Tumor humor

Almost every time there's a new adult in Cooper's or Katie's life, I make a point to gently mention Steve's illness and death.

I learned to do this while Steve was ill -- to prepare the adult (teacher, doctor, coach) for possible conversation references to cancer or a brain tumor or crazy eye.

Katie especially talks about Daddy all the time. When I dropped Katie off for an art day camp this summer, I told her teacher about Steve right away, even though Katie would be there for only a few hours during one week. Katie emotes constantly, and I believe that the adults around her need as much information as possible.

Cooper had an eye appointment today, and I chose not to tell the receptionist or the optometrist about Steve. We wouldn't be there long. The paperwork didn't require me to mark my marital status. Cooper isn't one to volunteer information about Steve. It seemed like a safe time to just be a mom and a son at an afternoon appointment.

The kind doctor was a few minutes into the thorough neurological exam when he stopped and said jokingly, "Well, the good news is there are no tumors!"

(Nervous laughter from me as I silently curse myself for not telling the receptionist that Cooper's Daddy had died from complications of a brain stem tumor.)

"Well, that's good," I said cheerfully. Then I continued softly, "And you should probably know that Cooper's Daddy, my husband, died last year. He had a brain stem tumor."

I had to say something at this point, right? I didn't want more joking references to brain tumors, and I didn't want Cooper to worry. I went on to remind Cooper that the tumor in Daddy's brain stem was super rare and that it's not genetic and that I've never worried about tumors in his head.

The doctor was clearly upset with his comment, apologized to both of us and performed some additional tests on Cooper just to show him that he was indeed just fine. When Cooper left the exam room, the doctor apologized again.

I told him that I wasn't upset with him and that I usually let folks know in advance of our situation -- I just didn't think it was relevant today. I was wrong.

Thankful for perspective

Happy Thanksgiving!

In my Briefing column today, I write about one of many gifts from Steve -- the gift of perspective. You can read it here or here:

On this day, I'm thankful for the gift of perspective

At the top of my list of thanks this season is perspective.

The perspective comes courtesy of my late husband, who died last fall after living with brain cancer for a year and a half.

I thought of him this week, for probably the thousandth time, while waiting in line for coffee.

A fit, well-dressed woman behind me was complaining to two younger friends about some minor ailments. The 50ish-year-old ended her monologue dramatically: "It's horrible getting old. I mean, it is horrible getting old."

Steve would have loved to get old. And I would have loved to grow old along with him.

It's the reason I didn't complain about turning a year closer to 40 this year and why I cringe a little when others grumble about birthdays. Because we all miss people who aren't celebrating Thanksgiving this year, people who would have loved to celebrate more birthdays.

There are multiple moments each week when I think, "I can't believe I have to live the rest of my life without Steve."

And then I remind myself, "I get to live the rest of my life."

When I get bogged down thinking of how difficult it is to make decisions about our children or to discipline them by myself, I deliberately stop to remember how fortunate I am to get to perform these important parenting tasks.

Plus, I get to play board games and listen to piano practice and watch cartwheels being perfected.

Perspective comes in handy at Thanksgiving, a holiday sandwiched between Christmas preparations that begin just after Halloween.

It's easy this time of year to get wrapped up in what I don't have. The mailbox is stuffed daily with catalogs, and my e-mail inbox gets hit too often with enticing deals for stuff.

When I get too greedy, I deliberately stop to remember what little significance all that kind of stuff had during Steve's final months. He was never too materialistic to begin with, and he certainly dropped any investment in things when he realized his time was so limited.

It's the reason I don't understand why Oprah's guests go into such a frenzy when they realize they're being given a pile of her favorite things (though I confess to coveting a bag and pair of ballet flats in this year's booty).

And it's why I had to interrupt a recent Katie tantrum for a life lesson.

I had already bought her four books, plus one for her classroom library, at the school book fair. I held fast to my policy of not buying any of the junky stuff – novelty erasers, pens, pencils.

Even after multiple conversations, Katie professed to not understanding my position.

"If you wanted me to be happy," she wailed, "you would buy me more stuff!"

I would typically save big ideas for after an irrational 5-year-old fit. But I couldn't let this moment pass.

"Katie, I believe that things don't make us happy. Our happiness comes from within us and from the good people around us."

Katie paused briefly then resumed her fit.

She's not always thankful for my perspective, but I know I'm fortunate to be able to share it.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. E-mail her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Steve and Katie

Katie has a new way of posing for photographs. It's very similar to the way her Daddy would pose for photos. Even their distinctive eyebrows are arched the same.

Katie, last night, PTA program (with a fuzzy Cooper beside her)

Steve with spiked hair, in a big group of high school friends (help with identification welcome!)

