Whether given or taken, kind acts can help us heal

From today's Briefing:

I am giddy about this day.

Today is my late husband’s birthday.

In the alternate world I sometimes imagine — a world without inoperable, incurable brain tumors — we would be celebrating Steve’s 43rd birthday with dinner, gifts and a homemade cake. And Steve himself.

In this real world, though, the party goes on without him.

On Steve’s 41st birthday, just a couple of months after his death, our family invited friends to join us at the neighborhood park, where we wrote notes, attached them to balloons and released them to the sky all at once.

Last year was more relaxed. While Cooper and Katie were at school, I planted tulips and ranunculus in the front beds, thinking of Steve every time I dropped a bulb into the ground. (It’s the gift that keeps giving — I thought of him every time I walked into our colorful yard the following spring.)

That night the three of us ate dinner out and came home to a simple, homemade chocolate cake, just like Steve would have liked.

Today is different.

Cooper, Katie and I decided to celebrate their Daddy’s life by encouraging acts of kindness. Our goal was 43 — one for each year since his birth.

We didn’t think we could accomplish 43 in one day by ourselves, so we started asking friends to help.

The response, thanks largely to the power of social media, has been incredible. I’ve lost track of the number of people who have committed to being deliberately kind today, but it’s safe to say that our goal will be exceeded at least five or six times over, all across the country and even the world.

Here at home, Katie plans to wake up early and walk a long route to school. She wants to crisscross the street, pick up newspapers from neighbors’ front lawns and place them on doorsteps instead.

Cooper is going to slyly surprise a friend with a candy bar in his school desk.

Close family friends are cleaning out their closets and donating gently used items to a nonprofit.

A friend is out of town this week, leaving our church food pantry unattended — I expect another friend is spending this morning in the pantry, sorting food and preparing boxes for hungry neighbors.

I’m so excited about the idea that I couldn’t wait to get started. On Wednesday I paid for my drive-thru coffee and then paid for the car behind me. My list for today is longer than my waking hours.

Part of the thrill is the selfish feeling that comes from performing a selfless act, satisfaction from a good deed with absolutely no expectation of reciprocation.

Plus, it’s nice to be able to return a fraction of the goodwill our family has received.

When Steve was ill, our family was supported, sustained and loved on by more people than I can count. Definitely by more people than I sent thank-you cards to.

In the early stages of his cancer, Steve and I would talk about how we would repay everyone for their good deeds. That didn’t last long — it was soon clear that we could never repay everyone. And eventually we accepted the truth that no one expected repayment.

We accepted the truth that people are good. That people enjoy caring for others, embracing kindness, sharing love.

If I had my way, if all of the folks who love Steve had their way, today we’d be singing him “Happy Birthday” and giving him gifts and telling funny stories about past celebrations.

In the reality we’ve got, today’s celebration — in which others receive gifts of kindness and compassion — is the next best thing.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

43 acts of kindness (part 2)

No picture, but the next person who goes into the donut shop on 380 and lake forest gets breakfast on Steve.


***

***

Passed a $10 Starbucks card to the person in line behind me. 

Paid for breakfast for a mom and her son. Gave the guy who cleans the tables off a tip and gave the waitress double the normal tip.

I am having so much fun!!!! Happy Birthday Steve!!!! 


***

Mrs. Harris' Class gathered things from around our classroom and treasure box for Operation Christmas Child :)


***
Bought breakfast for a co-worker ...

***
Bought coffee for the car behind ...

43 acts of kindness (part 1)

In memory of Steve and honor for Tyra, Cooper & Katie, I picked up 44 newspapers and placed on the front porch in the Mill Valley neighborhood during my early morning walk of the dogs.  No picture (thank goodness!) just lots of good thoughts coming your way!


***


My name is Lisa and I've been following your blog for quite awhile.  My Mother died of cancer when I was 18 and your beautiful writing has always inspired me.

Yesterday, I hand wrote a card explaining the 43 acts of kindness and shared the link to your blog. This morning I purchased a hot mocha (perfect cold morning here in MN) for the lady behind me and asked the cashier to give her the card. As I drove away, I glanced over to see the cashier and the lady in the car talking and you could see they were both smiling.

What a great way to start my birthday weekend :)


***

G baked her teacher a muffin (with my help) and wrote her a note all by herself that said, "I'm really glad you're my teacher because I can read now. I love you a lot."

And we put our "Steve note" with the muffin and note.

Man, is our Friday fun so far!!!!!


***


Someone delivered bagels for the special education team at Bledsoe Elementary.


***

I bought breakfast for next person in line at Corner Bakery ... Love to the Damm Family.


***

My sweet friends Julianne Amezcua and Leslie Wright shared your blog with me and this was our act of Kindness today. My little girls, Campbell and Avery, decided to make cookies for our mail lady. We left them in our mailbox for her this morning.


***

In memory of Steve, I paid for coffee and breakfast for the man behind me in the drive thru line at Dunkin Donuts. I had the cashier give him the card you created to explain.


***


Kathryn Tess and I are going to donate clothes in honor of Steve today. I'm writing this in Tess's baby journal, I want to do this every year with her. Of the many things we want our child to learn is to be is kind, thoughtful and generous to others.


***
Gifts from one teacher to her entire kindergarten team:

***

Yesterday, we acted early and brought our hard-working swim coaches ice-cold bottles of water. (We don't attend practice today.) They work each day in a hot, humid, dark pool and somehow manage upbeat attitudes and happy faces with the kids. We're so appreciative of them!

We plan to contribute more later today ...

***

The boys are taking flowers and thank you notes to their teachers today. 

***

Kyle is taking chips & salsa this morning to his football coaches for a Friday snack. 

