SURPRISING, BUT NOT UNEXPECTED
ALM No.93, September 2026
ESSAYS
My husband’s memorial service was held on 28 March 2026, the day after our 41st wedding anniversary. Like all marriages, ours included precious and not-so-precious memories, good days and bad days, silly and sad times. Our shared lives emerged piece by piece, like a puzzle: falling in love, commitment, careers, kids, grieving lost paths, redefining destinations, good luck and bad, not nearly enough vacations, and finally amazement at where we ended up.
But, I’m getting ahead of myself, and getting ahead of us, because Steven was part of many lives. His younger brother, Mark, wrote his life sketch, and here are some excerpts I like, starting with his adolescence. “My friends and I teased him. He was quite the nerd, coming home from school with his violin in one hand, his chess set and books in the other, and a slide rule strapped to his belt. He got the last laugh, though, as nerds are now cool.” I beg to differ. Steven was dignified, funny, fascinating, but never cool.
Mark also wrote about their father, who stressed mental and physical health, and introduced yoga to his seven children. “No one else I knew did yoga in Utah in 1968. We all tried it briefly, but Dad and Steven really adopted it. I remember Steven doing yoga until he left for college. In the evenings, he’d put on pajama bottoms, set out his blanket in front of the TV, and do amazing contortions as we watched shows like Night Gallery and Laugh-In. I didn’t realize then how unusual that was. None of my friends had a family member doing yoga during TV time.” Steven was shy, but I suspect he loved standing on his head during commercials when everyone was watching.
Mark wrote about Steven as a young adult, “He received a scholarship and left home to attend the University of Chicago in 1974, where he started with as a math major. After a year of college, he went on a mission to Thailand for the Mormon Church. When he came back, he switched his major to philosophy. Our brother used to say that we’d find Steven on a beach somewhere with date pits in his long beard, wearing robes, and leading discussions about Friedrich Nietzsche’s book Beyond Good and Evil. He completed his PhD in philosophy at UCLA, but never liked dates all that much, nor did he become a beach philosopher. I always thought it would have been fun to see Steve enlightening the good people of Venice Beach concerning finer points of the meaning of life.”
The next part of Steven’s life sketch I know, because it’s my life sketch too. “While at UCLA, Steven met and married Sharman. They have always been perfect companions for each other.” This is the sort of thing people say at memorials. We had our challenges. He liked to spend his time thinking philosophical thoughts; I’m better at getting things done. He was an early riser, not me. He played three instruments; I’m musically impaired. Eventually, we got used to the constant shifting of expectations and eternal parade of small and not-so-small surprises every marriage navigates. We always had a lot to talk about, even when Steven no longer remembered what he’d just asked, or what I’d just answered.
Mark had also written, "I couldn’t ask for a better sister-in-law." I only include this because it’s a direct quote. "After UCLA, they moved to Arizona, where Steven taught Philosophy, and raised a beautiful family with three sons, Andrew, Ben, and Danny.” For fun, Steven and I rearranged their names to Ben, Andrew, and Danny— the BAD boys. If you look up BAD, it also means 'excellent, or impressive,’ which describes them pretty well. Even though Steven is gone, I like to think of us like five fingers in a hand—something I can hold onto.
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Each of our sons remembered their dad in their own way. They all described him as humble and quietly funny. His humor had something to do with humility. His humility was probably one of the indications of his maturity, and whatever it is we mean by the word wisdom.
Here’s what our youngest son, Danny, said about his father. “Dad knew everything. He knew everything because he read everything. One day I asked him what was on his e-reader that day and he told me he was reading the Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln – letters, speeches, and other writings.….He read novels, academic papers, and news articles. Comic books were some of his favorites.”
I was at a clear disadvantage when Steven and I talked about books, because he’d read all of Plato, Bertrand Russel, Tolstoy, Thoreau, Tolkien, Angelou, Bloom County and Pogo, and remembered everything too—a remarkable sort of reader. Steven enjoyed poets with one name, like Homer, two names like Shel Silverstein, and those with three, like Alfred Marmaduke Hobby; and even Archy, the reincarnated free-verse cockroach who dove headfirst onto typewriter keys. He read Mary Oliver, the quiet American poet who asked, “what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” He was always pursuing something deeper, beyond easy explanation.