Update from fellow W.T. White alum Stuart Cutright: Folks in photo. Leaning on couch, brown hair: Tamara Mirinkovic. On left side I think is Becky Gordon. In glasses next to Becky is John Lambert. Girl on Steve's left is Lisa Bowman. Girl "under" Steve is Trish Coffey. Next to Trish and under Lisa is Steve Cairns. I'm not sure who the person is behind the group but it might be Matt Shetrone or Scott Sereboff.

Purpose

This week for work I interviewed Nick Vujicic, a 27-year-old who was born with no limbs. He's a motivational and inspirational speaker and has a new book out, Life Without Limits. (You can read part of the interview here.)

Nick's focus is convincing folks to live for their specific God-given purpose. Interest timing for me, as I've been thinking a lot the past few weeks about purpose.

I don't think we necessarily have one sole purpose. I have no doubt that for 19 months my most important purpose was to help Steve fight cancer with wild abandon and then help him slow down as his body necessarily came to rest.

But that can't be my only purpose, right? You don't reach your ultimate purpose at 38 and then just wander aimlessly.

Caring for and guiding Cooper and Katie is my most essential purpose now. And though I'll never stop being a mom, I do know that one day they'll be on their own and rely on me much less. (Though last week, Katie did say that she would live in this very house when she was an adult. Cooper said, "No, I called the house like a year ago.")

***

Photo of sunrise over Lewisville Lake, e-mailed to me from Steve on Nov. 3, 2007, with the message "Good morning!"

About three years ago this weekend, Cooper and Steve were at their first family Cub Scout campout. Steve would send me text messages from the campsite (just a few miles away) and occasional photos from his Blackberry.

Steve had started having some of the symptoms that led to his diagnosis, but we hadn't yet connected the symptoms. We had no clue what would unfold in the next few weeks.

This weekend, Cooper and Uncle Greg are at the same campout. Greg is sending text messages and photos from his iPhone.

I am sad for Cooper, who would love to have his Daddy pitching the tent, fishing and roasting marshmallows.

But I'm thankful for loving, reliable adults who enthusiastically step in. With the stellar family trio of Papa, Uncle Jim and Uncle Greg, our children have positive male role models who will never replace Steve but who provide their own kind of fatherly love.

They have new purposes, too, and I'm thankful that they accept their roles so cheerfully.

Birthday

Steve and I often said that if you have to have a brain tumor (and there's certainly no choice in the matter), you couldn't be in a better position than we were.

We live in a major metropolitan area with excellent health care facilities right here and even more just an hour flight away. Steve worked in the health care industry and had access to really bright medical minds from the very beginning. My journalism career allowed me access to really bright reporters who compiled and synthesized information quickly on our behalf.

At the time of diagnosis, we weren't struggling financially. We had a stable, loving relationship with no major issues or conflicts. We were secure in our faith.

And we were supported by an incredible group of family members and friends who supported us all day every day.

If you have to be a widow (and I'm as reluctant a widow as they come), you couldn't ask for much more than what I have now.

Two resilient, funny, wise children. The ability and flexibility to work from home, doing what I love. The peace that comes from knowing that the love Steve and I shared will never die. An even greater security in my faith.

And an incredible group of family members and friends who support us all day every day -- and especially on the momentous days.

So many of you sent cards, e-mails, texts and Facebook messages to remember Steve and send virtual hugs on his 42nd birthday. Melissa, my best friend since eighth grade, posted a lovely sentiment on her blog.

Zena and I caught the matinee showing of Waiting for "Superman" this morning; Kris and Liz joined us for a fancier-than-usual weekday lunch at Jasper's.

Jim was here this afternoon to help Cooper with homework while Katie and I baked a chocolate cake.

Then Cooper, Katie and I ate at Cantina Laredo, where I shared the story I wrote about yesterday. Katie cried when I got to the break-up, so I zoomed ahead to the happy ending.

***

After I walked the kids to school this morning, I spent some time in the front yard, planting bulbs in memory of Steve.

I planted 72 tulip bulbs and 90 ranunculus bulbs along the edges of our flower beds. I love the idea of the earth waking next spring and little shoots of green pushing through the soil, followed by glorious blooms of color.

And if that doesn't work out (I'm not exactly a master gardener), I'll just plant a whole bunch of potted flowers instead.

***

Lovely arrangement from friends and the flattest birthday cake ever

The birthday cake didn't turn out as I had hoped.

I tried a new-to-me recipe -- Julia Child's chocolate sponge cake. Katie and I followed the instructions, but I clearly missed an essential technique or two (I'm guessing my errors were related to egg yolks and/or egg whites). The cake barely rose at all, though the recipe said it should pouf above the top of the cake pan.

Cooper and Katie were undeterred by its sad appearance (I didn't bother to frost it -- I wasn't sure that it would even taste good) and ate huge slices.

Just like their sweet Daddy would have done.