43 acts of kindness update

Cooper, Katie and I are blown away by the response so far to 43 acts of kindness! We can't wait to celebrate Steve's 43rd birthday by sharing love and kindness with the folks all around us.

1. I created an event on Facebook (you can find it by clicking here), and already 160 people have committed to performing an act of kindness this Friday in memory of Steve! Thank you so much for embracing our idea. (You can read the original post here.)

2. Our friend Kelly Cox suggested that we make available a card that you can print to attach to a gift or to leave behind on Friday. You can click here for the printable card.

3. Please remember to email me Friday after you've performed your act of kindness. Send a note about what you did and a photo if you have it. (Cellphone photos are great.) I can't wait to share with everyone the love you all are sharing.

4. Feel free to share the idea with your circle of friends -- through your own blog, email, Facebook, word of mouth.

Save the date: 43 acts of kindness

Steve's 43rd birthday is next Friday, Nov. 4. Cooper, Katie and I have talked about how we want to celebrate, and we need your help.

We're hoping that a few of you will pitch in and perform acts of kindness wherever you are. Our goal is 43 acts of kindness throughout the day, Nov. 4, in memory of Steve.

Here are some of ideas we've talked about, though I know you all can come up with even better ideas, specific to your community or situation.

• Walk through your neighborhood early in the morning, pick up newspapers thrown on lawns and place on front steps instead
• Tape a few quarters to a vending machine to help buy someone else's snack or drink
• Buy coffee for the car behind you at Starbucks
• Rake and bag leaves for a neighbor
• Let someone (or a couple of someones) go in front of you in the grocery store line
• Find a busy location at lunch and hold the door open for a few minutes
• Bake a batch of cookies and take them to your church or school or office receptionist
• Leave a thank-you note for your mail carrier
• Leave encouraging, cheerful notes in unexpected places
• Clean up litter on your street or at a nearby park
• When eating out, double your usual tip
• Clean out your closet and donate gently used items to a clothes closet

There are many more ideas here and here and here.

After you've performed your act of kindness on Nov. 4, please send me a note (tyradamm@gmail.com) and include a photo if you'd like. I'd love to document the 43 acts of kindness on the blog. (I won't include your name unless you ask me to.)

Thank you!

6

For lots of little reasons, this has been a greater-than-usual missing Steve kind of week.

1. His 43rd birthday is approaching.

2. The Rangers are in the World Series, and just having baseball games on TV makes me miss Steve.

3. He was in my dreams two nights in a row this week.

4. Being the only present parent is sometimes more difficult than I ever imagined. And I've got a big imagination.

And the biggest:

5. It's fully hitting me that it's autumn and that Katie is 6. Cooper was 6 and it was autumn when Steve's health problems began to present.

That means it's been almost four years since life was "normal" around here. 

October 2007: Cooper is 6, Katie is 2.

Four years ago, Katie was in preschool two days a week. Cooper was in first grade. Steve was working 50, 60 hours a week and singing in church choir and helping with Cub Scouts. I was freelancing from home a little and managing Cooper's Destination Imagination team and doing some other volunteer work.

Fall 2007: 6-year-old chess-playing Coop

Steve was taking Cooper to Saturday chess tournaments. (I'll be taking Katie to her first chess tournament this Saturday.)

I ache for that "normal" while fully trying to embrace our new "normal."

Fall 2007: Katie is 2, Steve is 39. At this moment, we'd never even heard of glioblastomas.

Angry eyes

One time in my life I had to help fire someone. It was really awful. Necessary but awful.

That day I was wearing a pair of greenish brownish eyeglasses. That night, after I came home from work and told Steve about the meeting that ended in a firing, Steve dubbed those glasses my "angry eyes."

Years later, when Steve was fighting the Damm Spot, I would wear my angry eyes to medical appointments. We would joke that my angry eyes would scare the tumor right out of Steve's head.

As my prescription has changed, I've had the lenses for my angry eyes and my other two pair of glasses changed.

Lately I've had trouble with night vision. Driving after dark has been a little dicey, as I don't have good depth perception. So, I visited my eye doctor (the same doctor who fitted me for my first pair of glasses in 1984) this week.

My prescription has changed again, and I was prepared to pay for three new sets of lenses.

The optician encouraged me to look at new frames. She helped me choose a really cute pair. But buying a new pair PLUS replacing lenses for three old ones is awfully pricey. I was trying to decide what to do.

The optician waved toward the angry eyes and said they were a little dated. Maybe I should just retire them.

Oh, the unexpected grief triggers. The very nice optician had no clue why I started to cry. I filled her in briefly, apologizing the whole time.

See, I know it's totally irrational to cry about not wearing the same glasses that I wore for years. I have memories and photos of the angry eyes. Steve, of all people, embraced change. He encouraged me to try new things, new styles. He would have no expectation that I hold on to every little thing.

But he also would have understood my tears.

In the end, I chose to buy one new pair of frames and one new pair of prescription sunglasses (something Steve always pushed me to do, though I never did). And the three old pair of glasses, which I've been wearing since Cooper was a toddler, will be retired.

I'll find a special perch in my room for the angry eyes.

Steve and me with my angry eyes, December 2008

No crash, no fire

Yesterday I served as one of many lunchroom monitors during first- and fifth-grade lunch so that our teachers could enjoy an outdoor teacher appreciation luncheon. (I should write a much longer post on the differences between lunch with 6-year-olds and lunch with 10-year-olds.)

I was summoned to a table full of Katie's classmates to open a water bottle. While there, I came under friendly interrogation.

Most of the children in Katie's first-grade class weren't in her kindergarten class. Most of them don't know her well. Still, I just assumed that they knew that Katie's daddy had died -- I guess because she discusses it openly.

