A dear, sweet-hearted niece of mine died on Christmas Eve, last year, in 2021. The day she died doesn’t matter. The year she died doesn’t matter. I hope what does matter will be made clear by the words that follow.
Stephanie was not a blood relative. She was the daughter of my sister-in-law and brother-in-law.
Why do I mention this trivial detail when speaking of the death of a loved one?
Because in our self-obsessed, what-about-me, modern world, we think, speak, hear, write, and read so much about the intricacies and minutiae of relationships, all through the lens — or rather, the mirror — of The Self and its needs and expectations.
So, it is no surprise that one thing that’s not often talked about concerning marriage and other life-partner relationships is something beyond the you-and-me of such couplings, namely the joy and the heartbreak of sharing in the lives and deaths of our joined extended family.
Like most spouses, I have had a mixture of bad times and good with my wife’s family. And she with mine. Like our blood relations, in-laws can be a blessing and a curse. That old aphorism about how you can pick your friends but not your relatives should be written into marriage vows as part of full disclosure to those blinded by love.
But that is not what this essay is about.
Sometimes you emotionally adopt certain relatives-by-marriage and your heart embraces them as closely as your own blood. They become honorary, emotional-blood relatives by some alchemy of transfusion that occurs with the joining of families — for better or worse — by the vows that tie together the destiny of a couple.
Such was the case with my niece, Stephanie. She held a very special place in my heart. Probably because I — like most people — innately have a soft spot for good souls. Perhaps because my beloved son and daughter had a singular love for Stephanie, and she for them.
Stephanie died of cancer last year at the age of thirty-one years old. Too young, too beautiful, too full of life, too loving, too friendly, too kind, too compassionate, and oh, so very human, in the very best way.
My wife’s sister, Fran, and her husband, Vic, were Stephanie’s mom and dad. They had other children and other heartaches but those stories are not mine to tell.
Neither is this one, perhaps. But there are reasons why I was compelled to write the following eulogy for Stephanie and for those who loved her and mourn her tragic passing. And I believe that is my story to tell.
I began writing A Smile for Stephanie in the weeks before Stephanie died, as her condition progressively worsened. I needed to come to terms with her imminent, unjust fate. Writing is how I process life.
Like most writers and thinkers, I do not truly know what I think until I write down my thoughts. I cannot face my feelings until I pen the words that express them. But more than this inner, compulsive need, I was honor-bound as her uncle to do my niece justice with words, my words. It was my duty to do right by her. Steph deserved that.
So, I poured out my thoughts and memories into many revisions of A Smile for Stephanie. I worked on it almost every day and night. Then word came that Stephanie had died.
My wife was crushed, broken-hearted.
I was confused and surprised.
— Well, Lou, you numbskull, of course, she was devastated!
— Yes, I know. I know.
What surprised me was the reason why she was so especially broken-hearted.
She had hoped for, prayed for, and fully expected a miracle to happen. She believed that Stephanie would somehow survive.
Now, those of you who don’t “believe” may find this absurd or even funny. Some mean-spirited among you might even think my wife deserving of her disappointment.
But the truly intelligent will understand that every human being who has ever lived has been a fool one way or another. Regardless of our religious or spiritual faith, our secular or scientific beliefs, reality makes us the royal ruler of knowledge one day and a dim-witted fool the next. Creation seems specifically designed to thwart human hubris. But to actually believe this paranoid delusion that Creation is out to get us or put us in our place would be Tower-of-Babel level hubristic and the utmost vanity of vanities.
And so, any human — believer or non-believer — with an atom of empathy would not look with a cold, dispassionate eye upon such a shattered mourner as my wife was in that moment. Having suffered the loss of a loved one; feeling utterly bereft; having her prayers for a miracle denied — or worse, ignored — crushed under the weight of disappointment and confusion.
Like any husband gifted and handicapped with a typical male brain, I tried to help my wife come to terms with this tragedy, rationally. I said, “Everything I researched about her condition said it was only a matter of time. She went peacefully, without pain.”
Her bloodshot eyes looked into mine as she asked, “So, you don’t believe in miracles?”
Later that night and in the days that followed, as I worked to complete the final draft, I reviewed that tableau, seeing those tearful eyes, hearing her broken voice, haunted by that question.