Birthday dinner

Thursday is Steve's 42nd birthday.

Katie believes that his celebration will include pizza, cake, flowers and everyone he knows in heaven at the party.

Balloon release on Nov. 4, 2009, in memory of Steve

Last year we celebrated with lots of friends. This year's celebration won't be as big, but I know so many of the folks who love Steve will be thinking of him and remembering his cheerful, bold, funny spirit.

Cooper has requested a chocolate cake -- Steve's favorite -- to celebrate. And the three of us will go to dinner after homework is done.

We plan to eat at Cantina Laredo because Steve loved Tex-Mex and so do we. And because of our storied history with the restaurant.

In December 1992, Steve and I were dating long distance. He lived in Brenham and worked as assistant administrator of a multi-specialty medical clinic. I lived in Carrollton, was in my senior year at the University of North Texas and worked three part-time jobs.

We had dinner over Christmas week with his parents at the Cantina Laredo in Addison. At first, I thought we were having a fabulous evening. When the mariachi band stopped at our table, I even stood up to dance. (And I am not the dancing type.)

Steve did not look like he was having a good time, though. He was aloof and distant. (Maybe the dancing was too much?)

About a week later, just after New Year's Day, he broke up with me.

I was devastated. Heartbroken. Distraught.

Steve would later say that he needed some distance. That I was too serious. (Well, this was true. And I was probably a bit smothering. I would write and mail him a letter every single weekday. This, of course, was in the days before e-mail and texts and Facebook.)

We reunited about six weeks later -- over Valentine's Day weekend -- and never separated again.

But it was difficult to overcome the bad memories associated with that December dinner out. For a while we just refused to eat at the restaurant. In time we tried to replace the bad memories with better ones, but it never worked out. The service was too slow, the food not good enough.

We felt certain that we just weren't meant to eat at Cantina Laredo.

Many years later, the restaurant opened a location just a few miles from our home. Our dear friends Andy and Julie were determined to change our opinion and gave us a gift card to the restaurant for Christmas.

We timidly tried again. And we loved it! Maybe we just needed a new location and the passage of time. Whatever the reason, we reclaimed it as a "good" place and joked good-naturedly about that disastrous dinner when I was 20 and Steve was 24.

I may even share the story with Cooper and Katie over dinner Thursday night. They love to hear true stories of peril with happy endings.

Heroes

Cooper as Steve (complete with a Steve tie) and Katie as Mrs. Harris

It's the end of Red Ribbon Week at our school and schools all over the country. Each day at Bledsoe, students are encouraged to dress a special way -- in sweats because it's no sweat to say no to drugs, in team jerseys to symbolize we're all part of one team, etc.

Today is hero day.

Katie chose Mrs. Harris, her kindergarten teacher, as her inspiration. Cooper chose his Daddy.

Katie requested "teacher clothes" and a super teacher cape. Teacher clothes were no problem -- cardigan, skirt and argyle knee socks were already in her closet. A cape, though, wasn't.

Now, I'm already in the middle of costume season, and I'm not exactly the most skilled mom. With Betty's direction, though, I've created or am in the process of creating a Halloween wizard costume for Cooper, a sock hop Scottie skirt for Katie, and a nursery rhyme parade dog costume for Katie.

Well, why not add a cape to the list? So yesterday I bought some supplies, borrowed Zena's sewing machine and pulled together the cape, incorporating "ST" as requested by Katie and lots of pink, Mrs. Harris' favorite color.

Super teacher cape

Cooper's hero outfit was a little easier to pull together. Steve had his favorite "uniform" of khaki pants, blue dress shirt and tie. He'd throw on a sport coat, sweater or sweater vest in the winter. We had those basics in Cooper's closet.

Katie's badge

Long after the children were asleep last night, I printed badges for them to wear with their costumes. Cooper's said "My hero is my Daddy" and included a photo of the two of them.

Cooper was so sweet this morning when he saw the badge and asked, "Mommy, do we have white dots for the card? I want to change 'Daddy' to 'Dad' so no one at school makes fun of me." He also asked for the Children's Medical Center logo.

While they ate breakfast, I printed a new badge.

Cooper's badge, with photo from the first day of kindergarten (notice the pen in the pocket -- another Steve trait)

It's appropriate that Cooper was dressed as Steve today. At Bledsoe's nine-week celebration, Cooper was recognized with an award for excellent character. In our home, Steve continues to be the ultimate role model for integrity, compassion, enthusiasm, gentleness and humility.

Cooper and Tyra after the assembly

Rangers

I've been a Rangers fan for 20 years. Steve was a fan of baseball and the Rangers long before I was.

We went to games while we were dating. When we married in July 1994, we had very little money and no time to take off of work, so we didn't have a "real" honeymoon. We went to a Rangers game at the then-new Ballpark in Arlington with family and friends.