Most of them, in fact, didn't know. She recently read one of her writing samples to a small group in class. She wrote about family; halfway through she writes, "My daddy died. He was so nice." (I've cleaned up the spelling. You can see the charming original work here.)

So, this table full of first-graders had some questions for me.

Child 1: "Mrs. Damm, is it true that Katie's daddy DIED?!"

Me: "Yes, sadly. He had an illness called cancer, and all the medicine we tried couldn't make him healthy and he died."

Child 2: "So, did he die in a big plane crash?"

Child 3: "Yeah, was it a plane crash?"

Me: "Um, no. He had something called cancer, and his body couldn't keep working."

Child 2: "So, was it like a really big fire?"

Me: "No, no fire. No crash. He was just very, very sick."

All around me there were looks of disappointment. Honestly, I couldn't tell if they were sad for Katie or sad that there wasn't a better story. I tried to mask my curious amusement with so many earnest faces staring at me.

Child 1, with huge eyes: "So, are you and Katie ALL ALONE?"

Me: "No. Katie has a big brother, Cooper. He's in the fifth grade. He's 10."

Child 1: "Oh. 10 is big."

And then I had to leave because Katie, at the next table, spilled chocolate milk on her leggings.

I was impressed that these sweet children waited to ask me instead of Katie. They wanted to understand, but they didn't know how to ask her. I have no doubt that Katie could have explained it herself, but I feel certain that her classmates didn't ask her out of concern for her feelings.

Found

Cooper and Katie love to hear stories about Steve or me from when we were young. (They can each tell the tales of Steve falling off a swing in sixth grade and me hitting my head after jumping on the bed when I was 4 with precise detail.)

While we were celebrating Uncle Jim's birthday this weekend, Katie asked to hear a story. Betty had an even better idea -- photos to help tell stories. She pulled out a treasure box filled with photos, notes and slides, representing decades of Damm history.

The box included this photo, taken in 1995 or 1996. 

Old and new

Cooper was lucky enough to tag along today with the Spears family to Game 2 of the ALCS. The mighty Texas Rangers are facing the Detroit Tigers.

There's so much to love about this photo.

1. Cooper is so tall that I have to tilt my camera (or in this case, my iPad) at an angle to fit him in the frame and be close enough for details.

2. Cooper is wearing a blue Rangers T-shirt, a gift from Uncle Jim, who was in town this weekend to celebrate his 45th birthday.

3. On top of that, he's wearing Steve's vintage Rangers away jersey. I'm pretty sure that Steve bought it just before we started dating or just after, which makes it almost 20 years old.

4. Coop is also wearing one of Steve's (many) Rangers caps. It's a fitted cap, and it's a little big but not too big.

5. He's on his way to a game that the Rangers went on to win in dramatic fashion -- a walk-off grand-slam in the 11th inning. (Katie and I watched the last three innings at home.)

6. The Rangers are playing the Tigers, probably Steve's second favorite team. While he was a student at the University of Michigan, Steve attended quite a few games at the old Tiger Stadium. I have no doubt that Steve is rooting for the Rangers, but I also know he'd be proud of the Tigers.

I've got a big ol' long list of disappointments with Steve gone. I work hard to not dwell on the list, to acknowledge the list without being paralyzed by it. Part of my strategy to make that happen is to acknowledge the blessings all around us despite the disappointments.

So, yes, I'm supremely disappointed:

• That Steve never lived to see the Rangers make the World Series last year or this ACLS 
• That when the three of us watch games together it's me answering the questions and not the real family expert 
• That Cooper continues to miss out on the father-son bond over games (and Katie, too -- she loves watching) 
• That I'll never again go to a Rangers game with my sweet Steve

But I'm also thankful:

• That we have friends who include us in their own family activities
• That our children enjoy a sport that Steve loved so much
• That Cooper carries so much of Steve in him and was able to carry some of his Rangers gear in to today's game

Just two more wins, and the mighty Rangers will be back in the World Series!

Red Balloon Run

The second annual Red Balloon Run & Relay is set for Saturday, Oct. 22. The race benefits Children's Medical Center (Steve's former employer) and takes place at the hospital's Plano campus.

For about a year I've been hoping to run the 5K. I even established a Run for Steve team and registered myself for the race.

But I've decided that I can't do it this year.

For one, I haven't been running enough lately to feel ready for it. And I can't devote the time right now to coordinate all the details for our Run for Steve team. 

What pushed me over the edge, though, was being on the Plano campus two weeks ago.

Katie and I were in the ophthalmology clinic at Children's Legacy, waiting for her eye exam. I was completing a stack of forms and was just overwhelmed with missing Steve. The Children's logo was all over the place, and then there was the form describing electronic medical records, which I knew was based on software that Steve had worked on.

Then another mom in the clinic was telling me about her older children, now adults, who had a hard time growing up because their dad ran off. "It sure was hard raising those girls without their dad," she said. "That's why my girls ran so wild. There was no dad in the house."

I just listened. I didn't share anything myself. (She definitely needed someone just to listen to her.)

The appointment itself was exhausting. Katie is no fan of anything medical. When she heard that she would need eyedrops (for dilation), she freaked out. She screamed and cried, and it took two nurses plus me to hold her still for the drops. 

Katie left with a prescription for lenses for nearsightedness. And I left with the strong sense that this year isn't the right year for me to run for Children's. I love the hospital and the people who work there and the families the organization serves. And I'm hoping that next year I can gather a whole bunch of you to run with me.

This year, though, I'm going to be content as a phantom runner. 

At first I thought of myself as a failure for backing out. But now I'm considering it a victory that I've recognized what I'm not capable of doing just now.

If any of you would like to join the Red Balloon Run and need a team, feel free to join the Run for Steve team (already established). Click here for the team page.