This is what our middle son, Ben, said about his father. “Dad valued honesty, but this was a double-edged sword. When my balding reached a critical point as an undergraduate, I started shaving my head. I asked my parents what they thought of my new look—mom was glowing with her support, while my dad, very bald himself, said, ‘Eh, I think you looked better with hair.’ He eventually came around to the new “lack-of-hairstyle.” His honesty also meant that when he told us he loved us or that he was proud of us, we had of doubt of his sincerity.”
Steven was also very good at listening. When one of our boys said something to him, anything at all, anything in the range from surprisingly clever to stunningly stupid, he would listen carefully, attentively, and silently. He did this without interrupting and without increasing impatience for them to finish. He’d even wait a few beats after they’d stopped talking, just in case they had something else they wanted to add. Then he would say something encouraging, before commenting on the surprisingly clever or stunningly stupid thing they’d said.
This is what our oldest son, Andrew, said about his father at his memorial. Andrew has autism and has never told a lie, so you know this is the truth. “My dad was the kindest person you will ever meet. He helped me win second place in the Pinewood Derby by following the instructions to build a race car. This was especially surprising because there was another person who’s dad was an engineer and he didn’t place at all.”
We were all surprised because Steven wasn't the handy type. We once had a mysterious laundry room leak that persisted for weeks after Steven left a pair of pliers inside the washing machine's mechanism during a prior repair attempt.
Andrew continued, “He was even thinking of others when he was hospitalized just a few weeks ago. The staff was under strict orders not to give him food or water for fear that he would aspirate.”(He did have an IV providing fluids.) He grew increasingly hungry while we waited for the palliative care team to meet. “I couldn’t even get him a glass of water. I hated being the bad guy, telling him he couldn’t even have a glass of water. Dad was more concerned about my needs (like getting a Coke Zero from the vending machine), even though he hadn’t had any food or anything to drink for four days. I will miss his selfless attitude and kindness.”
No one knows what is waiting for them in their jigsaw box. For us it was the fifteen years my husband struggled with Parkinson’s. I watched Steven’s determination to keep walking, then talking, then swallowing, with both heartbreak and admiration. Awe, really. Finally, one morning he couldn’t stand, so I slid him off the bed into his wheelchair and our neighbors helped me transfer him into our car. At the hospital, treating his underlying infection was easy, but Parkinson’s had caused muscle stiffness and slowed reflexes in his throat, which made swallowing dangerous. And Steven had decided years before that he didn’t want a feeding tube. When it was clear his future care would focus on comfort, not cure, he was transported to a rehabilitation facility in an ambulance. I followed behind, navigating Salt Lake City’s grid-like streets where magnolias, crabapples, ornamental pears, and eastern redbuds had burst into white, pink, and purple blooms against the snowy peaks of the Wasatch Mountains. How quickly things can change.
As I walked through the nursing home’s labyrinth halls, waves of smells engulfed me: soap, floras disinfectant, the unappetizing aroma of uneaten food trays, musty, and something I couldn’t quite identify. The next day I helped Steven get settled in. I brought in posters of National Parks, chocolate, power strips, lots of plug-in air fresheners, and Ensure. My husband had arrived at the time in his life when he was no longer the one doing, but the one to whom things were done. The facility was old, homey, and a bit decrepit. I began to realize the unidentified smell I was aware of was death. It was constantly present, and not always unwelcome. The staff were attentive and kind and brought Steven pureed foods, thickened liquids, morphine, and Ativan on a schedule. Family, siblings, and friends visited. When we were sad, I wrapped my arms around Steven and placed my face against his beating heart, seeking comfort and hopefully providing some. One day, a masseuse rubbed his feet and sang hymns. Another day, a hospice clergywoman from India sang a song she’d written about comfort, love, and memory. We talked, laughed, cried, and I read him E. B. White essays.
A week before Steven died, a social worker visited. He asked if he was afraid to die. Steven’s voice was barely audible. “Sometimes, I am. But I have my Mormon traditions and Sharman to help me.”