(We took our delayed honeymoon five years later, when we spent a glorious week in Paris and Munich.)

Eric, Liz and Steve at the Ballpark in the late '90s

We watched the Rangers in spring training in Port Charlotte, Fla., with Matthew and Gretchen.

Steve, Tyra and baby Cooper at the Ballpark, August 2001

When Cooper was about six weeks old, we took him to his first Rangers game. I'll never forget that outing, mostly because it was the first time that Cooper slept through the night -- 11 hours.

After we moved to Frisco, we spent more time watching the RoughRiders (a AA affiliate of the Rangers) in person. The field is 10 minutes from our house, it's inexpensive, the parking is easy.

To be honest, I never expected to see the Rangers in a World Series. I love the team, but, like most fans understand, there's little hope after August.

This series, ending with tonight's awesome win, has been emotional for me. What I selfishly want is Steve in this room, hopping up and down, exclaiming with excitement, explaining plays to Cooper and Katie.

If heaven works the way I hope it does, Steve has been watching the games from behind home plate. And I know where he'll be during the World Series.

Cooper on Monday, wearing Steve's Rangers jersey

Run for Steve/Tri for Steve

The official Run for Steve team is taking a year off from the White Rock Marathon this year. I know that some of our runners will be there no matter what, either for the full, half or relay. I am proud of you all! But I need to take a break from big events while I manage all the little and medium events in the lives of the Tasmanian Dolphins.

Don't hang up your running shoes, though! There will be three "official" Run for Steve events in 2011, including two triathlons.

1. Historic McKinney Kiwanis Kids Triathlon, Saturday, April 30, 2011

Cooper plans to run, bike and swim in the event, and we'd love to see our younger friends on the course, too!

2. Historic McKinney Kiwanis Triathlon and 5K, Sunday, May 1, 2011

I plan to run, bike and swim (along with Run for Steve captain Liz!), and we'd love to be joined by lots of friends on the course.

3. A fall 2011 run that benefits children's health care, one of Steve's passions

I'm having an especially difficult grief week this week, but I am cheered by the memories of so many runners running for Steve and by the prospect of more events.

Before I forget (and some details are already fuzzy)

I don't think I've shared before how beautifully our elementary school handled Steve's death.

I thought of it today when a store clerk and I were talking about Bledsoe, and she asked if we liked the school. As I typically do, I gushed. Our neighborhood school has been a huge blessing -- for its academic strengths, its variety of programs, relationships formed.

Bledsoe has been more than a school to our family. It is a safe, comforting home for Cooper and now Katie. It is filled with a talented group of leaders, teachers and staff members -- and supported by compassionate families.

On the day that Steve died, I spoke with Cooper's teacher, Brae. Cooper said that he wanted to go to school the very next day. We weren't sure that this was a good idea, but Cooper was certain.

Brae and Angie, the school's guidance counselor who had already spent a lot of time with Cooper, planned the next day together.

First thing Tuesday morning, I met with Angie and two specialists from the district. By this time, Cooper thought he wouldn't be able to stay the full day. But he did want his classmates to know all at one time that his Daddy had died. He was worried about having to tell people one by one.

Angie, Cooper and I walked to his classroom. Everyone gathered at the back of the room. Cooper sat on the carpet next to his best friend, Asher, who was celebrating his birthday that day. Asher put his arm protectively around Cooper's shoulders.

Angie sat in front of the group and said she had some very sad news. She tried to keep her composure, but she understandably cried some as she told Cooper's classmates that Steve had died after fighting brain cancer.

She told his friends that it was OK to tell him that they were sorry and to show that they cared but that he might not want to talk about it all the time.

Then Cooper and I went home. He spent the rest of the day at the house and returned to school Wednesday.

Angie met with Cooper three mornings a week over the next few months. We eventually reduced the days to two. This school year he hasn't yet expressed interest in counseling. But he knows it's always an option.

She and Brae are just two of the special people who took deliberate, gentle care of us when we so critically needed extra care.

So, if you ask me if I like our elementary school, I'll either give you the short answer: an emphatic yes. Or a long, emotional answer that ends in an emphatic yes.

Brae, Cooper, Angie, Kelly (former assistant principal at Bledsoe) and Jess (a teacher Cooper never even had) at one of his soccer games last October

End of day

Those few minutes before children fall asleep are often the most enlightening of the day. If you pay attention, that's when you're likely to learn details or clues from the day without any prying at all.

Cooper had some rough moments at school and some trying times at home this afternoon. We talked through what had bothered him before moving on to spelling words and his campaign poster for student council.

(His campaign slogan comes from a phrase that Steve and I taught him when he was 2: "You can't cooperate without Cooper.")

After Katie was in bed, Cooper and I visited a few more minutes.

"My heart is sad about three things," he told me.