Each moment matters

Yesterday I had a small role in the Each Moment Matters luncheon, a fundraiser for Presbyterian Communities and Services. PCS is the nonprofit group that includes Faith Hospice Services, the hospice group that cared for Steve in his final weeks and provided bereavement care for me, Cooper and Katie.

You may remember the video that Faith produced as part of its fundraising efforts for the T. Boone Pickens Hospice and Palliative Care Center. (You can see it here.)

I learned before the event that the video has been shown dozens and dozens of times all over North Texas. And that some of Steve's colleagues at Children's Medical Center watched the video but couldn't finish it. (I understand. I have trouble watching it, too.) The video helps deliver the message of why bereavement services are so crucial for families who have experienced a loss.

What an awesome legacy for our beloved Steve!

At the beginning of the luncheon, five us were on stage. One by one, under a spotlight, we spoke about how our lives were affected by the nonprofit.

My scripted line:
"My name is Tyra. While caring for my husband, Steve, Faith made each moment matter by providing music therapy for our two young children, which led to 13 crucial months of bereavement services."

By now you surely know my fear of public speaking. Steve Damm would scarcely know who I am, standing up in front of 800-plus fancily dressed people. I delivered the line with what may have appeared to be a dramatic pause but was in fact a pause to steady myself and not throw up in front of all those folks.

After I sat at my table (next to Betty, who also attended), a woman approached me.

"Tyra, I'm Rachel," she said.

She looked vaguely familiar, but I truly had no idea who she was.

"I was one of Steve's nurses."

Of course. (I'm not sure why I hadn't considered that I would see one of his caregivers there.)

Rachel was the best of Steve's hospice nurses. She would come in the middle of the night to address pain and catheter issues. She was compassionate and tender and matter-of-fact.

She was the nurse who evaluated Steve on Sept. 6 and then led me to the dining room to tell me that his time on earth was nearing an end. She helped me understand how his body was shutting down, helped me understand what steps needed to happen next.

After we hugged and I cried a little and I thanked her for her care, she told me a story.

About seven months after Steve died, Rachel was caring for a young woman who was dying.

The woman told Rachel that she had found great comfort in reading a blog about another family in a similar crisis.

She had been reading Steve's blog. (This is the moment I started to cry more.)

She knew all about Steve, Cooper, Katie and me.

Rachel promised this woman that if she ever saw me again, she would share what the blog meant to her.

What an awesome legacy for our beloved Steve.

TNT

One of the many traditions I love at our school is the TNT (Teachers Notice Things) award. Students are recognized for above-and-beyond acts of kindness and compassion.

Cooper received a TNT early in his kindergarten year. He received his second yesterday, early in his fifth-grade year.

During the assembly I sat in the back of the cafeteria and listened to Mrs. Woodson praise Cooper in front of the whole school and watched my sweet son stand next to her. And I so badly wanted to call Steve or send him a text.

Beverly Woodson (world's best principal) and Cooper 
(photo by Katie's teacher, Shannon Gallant)

But I know that Steve knows. And I know that Steve is proud of our son -- who looks more like Steve every day and who acts more like Steve all the time.

A couple of mom friends and teacher friends stopped by to tell me that they, too, were proud of Cooper. And they, too, had tears in their eyes. Because they have also watched Cooper grow from that little kindergartener to a giant fifth-grader, have watched him struggle to make sense of Steve's illness and death, have watched him be goofy, have watched him share the same kind of tender heart and gentle disposition that defined his Daddy's character.

Why?

I was at the kitchen table, editing on deadline. I had put Katie to bed 30 minutes earlier.

She cried out.

I saved the story I was working on and hustled to her room.

She wanted a hug. Then the words came tumbling out: "I want to see Daddy. I want him here. Why did he have to die when he was 40? He didn't get to see me when I was 6."

I snuggled her and hugged her and told her that I, too, wanted to see Daddy, that I want him here. That I wish he could tuck her in and read to her and hug her when she is 6. And that I was so very sorry he couldn't.

Then she gave me a kiss and I gave her another big hug and walked back to the kitchen to work.

'He was nice.'

It's been a tough week. A week with lots of bright spots, but tough nonetheless.

• Some parenting challenges related to age-appropriate-yet-frustrating behavior.
• A dear friend facing a monumental crisis.
• Onset of fall allergy season.
• A new work schedule that requires a huge adjustment on how I order just about everything at home. 
• A PTA meeting that I've been planning since summer -- a success, I think, but a minefield of details.
• An accident involving my car (it was parked, no one was in it) that has created an additional layer of logistical challenges.
• Cooper taking Created By God, a human sexuality class, which I know he's ready for but I'm not ready for because I can't help but wish Steve were here to be a part of the very important, ongoing discussion. 

This afternoon I was trying to take a short nap, before Cooper and Katie were home from school, before the driving that their activities require, before my copy editing shift (mercifully from home) that begins at 7:30 tonight.

I was asleep for maybe 10 minutes when the phone rang. (It was a call related to the accident.) I was startled by the call, and my first thought was, "I'm really doing this by myself. Steve really isn't here."

Because all those challenges from the week would be less daunting if Steve were here -- not so much to do stuff (though that would certainly be nice) but to talk with.

Tonight I was driving Cooper and two of his buddies to the Created By God workshop. One of his friends saw a photo of Steve.

"I remember your Dad. He was nice."

Such sweet simple words with so much weight.

He was nice. Oh, gracious, he was nice -- an enthusiastic friend to everyone without judgment.

That first sentence is what really gets me, though -- "I remember your Dad."

Steve as a memory. A sweet, sweet memory.