I hope A Smile for Stephanie brings some measure of solace and peace to those also haunted by that question and all the other mysteries that swirl in our thoughts after the loss of a life so very precious to us.
A Smile for Stephanie
Stephanie Marie Vanzo October 4, 1990 – December 24, 2021
by Louis Vincent Balbi
Every death casts a shadow of sorrow over us. But the loss of such a sweet soul — as Stephanie possessed — offends our innate sense of fairness and turns the solid ground under our feet to sand. Such a death angers us and if we allow it to, it might hollow us out.
And yet . . .
And yet, when I think of Stephanie I cannot help but smile and feel happy.
Why? How can this be?
Maybe it is because my thoughts of Stephanie do not linger on her last painful months in the hospital. Perhaps it is because when I think of Stephanie, my memories hijack my vision, and I see snapshots of those joyful moments I was blessed to witness of Stephanie.
Such a moment was that very first time I saw her, on the day she was baptized. As customary, she was dressed in a white christening outfit. But there is white and then, there is white. Even after three decades, the memory of this image has a brilliant afterglow that lingers in my mind’s eye. And that baby’s perfect little ears were adorned with tiny gold earrings, which surprised me at first — I had never seen a baby with earrings before — and then I thought, “Oh . . . of course . . . Fran.” But it was a good look for baby Stephanie, she was a bona fide cutie pie.
Throughout the years of her life, seeing her grow from baby to child to teenager and then into a young adult woman, I remember one constant, her smile.
And so, when I think of Stephanie, my heart feels light and I cannot help but smile.
Words on parchment declare that all are created equal. But some souls do seem to burn brighter than others. And their light is warm and kind just like their smile. There can be no doubt, from any who knew her, that Stephanie was such a light — Fran and Vic’s wonderful gift to this world.
Words spoken at the end of a loved one’s life often tend to polish off the rough edges to present an idealized version of the dearly departed. But Stephanie doesn’t need any spit-and-polish or retcon memorializing because her very soul was — and is — an authentically good-natured, brilliant star-spark of the Divine.
Ah yes, the Divine, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, our merciful God. Well, we all have a bone to pick with the Almighty for allowing our darling, sweet Stephanie to be taken away too soon and too meanly. But I’ll circle back to the Big Guy later. The Ineffable One seems to have a lot to effing answer for.
Like all those who truly grasp what it means to be human, Stephanie was humble. Now, I don’t mean to paint her as a saint or as a flawless, perfect person. Hell, even the saints are flawed and imperfect — because, well . . . they are human. Stephanie was a human’s human. And so, Stephanie was not perfect because no one is. Perhaps that explains her kindness. She accepted the imperfect in others as well as in herself. She was kind to everyone, including the arrogant ones. I know, because: mea culpa. I was one of the many blessed to be loved by Stephanie. We all were.
So this wonderful young woman, my niece, Stephanie, has been taken from us. It’s unfair, unjust, and cruel. Why didn’t the good Lord answer the torrent of prayers and tears we all sent pounding at Heaven like a tidal wave? Where was the miracle we all prayed for — and right now are pretty pissed off at God for not granting? Where was the good Lord’s grace and mercy?
At times like this, it is perfectly human to have one’s faith fracture. At such times of shock and catastrophe, I seek solace by reflecting on the path of Jesus’s earthly life. Hanging on the cross, he cried out to God, “Why have you forsaken me?” Odd words from the Son of God until we remember that Jesus was not only the Son of God and divine, He was also human. But Jesus was not half-divine and half-human like some legendary character from Greek mythology.
Jesus was fully divine and fully human. He was a human who suffered the agony of having his flesh-blood-and-bone hands and calloused feet hammered through with cold iron spikes mounting His body to a roughhewn wooden cross. Some might think, “But He knew everything to come, including the resurrection.” True, Jesus knew the purpose of His suffering. He understood the “why” of His sacrifice. He knew the ending of His story would be His resurrection.
And yet, dangling from the cross, the man turned His fully human face, with blood dripping into His eyes from the thorns piercing His scalp, up to heaven to cry out to God, “Why have you forsaken me?” Did His faith momentarily die on the cross before His body did? Perhaps. Or maybe He was quoting the Psalms to fulfill the messianic prophecies of the Old Testament. Or perhaps some other more theological explanation holds the answer. Maybe the answer is all of the above.