1. Our friend Cole, who is recovering from a football injury

2. A classmate at school

3. Daddy

I gave him an update on Cole, assuring him that though Cole faces some big hurdles, he's eventually going to be OK.

We talked through some strategies on dealing with the classmate.

And I asked him to tell me more about how he was feeling about Daddy.

"Why couldn't you have found the tumor two years earlier so that we could have taken it out?"

I explained that we don't know exactly when the tumor began, but we think he had it for just a few months, definitely less than a year, when we discovered it.

And I told him that because of the tumor's type and unfortunate location (longtime readers will recall that notorious phrase from early in the process), there's not much we could have done.

"Well, we could have given him medicine earlier and he could have lived longer," Cooper replied.

"Maybe, Cooper," I said as I sighed. "We just don't know. And we can't change how everything happened."

Then I gave him a few more details about how cancer cells work (as best as a journalist with no formal medical training can) and why the brain stem is a highly dangerous surgical area.

"I think of cancer cells as soldiers," Cooper said. "And they want more and more reinforcements, so they just keep making new soldiers."

He added, "But I wish we could have wiped out Daddy's cancer cells."

Unexpected moments

A constant thread throughout this grief process has been my ability to cope with expected vs. unexpected moments.

When I can anticipate a grief moment -- a family birthday, our wedding anniversary, the anniversary of Steve's death, receiving his remains (as Jim, Betty and I did last week) -- I often surprise myself with my composure.

And I'm truly not pretending or acting. When I expect a moment or day or series of days to be difficult, and then those moments or day or days happen, I typically remain calm inside and out.

The unexpected moments, though -- they are a different story.

Today they piled one on top of the other.

I woke at 3 a.m. with an awful earache (allergy symptoms are particularly bad for lots of North Texans right now). I was totally capable of getting out of bed for Tylenol and water. But I wanted Steve to do it for me. I cried from the physical pain and the heartache.

I visited my doctor for an annual check-up later this morning. It was the first time I had sat in her waiting room since Steve died. The only other people in the room were a husband, pregnant wife and toddler son. It reminded me of Steve and me. He was by my side for every single prenatal visit in that office when I was pregnant with Cooper. He missed only one when I was pregnant with Katie (and he lamented that missed visit for years later). As I waited for my turn, I wiped away tears.

After the appointment, I visited a dear family at Children's Medical Center. Cole was in a football practice-related accident yesterday and is receiving excellent care at Children's -- the same hospital that employed Steve for nine years.

I hadn't been on the campus in a long time. There was no question that I needed to be there -- wanted to be there -- for Cole's family. I'm glad I had the opportunity to hug his mom and dad and to listen to Kelly describe every mom's nightmare and to smooth Cole's hair while he slept.

But I wasn't prepared for how difficult it would be to park in the garage Steve parked in. To walk the skybridge that he walked every day when he worked at that campus. To walk by other administrator types wearing similar suits and almost identical badges.

Before I drove away to get home in time to pick up Cooper and Katie from school, I sat in the minivan and sobbed.

Too many unexpected grief moments in one day.

Thank God for the unexpected joyful moments. Like Katie choosing cowgirl boots to wear with her bright blue T-shirt and hot pink cropped sweatpants. Like an impromptu morning tea with Liz. Like Julie calling just to check on me.

And like Cooper on the way home from soccer practice tonight. I pointed out the particularly pretty sunset -- orange and pink and purple filling the western sky.

"That's so beautiful not even Leonardo da Vinci could capture its beauty," Cooper said.

(He's learning about da Vinci, by the way, from aforementioned Kelly, his GT teacher at school.)

"The world is full of suffering. It is also full of overcoming."

-- Helen Keller

Michigan trip

If Steve were here, he would tell the story of this year's Labor Day weekend trip to Michigan in a long, winding, entertaining way.

Steve's storytelling was one of the millions of things I love about him. Whereas I am usually linear and concise, he would weave together anecdotes, details and memories in a circuitous, always enjoyable way.

With Steve in mind, I'll try my best to explain how Cooper, Katie and I ended up at Michigan Stadium for the season opening game.

***

Steve's dad, grandfather and great-uncle attended the University of Michigan. Steve's older brother, Jim, attended Texas A&M.

So, as Steve told it, he went to Michigan. (He was wait-listed at Rice University, his first choice.)

He started in the Honors College as a pre-med major. He eventually graduated with an English literature degree, chosen because when he had to make a final declaration, he had more credits in English than any other subject.

And he played trumpet in the Michigan Marching Band.

The 2010 Michigan Marching Band

***

In the middle of Steve's cancer journey, we heard from Laura Ambrook Redmond.

Laura was also in the Michigan Marching Band. I can't even recall now how she learned about Steve's illness. I'm sure it has something to do with Facebook or e-mails.