Los Angeles

When Steve and I were married in 1994, I worked nights on the copy desk at the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal and a few days a week as a temp for a slightly shady financial company. Steve soon after started working on his MBA at Texas Tech while also working full time.

We didn't see much of each other those three years, even when I took a day job as the regional editor at the A-J (and was able to quit the part-time admin job).

When Steve graduated in May 1997, he was recruited by Arthur Andersen to be a consultant in their health care practice. He worked one 80-hour-week in the downtown Dallas office and then left town for a year-long job in Los Angeles followed by a two-year job in St. Louis. He was gone Monday through Thursday or Friday every week for three years.

I worked nights at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram before I finally convinced the Dallas Morning News to hire me.

We didn't see much of each other those three years, either.

When our schedules finally aligned in 2000, we were a little worried that we wouldn't get along. Then we realized those first few years of independence were exactly what we needed. We developed our own interests and friendships -- and then had the privilege to share them with each other.

With all that in mind, when it was time to choose this year's I-can't-be-home-over-Labor-Day-weekend destination, Los Angeles was an easy choice.

I wanted to share LA with Cooper and Katie. It was an important city to Steve and me. And Gretchen, one of my dearest friends, lives there now. We met at the Avalanche-Journal long ago.

So, Gretchen and her boyfriend, Anthony, showed us LA. We stayed in their darling Pasadena home and let them drive us all around.

A glimpse at some of the fun:

Katie couldn't get enough of LA -- or Anthony's convertible. She screamed, laughed or sang the entire ride to and from the farmers market.

At the market, she joined in a jam session led by a musician dude. Doesn't she look right at home?

Who did we find at the Getty Center? Uncle Jim! He was in town for the Disneyland Half Marathon and drove up from Anaheim to meet us at the museum. (For those who don't yet know -- Uncle Jim has moved from Houston to the DC area for a new job.)

Anthony and Gretchen kept us busy for three full days of fun.

Oh, I love the beach. This is my view of Cooper and Katie playing at a Malibu beach. They jumped waves for three hours.

I still get weepy when I see a photo of the three of us. I'm so thankful for Katie and Cooper. And I miss Steve Damm so very, very much.

We rode the roller coaster at the Santa Monica Pier. Katie and Anthony held their arms high.

The Natural History Museum of Los Angeles has an incredible, newly renovated Dino Hall. 

Handsome Cooper was fascinated by the La Brea Tar Pits. 

There are even more photos here and here and here.

Two years

I exchanged text messages with sweet Kerith today. (She is one of the most devoted pray-ers I've ever known.) I wrote that this has been the "longest/fastest two years ever."

Two years ago today I was holding hands with Steve when he took his final breath. It's been two years since any of us have heard his voice (other than recorded) or felt the warmth of his hugs (even when it was a one-armed hug because his left arm wouldn't cooperate) or received a Steve email signed "Cheers!"

Two impossibly long and short years.

In that time, Cooper has grown to five-foot-one and Katie to four-foot-two.

Cooper has read more novels than I have in the same amount of time (and has been diagnosed with dyslexia), has completed two triathlons, has camped away from home for nights at a time, has served our church as the most devoted acolyte I've ever seen, has learned to play piano, has taught himself to walk on stilts.

Katie has completed preschool and started elementary school, has learned to read, has created countless works of art, has spoken the wisest words I've ever heard from a child, has improvised dozens of songs, has become a Girl Scout, has described an angel's life in heaven with vivid detail and confidence.

I've written about 200 columns for Briefing, have edited more stories than I can recall, have volunteered hundreds of hours for church, multiple schools and Girl Scouts, have made new, dear friends, have run races and completed a triathlon, have stepped out of my comfort zone to speak in front of crowds.

Together we've traveled all over the country and beyond. We've created precious memories at home, on soccer fields, at the movies and museums, at the neighborhood swimming pool. We've spent time with Jim, Betty and Uncle Jim, and Melane, Greg, Brooke and Molli, and Ami, Rich, Sasha and Tara.

We have been loved on and cared for by a community of family and friends-who-are-family and friends  and neighbors and teachers and co-workers and acquaintances that consistently amazes me.

We've told Daddy stories. We've prayed for him daily. We've kept his memory alive. We've tried to keep the essence of Steve alive in this home.

It has been two years of living without Steve and yet still living with his love that never dies.

It has been two years of emptiness and joy, intertwined and sometimes inseparable.

May 2006

Associations and hope

I'm getting really restless at home. I'm sitting in the big comfy chair in the corner of my bedroom (it's where I do the bulk of my writing and editing), and I can't help but think about the Friday night two years ago, and then the Saturday night and the awful Sunday that led to Steve's final breath on Labor Day.

I've always been big on associations.

For example, when I'm at a certain intersection in Carrollton, I think of the night I was driving Jayshree after dinner and I turned right on red. With an arrow. She didn't see the arrow and screamed. That was more than 20 years ago, and I can still hear her sincere concern that I was leading us into disaster.

And when I'm on a particular stretch of LBJ in North Dallas, I think of the summer days that Melane and I would walk from our Farmers Branch neighborhood to Northtown Mall, on the other side of 635. We would cross on a pedestrian bridge. We'd stand in the middle and try to coerce truck drivers into honking their horns (we'd move our right arm in the universal symbol that means "please honk to entertain me"). That bridge is about to be demolished, by the way, and I'm sad that Mel and I didn't stand in the middle one more time. I don't think we've crossed that bridge since 1981.

Last night was Curriculum Night at school. It's when parents gather in classrooms to learn expectations from teachers for the year.

Two years ago, Jim and Betty were at home with Steve, Cooper and Katie. I hated to leave the house for that hour, but I also hated to miss an important night at school.

I walked to Bledsoe. An hour later, there was an awful storm outside. There was no way I could walk home in the driving rain and lightning.