As for me, I believe that it was because Jesus was fully human and when human bodies and hearts are bloodied and broken, it is human to doubt, it is human to lose faith. And as the rest of the story of Jesus reveals, for those who serve the Lord there will be a resurrection — of faith and of life. But it takes time. And for those of us who are merely human, it will take more than three days in that darkness we now feel entombed within. But the boulder blocking the light and joy from our lives will be removed. Our story will go on. We will be resurrected from our sorrow and suffering — and so will our faith. Give it time. Give yourself time.
As for the here and now, we may feel the urge to beat our breasts, scream curses at heaven, and punch the air with anger, rage, and sadness. I too feel that same pull from that blackest of dark holes, named despair. And yet . . .
And yet, when I think of Stephanie, I smile.
Now, either I am a smiling fool, some addle-brained idiot . . . or else, there is some angel shaping that smile on my face by whispering a loving revelation to my soul.
I believe I smile because my life is better for having known Stephanie Vanzo.
I would also like to believe — and maybe I need to believe — that when we all prayed for a miracle for our dear Stephanie’s life . . . when we all prayed for her earthly existence and thereby expressed our heartfelt and purely unselfish appreciation and gratitude for her being that our prayer for a miracle was answered over 30 years ago, on October 4, 1990, with her birth.
In this world, the birth of a soul that chose to grow into such a kind, caring, and loving human being, is truly an absolutely freaking miracle.
We look for signs and wonders but often don’t recognize them when they surround us and walk among us.
Stephanie’s life was one of those miracles we don’t pray for in times of desperate need or want. Her life was an unexpected miracle of light that was gifted to this often dark world to show us what goodness is.
I’m no Einstein and even wacky-haired Albert had only the barest glean of an understanding of time and space. This universe — the heavens and the Earth — are far more mysterious than all of our science, philosophy, doctrine, or dogma can explain or possibly even imagine. Can miracles prayed for in the present be granted in the past?
Who the hell knows? But it’s a thought . . . a possibility . . . that brings me comfort.
Be aware that in days and nights to come, despair may darken your eyes and whisper that awful question in your ears: “Oh, what did Stephanie do to deserve such suffering with cancer and dying so young?”
When those dark days and nights do come and they may, blot out that question with a better question: “Knowing the end, would Stephanie still have chosen to have the life she lived and loved with Fran, Vic, Danielle, Christopher, and all the rest of her loved ones?” If you knew Stephanie, you know the answer. Close your eyes and see her face at all the stages and ages of her life, see her kind eyes grow steadfast, watch her lips form the only answer that child of God would ever choose, hear her voice say, “Yes!”
The end does not define a life. A lifetime — no matter its length — defines a life. Let us remember Stephanie’s life and let the last few months of sickness ending in her death fade away unless we recall it to cherish her remarkable courage and strength.
When October 4th comes around, I will raise a glass to Stephanie and remember her birthday and her smile. But on Christmas Eve in all the years to come, I will not mourn Stephanie’s death. Because the idea of her loved ones doing so would make Stephanie feel sad and guilty if we were to focus on her death on the very eve of her Savior’s birth. And if you are tempted to do so anyway, please call to mind a scene from one of Stephanie’s favorite movies, “Moonstruck.” The one with Cher and Nicholas Cage featuring Dean Martin’s song “That’s Amore!” And if a plaintive sigh seeks to slip from your lips or tears try to well up in your eyes, imagine Stephanie standing right in front of you with a no-nonsense look and then slapping the sadness right off of your face, saying, “Snap out of it!”
It is human nature to always want more of everything — especially time, and it is the reality of our existence that we don’t get more than we get.
Nevertheless, I smile because — quite unexpectedly, undeservedly, and perhaps miraculously — Providence created a universe where there was a Stephanie Vanzo who walked upon this Earth, who listened to me, who spoke to me, who smiled at me. And so I smile back at her memory, thinking of her until that time when I rejoin her soul’s company and see her kind smile in person once again, and we smile face to face — as will we all — if we serve the good and not just ourselves, as Stephanie did.