She is a registered nurse and would send us the most encouraging notes about Steve's care. (We are fortunate to have so many friends in the caregiving field.)

When Steve died, she wrote me to offer the children and me tickets to a Michigan football game.

Laura, her husband and cutie-pie son live in South Carolina, which means they're unable to attend all of the Michigan home games, even though they have season tickets.

I loved the idea of taking Cooper and Katie to Ann Arbor, especially to a football game. Steve attended dozens of games, often marching on the field at halftime and representing the school at bowl games. I met Steve after he graduated; together we watched many games on television. Steve would be the first to tell you that he got really riled up watching his Wolverines.

Steve and I attended one Ann Arbor game together (Michigan vs. Colorado in 1997) and that season's Rose Bowl (Michigan vs. Washington State on New Year's Day 1998).

***

Because Steve died on Labor Day 2009 and because the hours leading to his death were so traumatic (beautiful in many ways, but still traumatic), I decided early on that we wouldn't be home Labor Day weekend this year -- or perhaps any future year.

I was happy to accept Laura's gift and requested tickets for the first game of the season. Laura and her family planned to be in South Carolina that weekend, and she graciously granted my request.

***

We're fortunate to have dear friends who live in Canton, just a few miles from Ann Arbor. The Healys offered to host us in their home, which gave us plenty of room to get comfortable and plenty of time to visit. (Though certainly not enough time, if you ask any of our combined five children. They get along as if they've spent their whole lives together.)

While with the Healy family, we enjoyed a music concert in Plymouth, a few hours at the swimming pool, a trip to an apple orchard and quality time at home.

Ryan, Cooper, Katie, Kelsey and Brendan

Katie the caterpillar

Cooper, Brendan, Ryan and Ken

We also enjoyed fall-like temperatures, having escaped 100-degree Dallas.

***

The moment that our rental car crossed into Ann Arbor, I started to cry.

Steve and I had always planned to return to the town together, with our two children. He, of course, would drive and I would navigate because that was our travel agreement many years ago.

He would show us his favorite hangouts and tell us fun Steve stories, censored when necessary.

Instead, I was driving with navigation help from the little computer in the car. I had a list of Steve places courtesy of Liz, one of Steve's best college friends and our mutual friend a few years later. I tried to recall all the Steve stories I could, wishing I had written every single one he told over the years.

***

Laura took great care of us from South Carolina. She made sure that I connected with Paul, another marching band alum who tailgates at all the home games. Paul and his family welcomed us into their group, fed us throughout the day and offered great advice on where to go.

She also connected us with Nick, another band alum who works at Michigan Stadium during games. He was able to walk us onto the field a few hours before kickoff. We walked through the same tunnel that players walk through before halves and sat on the storied field.

Her seats were amazing.

I haven't yet mentioned that the game we attended was the very first in the newly renovated Michigan Stadium. The renovations include the addition of a swanky club level. Our club-level seats were cushy; the view was amazing; the bathrooms were spotless.

The three of us were among 113,090 who watched the game in the stadium -- a national record for attendance.

Michigan won, 30-10. And as of today, the team is 3-0.

Cooper, Tyra and Katie in the Big House

***

Cooper and Katie outside South Quad

We left the tailgate party for a couple of hours to tour the campus.

We stood outside South Quad, Steve's freshman year dorm. We walked through the Law Quad, one of the most beautiful spots on campus.

We stood outside the coffee shop that was once the Baskin-Robbins where Steve worked. We admired the beautiful Union. I answered a lot of questions about all the students attending parties at various rental house and Greek houses along our route.

Cooper declared his intention to attend the University of Michigan "if the science program is good enough."

He asked if he should live in a dorm or one of those rental houses. (You can guess my answer, I'm sure.)

I said a silent prayer of thanks that I still have years before I send our babies to college.

Steve & Cooper

When Cooper was a baby, he looked almost exactly like me as a baby. In fact, one of my best friends, Melissa, called him "little Tyra."

As Cooper gets older and taller and thinner, he looks more and more like Steve.

Today is career day at our elementary school. Katie dressed as a paleontologist. (She says she'll go to the University of Texas for her first degree and then the University of Michigan for her second.)

Cooper chose to be a science teacher with mad scientist characteristics. The spiky hair makes him look even more Steve-like.

Perfect timing

On Tuesday I was feeling particularly cheated. I kept thinking of the opening lines from Robert Browning's poem "Rabbi Ben Ezra." Steve and I would sometimes recite the words with each other:

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be ...

I teared up often throughout the day, feeling sorry for myself and missing Steve to grow old with.

What helped turn my sadness around? Sweet words from Cooper.

On Tuesday night he told me and Katie: "My heart almost died when Daddy did. Now it's healing."

And this morning, on our walk to school, he looked me in the eyes and said: "I have a good childhood."

His timing was perfect.