Julia Brinlee, Cooper's first-grade teacher, drove me home. She had been Cooper's teacher when Steve was diagnosed. She knew how to read my face, knew when I needed a hug after school.

On this night, she parked in front of our home and prayed for Steve and our family. I'm certain that I cried. And then I ran inside to check on my most treasured loved ones.

Steve seemed to have declined even more in that hour I was gone. It was his final Thursday night on earth.

So, last night I attended two sessions -- one on first grade, one on fifth grade. I listened. Took notes. And thought of that night two years ago.

I also associate this time of year with babies. So many friends were pregnant with babies in summer 2009. I didn't send a single gift or card (that I recall -- details are fuzzy) for those precious babies, but with every birth I thanked God for new life.

Today our church family welcomes another new life: Matilda Grace, tiny daughter to Amy and Branden.

I've spent some of today crying, thinking of Steve and the pain he endured and long list of people who love and miss him. And I've spent other moments staring at a tiny photo of Matilda, posted on Facebook, thinking of the hope and promise of this new life and the long list of people who already love her.

What I remember

For the most part, I choose to remember details from life with Steve from when I met him (by chance in the office of the NT Daily in December 1991) until late 2007, just before we knew something was seriously wrong.

Because Steve was not defined by what ultimately killed him. And because some of the memories of life with the Damm Spot are just painful to relive.

But this time of year I can't help it. And, I don't want to forget all the amazing moments from the 19 months of "cancer time." After all, we crammed as much life into those months as possible.

I could dwell now on the multiple crises and sleepless nights and amplified worry that I didn't want to end because, well, that would truly be the end. And sometimes my mind can't help but think of those moments.

Today, though, I've been thinking of some of the lighter moments from Steve's last few weeks.

Steve would occasionally update his Facebook status from his hospice bed with "p = y" or "p = n" but gave no clues behind the meaning. Will cleared up the mystery for everyone at the memorial service. "Pants equal yes" or "Pants equal no."

Julie came to visit and help one evening. By the end of the day, I required help from another adult to shift him in bed to avoid bedsores and to help him find a comfortable spot. Steve wasn't wearing a shirt (though pants did equal yes), so he sang to Julie, in the raspy voice that he had left, "I'm too sexy for my shirt."

He loved, loved, loved it when Cooper or Katie would snuggle up next to him to share a meal or watch television or listen to me read.

We would have dinner picnics in the bedroom.

On his very last weekend on earth, our dear friend Gretchen was visiting. (Her visit had been planned for weeks; we had no idea, of course, that she would be here when his body started to irreparably shut down.)

That Friday night, Gretchen, Steve and I remembered stories from our days in Lubbock and our travels together over the years. We laughed and laughed. It was good for all of our souls. And it comforts me so much to remember that some of Steve's final conscious hours were spent laughing.

This Labor Day weekend, two years after Steve's body stopped working altogether, Cooper, Katie and I will be with Gretchen again. I just can't bear to be home, so we're headed west, to Southern California.

I expect there will be a few tears. And lots of laughter.

Late August

I am no fan of late August.

The unrelenting heat. The brown grass. The worrisomely low levels of nearby Lake Lewisville.

Plus the memories of late August 2009, when Steve's health was failing, and every day, sometimes every hour, brought a new crisis.

And now it's the eve of the first day of school -- fifth grade for Cooper, first grade for Katie -- and there's just me in the house for them.

This one-parent household business is pretty routine by now, when it comes to routine matters. The three of us can handle meals and chores and shopping and outings and fun pretty well (though I certainly still ask for help when needed).

I don't expect milestones will ever be so routine.

When I tucked Katie into bed tonight and gave her lots of kisses and wished her good first-grade dreams, I silently, irrationally wished that Steve were here to do the same.

Same thoughts when I helped Cooper arrange his pillows and blankets (he requires lots of each) and bent down for a crushing, long-armed hug. Steve should be here to say goodnight to his son on the eve of his first day of the last year of elementary school.

After they were asleep, I cried and cried.

(Another reason to dislike late August -- it's too hot to cry too much! Those tears represent dehydration!)

In a few weeks the temperatures will stop soaring above 100. We'll have moved past the late August doldrums (and past Sept. 7, which I dread more than all of August). This school year will feel routine -- or at least our current version of routine.

***

Indian Island, Washington State

We did escape this historic heat for a few days. Cooper, Katie and I had a grand adventure in Seattle, the Olympic Peninsula and Victoria, B.C. I'm blogging about that trip on "the happy blog" -- click here for photos and stories.

Power of words

Two weeks ago I wrote a column about themes of death and grief in children's literature. (You can read it here.)

It's an idea I've had for more than a year, based on my uncanny knack to choose bedtime books that inevitably have a parent die. Each time we would get to a death scene (or I would infer it was coming), I would get a little angry with myself for exposing Cooper and Katie to yet another tragedy.

I've since realized that (1) it's hard to avoid death in classic children's literature and (2) it's a good thing for us to read together about the hope that comes from desperate situations.

The column ran in Friday's paper. Friday night I received the most vitriolic email from a reader in my 18-year newspaper career. I deleted the email (after forwarding it to my editors) and am still trying to forget some of the worst phrases. In general, the reader -- who refused to sign his/her name -- told me to move on, to stop using my children, to stop acting as if I'm the only one who's ever experienced a loss, to leave my dead husband alone.

Oh, the power of words.

I was shaken for two days. (It didn't help that Cooper and Katie were gone for the weekend, attending of all things a bereavement camp sponsored by a national foundation.)

