hospitalized. Tried medication. In the end, she kept returning to the bottle, drowning her sorrows in a fifth of vodka. The only friends she had left were the late-night sort, the ones who didn’t care about the Stef I loved so dearly, the ones who didn’t know my friend as she had been.
She left me a message at the end of December from a pay phone, having no phone of her own, just out rehab again. Stef sounded good, optimistic, even, offering to get together for some coffee and a playdate with her two boys and mine, sometime in the near future.
That message came too late.
I got that message two days after I buried my first real friend. One of the only people who may ever really love me.
February 10, 2008, I got a call from Stef’s mom, telling me that Stef had died the night before, in her sleep. Liver failure, cirrhosis.
Stef was 26 years old and left behind two young sons.
I’ve never been able to write about her, although I’ve tried hundreds of times. I’ve deleted thousands of words because they were simply not enough. There are no words eloquent enough, true enough, real enough to express the kind of person she was. And getting her wrong is not an option.
I loved her. I love her.
I miss her so much that my heart hurts some days. I’ll probably always feel like there’s a part of myself missing now that she’s gone. That magnet, the part of me that was connected to her, that’s still looking for that other half and it’s gone forever. I’m lucky to have found someone like that in the first place.
Sometimes, in pictures captured when I am truly happy, I can see a certain expression on my own face that is pure Stef, and it makes me smile and laugh a little, because it reminds me of the e.e. cummings poem: i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
This site is dedicated to you, Steffie. When we meet again, and I know we will, I can’t wait to tell you all the things I never told you when I should have. For knowing you, I am better.
May your shine always be warm, like Stef; like the evening sun.
I love you
Love you too
She sounds like someone I would have liked to know. Your dedication made me cry and I’m so sorry for your loss. Think of something every so often about her that makes you laugh or makes you smile and she will never truly be gone.
You made me cry. I wish you knew her. She was so fucking amazing.
We will do Stef proud here. May her light shine upon you, Becky, and give you the strength to keep being the fabulous person you are! (((hugs)))
She’ll shine on us all. That’s how Stef is.
There are no words to describe the loss of a true friend. Nothing I say here will ease the pain in any way. I could share my own sad story, but why bother. It doesn’t help. What helps is knowing that although we’ve never met and I’ve only just begun following your internet world – I am here for you. A virtual hug, always available. I wish I could offer more, but that is always there.
<3LaurenElyse
hank you. Stef was…she was amazing. I can’t wait to meet her again. I still can’t write about her without crying.
I am so sorry. So so sorry. Hugs.
hank you. She’ll do good things here, I think. I hope. Maybe this story will inspire other people.
I am sorry for your loss, Becky. This is a lovely tribute to your friend.
Absolutely heartbreaking. I am so sorry for your pain and the loss of your friend…..
oh love. i’m so so sorry for your pain… for stef’s pain.
damn, you’ve done well here.
I am proud to be one of your pranksters. I know I am nothing close to this girl but I would cut a bitch for ya!
Stef sounds wonderful. I am deeply sorry for your loss and I know how it feels. We all experience it in different ways but that feeling of hurt and loss for someone we knew so dearly never goes away.
Again, I know I didn’t know Stef but from what you wrote…I wish I would have known her.
becky, that is a terribly sad story and I’m so sorry for you loss and her sons’ unbearable loss. heartbreaking that her PPD led to her death.
this is a wonderful website, one that as a mom of a kiddo on the Autism spectrum, needs to join. Thanks for putting the band back together.
Beautiful, simply beautiful. Her life was forever blessed because of you. To have a bond like that is the ultimate gift that two people can be given. Thank you for sharing.
She sounds like the person I want to be.
Thank you for sharing such poignantly written words about a truly beautiful person. I’m sure she is smiling at your strength. I know that thru my tears, I am.
Sad, that’s true, but I think you will light someone else’s fire with these words and make them shine, too. For your Stef. That’s pretty awesome.
Do you get to see her boys?
am so sorry for your loss. Losing a friend that sounds as beautiful as she did must have been devastating. I agree though that by keeping her memory close that she will always be there.
you have a gift Becky, whether being glib or serious the words that flow from you are golden. I don’t give that kind of praise lightly as I majored in English literature and am a teacher. Blogging has a style all it’s own, but you transcend that. THANK YOU for sharing Stef with us. Someday I’ll share David and Richard with all of you.
What a tragic story. I too am sorry for your loss.
“When you lose a love it’s like a window in your heart,
Everybody sees you’re blown apart,
Everybody feels the wind blow.”
– Paul Simon
I have a Stef. Her name was Rachel. We lost touch after high school, so I’d google her name once in awhile. The first time I got a hit it was her obit. I blogged about it here:
http://kyouell.blogspot.com/2007/12/rachel-plosser-leduc.html
My daughter is 3 so her son must be 10 now. Breaks my heart that I lost touch with her, but even her memory makes me more brave.
I know there’s nothing I can say, because what you want is your friend back. But I bet that she shines on in you, and your kids, and lives through the others you call true friends. True friends like that never really die. They live on in others, so they can always be with you.
I am so glad you’ve shared Stef with us, Becky. I love you!
I am so sorry for your pain and your loss. This was beautifully written. I know how you feel I lost my best friend to Leukemia when she was 21. We had known each other since we were 1. She was the maid of honor at my wedding. I always thought our kids would play together someday. I never thought I would lose her when we were so young. I am just glad that I had such a good friend for a little while. I know it’s something I probably won’t have again.
Oh that’s so tragic. I am so sorry for your loss. The way you wrote about your friend was so eloquent, and gave me goosebumps. I feel sad for her loved ones. xo
The way you describe your Steffie, I am pretty sure that she lives on through you. That she came into your life and some of that sparkle nestled comfortably onto and into you and your spirit and that you carry her with you always. We can’t always save the ones we love, but we can allow their goodness to live on through us. You’ve honoured her here. Beautifully.
Oh. I’m so sorry. You and Stef are both in my thoughts.
Heartbreaking. God this disease takes to many, just way to damn many. Sadly it also likes to hold hands with depression which always seems to make the perfect storm. It loves to replace amazing people with shells of beings. I am so sorry it took your friend. What an amazing tribute to her, and for making this blog come to light.
You made her proud.
I’m so sorry for the loss of your friend. It is so special when we connect with someone like that. Words fail me. Wishing all the ones who loved her much peace.
I know it’s been a very long time, but I’m so sorry for your loss.
Such a wonderful tribute for your friend. 🙂
Beautiful tribute. Somewhere, Stef’s energy just got a boost and is shining brighter than ever. Keep your eyes open. She’ll show you. *wink*
Such a powerful story. It’s so sad to lose such a bug part of yourself. (((Hugs))) to you pretty lady.