From the moment we learned that something was wrong with Steve, I worried about Cooper and Katie's childhood being ruined. I wasn't sure how we all would weather the challenges of Steve's cancer and all the changes that would come. I couldn't even begin to imagine our lives without Steve on earth.

When Cooper told me that his heart was healing, I immediately felt less burdened. Then he lifted even more burdens when describing his childhood.

I am grateful for the solid foundation that Steve and I created together and the strong legacy that Steve left behind. I am thankful for two children who are as silly and wise and articulate and funny and bright as their Daddy.

Now I need to make sure that I keep their "good childhood" on track. The best is yet to be -- just not in the way I expected.

Katie and Cooper resting on the University of Michigan campus on Sept. 4, 2010.

Memorial service

A year ago today a few hundred people gathered to celebrate Steve's life. So, it's about time that I finish posting audio from that beautiful, love-filled day. (Today's links are below and are also permanently stored on the right side of the page.)

"Creation Will Be at Peace"

Pastor Andy's remarks (part 1)

Pastor Andy's remarks (part 2)

Pastor Andy's prayer

"Lord of the Dance"

My friend and Cooper's guidance counselor, Angie, attended the Steve Damm Spot dedication service this week at our church. She shared with me the next day a precious conversation she overheard.

Cooper's friend Asher said something like, "Cooper, just look at all these people here who knew your Daddy."

Cooper replied, "Yeah, but do you remember all the people at the funeral party?!"

I love that Cooper's memories of Sept. 12, 2009, are mostly happy. Mine are, too, though I admit to shedding many tears this afternoon as I listened again to the service.

I also fell in love again with sweet, silly, funny, smart, amazing Superman Steve.

Four truths about grief

My Briefing column today is here and here:

Four truths I've learned about what happens when we grieve

I am not a grief expert, but I am an expert on how my family of three has handled grief. A year ago Tuesday, my husband and the father of our two children died after fighting brain cancer for 20 long but not-long-enough months.

Our grief didn't begin the moment Steve took his last breath. It actually started when we first learned of the mass in his brain stem.

During Steve's cancer journey, we were constantly adjusting to what we had to do to attack the tumor (chemotherapy, radiation, blood checks, transfusions, supplements) and what we couldn't do because of the tumor (for Steve that meant driving, lifting more than a few pounds, shopping on his own, running and eventually even walking and talking above a whisper).

With all that adjusting came grief – over what was lost and what we feared we would lose.

The biggest wave hit the morning of Sept. 7, and waves continue to wash over us, sometimes with a merciful pause in between and sometimes in such succession that you're not sure if you'll catch your breath.

Cooper, Katie and I made use of counseling to help us cope. I visited a counselor by myself. I briefly met with a support group. Cooper met with his guidance counselor two to three days a week for the duration of the school year. Steve's hospice agency provided two counselors who worked at our home periodically until this summer. Cooper attended a bereavement camp for children.

With all that help, a whole lot of reading and daily experiences, I've compiled some truths about our grief.

Nothing is out of normal. Valerie, one of the hospice agency's counselors, told me that I might wonder, "Is this feeling or reaction normal?" The answer would always be "Yes."

That gave me permission to cry at unexpected times, to be angry without specific reason, to ignore what wasn't absolutely essential for survival, to focus on something that really didn't matter but made me feel better.

I don't worry when 5-year-old Katie talks about Steve as if he's sitting next to us. I don't worry that 9-year-old Cooper would almost always rather read a book than talk about his beloved Daddy.

My reactions and theirs are our normal.

Don't grade yourself. I don't get an A for getting through a day without crying (a rare occurrence) or an F for sobbing for 30 minutes after watching an episode of The_Office or hearing a Taylor Swift song with the lyrics "you'll never have to be alone." (Please don't judge me.) I don't need the added pressure of evaluating my days as "good" or "bad."

I'm proud of myself for getting out of bed every single day since Sept. 7. For having clean laundry and home-cooked meals. For finding joy even on the hardest days.

Emotions are going to get out some way. I've learned with whom I can share and how much they can handle. If there's no one to talk to, I write – sometimes for others to read and sometimes just for me.

Katie expresses her grief all day, every day. She hugs the air above her in an effort to "touch" Daddy. When I ask, "Who loves you, Katie?" she points at me and then above her – words aren't necessary.

If she looks blue, I ask why. Her usual answer: "I'm always sad about Daddy. And I'm always happy that we're alive."

Cooper holds on to his daily grief and lets it out not in dribbles but bursts. They come less frequently and with less intensity these days. When he does speak or write about Steve, it's with the soul of a poet. He expresses his fear of death and war and sincere hope for nothing more than life and peace.

There is no timeline. A year of grief sounds tidy and organized – perfect for someone like me. But there's nothing orderly about grief, and it follows no schedule.