I've tried to be deliberate over the past three years in separating blog material from column material. This blog started three and a half years ago to keep family and friends current on Steve's complicated diagnosis process. It has evolved into a way to share with those same folks, plus a few more who've joined us along the way, how our family continues to cope with Steve's profound absence.

I was offered the role of a Briefing columnist in the middle of Steve's cancer battle. In that very first, rather benign column (which drew all kinds of anger on a Dallas blog for being a worthless column from a suburban housewife), I made the decision to not even mention Steve's condition; this was not a column about cancer but about family life.

Of course, I eventually wrote about Steve's tumor. My editor, Will, helped me find a direction for that first column, in which I shared the silver linings of our cancer journey. As conditions and themes developed, I shared more.

When he died, I took three weeks off before sharing with newspaper readers. And in the two years since, I've written columns about our grief journey off and on, as conditions and themes develop.

Readers respond more to the topic of grief than any other theme. Almost all of them write to share a little of their own grief story.

And yet I allowed that one hateful email to obliterate the goodwill from dozens of previous notes.

Two nights later, I received an email from a reader in Flower Mound (she actually signed her name). It was a simple compliment. And it was perfectly timed. Her kind words -- words from a stranger who had no idea I was hurting -- were the balm I needed.

Oh, the power of words.

Hope lies in hearts of those left behind

From today's Briefing:

Our nighttime routine usually includes all four creatures of the house — me, Cooper, Katie and Margie (the dog) — piled on the sofa for a chapter from a book.

In the past year we’ve worked our way through the first three Harry Potter novels, The Secret Garden and Anne of Green Gables.

We’ve also cried through every one.

Maybe everyone cries at some part during these books. But the theme of loss found in these stories hits our little family especially hard — because the pile on the sofa once included Steve, the patriarch of the house.

The kids and I have lived with Steve’s absence for almost two years. Death is not an abstract or fictional concept around here.

For a while after Steve’s death, I tried to shield our children, especially young and sensitive Katie, from death in books and movies. I didn’t want to needlessly add to our fresh grief.

But death isn’t easy to escape, as any fan of Disney movies or fairy tales or classic literature knows.

The Lion King? Simba watches his father die.

Cinderella? She lives with her awful stepmother and stepsisters because her mother died.

Charlotte’s Web? Readers grow to love Charlotte as much as Wilbur, and then she dies.

All for good reason. Death is more than just a convenient plot device. It’s more than the end of a life. Death is woven into our lives.

I quickly abandoned any hope of avoiding references to death.

Just before bedtime, I sit in the middle of the sofa, with Katie snuggled on my right and Cooper sprawled on my left and Margie wedged somewhere in between.

Together we’ve pushed through Harry Potter’s intense longing to know his parents. My voice broke the night I read aloud Albus Dumbledore’s words: “Your mother died to save you. … To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever.”

Together we were horrified to learn that Mary Lennox’s parents die in a Cholera outbreak, leaving the sour girl orphaned and pushed out of India to England, where she eventually discovers a secret garden. (A garden that eventually saves a life or two.)

Together our hearts were shattered when reading the death of Matthew, gentle guardian to spirited Anne of Green Gables.

Tuesday night Cooper rested his head on my left side. I wrapped my right arm around Katie’s shoulders and held the book with my left hand.

I read with a soft, broken voice: “Anne looked at the still face and there beheld the seal of the Great Presence.”

Katie sobbed throughout the chapter. I would stop every few paragraphs to ask if she wanted to hear more. She would nod silently while mopping her cheeks with her hands.

Cooper implored, “Katie, it’s not real. It’s fiction.”

I added, “But it’s OK to cry. Matthew’s not real but our sadness is.”

That night we didn’t stop with the death chapter. We read two more, to the end of the book, because I was hopeful for a happy ending.

Author Lucy Maud Montgomery didn’t disappoint. She gives Anne the role of heroine, saving the family farm and her adoptive mother from ruin.

“Anne’s horizons had closed … but if the path set before her feet was to be narrow she knew that flowers of quiet happiness would bloom along it.”

Even with Matthew’s death, there is hope for those he left behind.

There’s hope for all of us.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Today's reasons

I keep a few running lists on the reasons why I miss Steve. Almost two years later, there are still dozens of unique reasons.

A few just from today:

Because the kids and I drove through Hope, Ark., on the way home from Little Rock. (We had been visiting friends in Little Rock, and I wanted to bring home a delicious Hope watermelon.) The only other time I've ever been in Hope (or Little Rock) was in September 1993 with Steve.

Because we were on a road trip. If Steve and I had written nontraditional wedding vows, they would have included these words: "I, Steve, promise you, Tyra, to always be your driver. I will drive you to the grocery store and to the movies and on any vacation as long as we both shall live. I will drive you as you work on your computer or read a book or tell me stories or nap. I ask only for a steady supply of Diet Coke and french-burnt peanuts and occasional control of the music in return."

Because Katie's reading skills improve a little each day. I so wish that Steve could sit with her and listen and then tell her what a great job she is doing.

Because Cooper is just three inches shorter than me and a foot shorter than his Daddy was. I would love to see 10-year-old Cooper standing next to 42-year-old Steve.

Because it's 8 p.m. and our exhausted children are already asleep and the house is so quiet.

I set out to study the past, found comfort in the present

My column from today's Briefing:

I had an entirely selfish motive when I formed a summer Bible study group.

I wanted to learn more about the Old Testament Book of Ruth, and I wanted help. I found a study guide, chose six Thursday nights in June and July and invited friends to join me.

Ruth drew my interest because she was a widow, like me. Well, not exactly like me.

She and her husband never had children. After he died, she chose to follow her mother-in-law from her own country (Moab, in the modern state of Jordan) to a foreign land (Bethlehem, where Moabites weren’t exactly welcome). And she lived thousands of years ago.