The social worker’s face lit up with delight. He said, “I’ve never known anyone who looked to both Mormonism and a shaman at a time like this.” His misunderstanding wasn’t too surprising. After all, we were in Utah, named for the Ute Tribe. And in Native traditions, shamans play an important role as healers and intermediaries between physical and spiritual worlds, maintaining community and harmony. They even perform soul retrievals.
The social worker was disappointed when I said, “I’m Sharman.”
The next morning, the staff were in a tizzy because Steven’s had experienced a dangerous “turn.” I found him leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees, struggling to breathe. He looked panicked, and two short prongs inside his nose delivered a constant stream of oxygen. I suspect he’d choked while swallowing one of his “necessary” medications, a large capsule treating his Parkinson’s symptoms. Is it possible the medication Steven took to manage the disease that was slowly killing him would eventually kill him?
He was tired. He was tired of eating baby food and being lifted with a Hoyer lift, holding him aloft in a hammock sling like a stork transports a baby. And he was tired of the struggle of thinking and talking. Sometimes Steven asked me about the spiders, worms, and cats he saw lurking in the room, always on the right side. I reassured him that his hallucinations weren’t real. When I leaned close, he offered a few dry, entertaining remarks about dying. He did not whine or complain. I told him how much I loved him, and he did the same, because tomorrows are never promised. Everything changed quickly over the next few days. He became fragile and translucent, seemingly illuminated from within. His chest grew wheezy, and his breathing was as hard and regular as a machine. Steven stopped eating and drinking, and slipped into a netherworld. Then he was gone. It was surprising, but not unexpected.
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There was a 30-minute call from hospice a week after Steven died, which they followed up with a seventeen-page email. This was on their to-do list: report Steven’s death to the post office and utility providers; cancel subscriptions and credit cards; check on government benefits, life insurance, health insurance, and online streaming services; and check on unclaimed property. Then contact banks, memorialize his social media account, and hope your attorney knows what to do with your family trust. On the last page was grief support. The seventeen pages are in a large font, but I’m grieving and having trouble reading this list. Removing my husband from documents that documented our lives together has left me weary and sad. Of course, we never completely erase who someone was.
Steven admired the Stoics, who promoted acceptance of the uncontrollable and a commitment to living in accordance with virtue-wisdom, justice, courage, temperance-and logic. My husband showed me how to be less surprised and more prepared when illness crashed into our lives, leaving us stripped of everything except humor, creativity, and patience. Especially patience.
When Steven could get out of bed on his own, he’d be up at 5:30 in the morning. He’d navigate the few steps from our bedroom to the den. Then he would sit at his desk and read philosophy, and Calvin and Hobbes, and ask Alexa to play the Beatles or Bach. Then he would listen to the news, which made him less of a stoic. When he couldn’t get out of bed on his own, he’d still WANT to get up starting around 6:00 AM. I’d tell him, “Let’s just rest a little longer. It’s cold and dark outside.”
He’d say, “Just take me to that chair over there,” pointing to the faux leather chair in our bedroom, which has a mechanical apparatus to boost a person to a standing position. By the time we’d concluded this daily negotiation, I’d be thoroughly awake. So, I’d bring his wheelchair to the edge of the bed, help him stand, transfer him, and we’d head to the bathroom, where I would give him a thorough scrub with a citrus body wash. Then we’d get on with our day.
But my husband no longer needs help with his morning wash-up, and I’m in a quandary about what to do with my life. My empty arms ache, and I am desolate. Some nights I’m lashed with a flood of memories, like a beach by a tide, and in the morning, I have trouble getting out of bed. Grief takes time, much longer than anyone expects. In some ways, it will never end. On better days, I realize there is sadness, but Steven is not the sadness.
Sharman Ober-Reynolds was born in LA and completed an MFA at Arizona State University. She worked as a FNP in autism research and is primary author of The FRIEND Program for Creating Supportive Peer Networks for Students with Social Challenges, including Autism. Sharman received the League of Utah Writer’s Olive Woolley Bert and Silver Typewriter Awards. She was a short list winner in the Essays category of the 9th Annual Adelaide Literary Magazine Award Contest. Her creative non-fiction has appeared in bioStories, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and Storyhouse Weekly Reader. You can read her creative non-fiction at www.sharmanoberreynolds.com.
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