As Cooper and Katie mature, they'll hit new milestones and understand our enormous loss in different ways. Their questions and recollections will change. They'll probably require more counseling.

I expect that waves of grief will wash over me for the rest of my life – with varying degrees of intensity – though I don't fear drowning.

My constantly honed expertise in our grief has strengthened my faith in our ability to survive.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. E-mail her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Reclaiming "Spot"

Last night a group of about 100 (I'm guessing, and I'm not good with crowd estimates) helped to dedicate a patch of grass, four oak trees and a beautiful stone bench in memory of Steve.

We gathered in our church's Covenant Center (a fellowship hall/gym/all-purpose room) to visit and wait for everyone to arrive. Traffic was much worse than a usual weeknight in the Dallas area because of the never-ending rain from Tropical Storm Hermine. (Cooper prefers to call it Tropical Storm Hermione. Steve would approve.)

Pastor Andy welcomed everyone, and Pastor Wendy read aloud the verse that I chose for Steve's bench:

He has told you, O mortal, what is good;

and what does the Lord require of you

but to do justice, and to love kindness,

and to walk humbly with your God?

-- Micah 6:8

Pastor Debbie directed the combined choirs of Holy Covenant (our church) and Schreiber Memorial (Jim and Betty's church) through Steve's favorite anthem, "Creation Will Be at Peace." ("In the holy mountain of the Lord, all war and strife will cease ...")

The choir was accompanied by a string ensemble -- all teens who played an arrangement composed by our talented friend Grant, a high school junior. His arrangement was a surprise for our family and a very special gift.

Then our group filed out the north door and walked across a short parking lot to the space. We stood together in a gentle rain.

Cooper, Katie, Jim, Betty, Jim and I gathered around the bench. Everyone else circled us.

Andy spoke about the significance of oak trees in this space -- strong, tall, offering umbrella-like comfort. Just like our Steve.

He spoke about Steve's integrity and strong character and his legacy. He encouraged us to visit this space for prayer and meditation.

And he spoke of reclaiming the name "Spot."

The Damm Spot, of course, was our playful name for the tumor in Steve's brain stem, the despicable cells that took root and wrapped around healthy tissue and eventually claimed Steve's life on earth long before any of us were ready.

Now there's a new Spot -- the Steve Damm Spot at Holy Covenant United Methodist Church in Carrollton, Texas. A patch of green with three live oaks and a chinkapin oak and sturdy bench. An open, sacred space at which everyone is welcome to gather.

Andy invited everyone to move in closer, to hold hands or place hands on one another as he prayed for the space and for us.

We returned inside for Zita cookies, tea and lemonade and lots of conversation. The love and energy in that room was warm and life-affirming. And I was reminded yet again of the incredible community -- a Micah 6:8 community -- that cared for Steve and continues to care for us.

Service tonight, with or without rain

Tonight we will dedicate the Steve Damm Spot at church -- with or without rain.

If there's a gentle rain, we'll gather around the trees and bench, so bring your umbrellas and raincoats. If it's pouring, we'll meet inside church. After the brief service, we'll enjoy treats by Zita.

Either way, I'm looking forward to remembering and honoring Steve -- and seeing you there!

7 p.m. tonight

Holy Covenant United Methodist Church

1901 E. Peters Colony, Carrollton

Too many words

There are about a hundred different things I could write about tonight, which somehow puts me at a loss for words. I'll share just a few thoughts tonight and then try to get some sleep.

***

I'm thankful that we had the opportunity to go out of town this weekend. I'm thinking that I won't spend Labor Day weekend at home for a very long time. I don't want to be in the house remembering, "this is about the time I called hospice when Steve's throat was burning" or "this is about the time the nurse told me we were running out of time" or "this is the moment I had to tell Cooper and Katie that Steve was dying."

***

I've been trying to focus on the better memories from Steve's last full day on earth -- the welcome crowd of people who moved in and out of the house, who sat in our bedroom and surrounded Steve with love and laughter. They were there for Steve and also for our family.

When I have trouble sleeping in that very room (which really isn't that often), I think of those special people who gathered for Steve's final hours. I think of the many of you who would have been here if you could have, who sent e-mails and left Facebook messages, who prayed throughout the night, who had prayed with us for so long, who had visited in the previous months or sent notes, who later attended the beautiful memorial service.

I imagine all of you in one room, and it gives me great comfort. Tonight I will rely on that comfort and memories of Steve and God's peace.

***

While we were in Ann Arbor this weekend, we met a number of Michigan Marching Band alums. One of them is Greg, who was a videographer for the band in the late '80s.

He gave me this photo of Steve (center), Eric (in the fun ski sweater) and others. The date on the back is October 1988.

This photo also gives me comfort and makes me smile. (And reminds me of our dear Cooper, who says he now wants to go to the University of Michigan, just like Daddy.)