Otherwise, she was kind of like me.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve satisfied my selfish motive. I’ve learned more about Ruth than any other Old Testament figure. In the process, I’ve filled other needs I didn’t even know existed.

When Steve was alive and healthy, in the blissful years of our marriage before his brain cancer, we loved to entertain. And I use “we” deliberately. We were a team.

Together we would plan and prepare menus and drinks. Clean the house. Maybe buy and install a new light fixture just hours before guests arrived.

In the moments before a dinner party would begin, Steve would force me to stop running around as if the queen herself were about to grace us with her presence. He’d pull me in to the family room or entryway, drape an arm around my shoulders and say, “I love our home.”

He loved the warm colors we’d painted and the art we’d carefully and frugally collected. He loved the lamps turned on and overhead lights turned off. He loved the sense of comfort and welcome that we’d cultivated.

I will never be able to re-create that feeling of standing next to my very best friend just moments before dear friends arrive. And I suspect that’s part of why entertaining has been a low priority since Steve died. (That and basic survival and lack of time.)

But I didn’t think of all that when I pulled a study group together. I just thought we’d sit in the family room and talk about the Bible.

Then I started to worry. I can’t have people over in the evening and not serve food and drinks. So I bought some wine and prepared a couple of simple snacks.

Which meant I needed to pull out platters and wine glasses. And pretty napkins. Before I realized it, I had prepped the house for a small-scale social affair.

Admittedly, it’s been a little rough around the edges. Some Thursday nights there are dirty dishes in the sink. Countertops aren’t spotless.

They’re my friends, though, and they’re not here for a House Beautiful photo shoot.

We eat, drink, pray, talk, debate, quote, cry and laugh. We veer off topic and back on again with ease.

As we’ve learned about Naomi’s journey from bitterness to gratitude and Ruth’s obedience to God and Boaz’s acts of kindness without expectation of reciprocation, we’ve also learned about one another.

Our own losses. Romances. Children. Expectations of ourselves and others. Struggles with following God. Celebration of answered prayer.

I’ve learned that I really needed these women in my family room on Thursday nights this summer. I needed their stories. I needed reasons to laugh until I wheeze.

And I needed a reminder that I can kind of re-create the sense of welcome that Steve and I created together. It will never be exactly the same. I’ll certainly never feel his arm draped around me again.

But when I stand on the front porch, waving goodbye to the last guests, I strongly sense his spirit and imagine him whispering, “I love our home.”

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Little things

This photo totally reminds me of Steve -- that stare over the spectacles, that smirk hidden by a straw. (It's from Saturday, when Cooper and Katie dressed as Harry and Hermione for a Harry Potter party at Barnes & Noble. Coop is drinking butterbeer.)

***

Katie was sort of dancing around the family room Sunday night before bed when she said, "Even though Daddy isn't where we can see him, he's still part of our team."

***

The pediatric practice that Steve helped to develop for Children's Medical Center (formerly Physicians for Children, now My Children's) is on track to open its seventh and eighth locations within the year. 

Thousands and thousands of North Texas children receive quality, consistent health care from excellent (and bilingual) doctors in these clinics. My Children's mostly serves young people who rely on Medicaid or the Children's Health Insurance Program for their health care. The clinics keep children out of the emergency rooms. They offer preventive care and asthma care and nutritional counseling and so much more.

Steve devoted so much of the last nine years of his life to the practice -- it was his true calling. His legacy lives in those children. The very thought of it makes me cry with joy every time. 

***

Last week was packed with VBS and work and children's activities and more. Even with lots of help, I was seriously exhausted by Friday. 

It was the kind of week that makes this single widowed mom want to crawl into bed at 8 p.m. (though that is never an option). It was the kind of week that makes me miss Steve not just because he was my best friend and soul mate and hilarious and inspiring -- but also because he washed dishes and helped with laundry and fully participated in parenting. 

***

Steve would have loved this moment last night, when we devoured cupcakes at a new bakery in Frisco. Katie is often an all-or-nothing sort, just like her Daddy -- as illustrated by pink frosting not just on her lips but also her nose. He would have also loved the fit of Katie giggles after this photo was taken.

Love around the clock

Some of my friends hatched a lovely plan for July 2, our 17th wedding anniversary.

The idea was "love around the clock," and at least once an hour I received a visit, gift, card, phone call, email or text from a loved one.

The morning started with breakfast treats and my favorite Starbucks drink from Julianne, one of the masterminds behind the sweet, sneaky plan.

As the day progressed, there were more visits and treats from Liz, Shannon (via proxy), Jasmine, Melinda, Jackie, Sharon and Brenda, and most of the Mango family. We ended the day with a fireworks viewing with Julie and Allison and all the Damm-Spears-Earwood children.

I received a beautiful floral arrangement from my Bible study friends (plus Sarah). Lots of desserts. Cards with encouraging words. Sweet texts, emails and Facebook posts. A clock that will forever remind me of the love that surrounds me.

Cooper and Katie loved the parade of visitors and the special treats. (The day started, in fact, with Katie at my bedside: "Good morning, Mommy. It's a special day. Happy anniversary!")

Thank you to all of you (many not even mentioned) for clearing the gloom from the day with multiple acts of hesed.

Hesed -- my new favorite word, discovered during our group's study of the book of Ruth -- is a Hebrew word for kindness, but it's much richer and deeper. It's compassion that goes above and beyond what's expected, without expectation for anything in return.

I love discovering a word that describes exactly what sustained our family from the very first MRI of Steve's brain through today. There have been so many acts of hesed on our behalf; I lost track long, long ago. How blessed I am to raise my children in this community!

***

I've written off and on about people who seem specially placed in our path. I'm convinced that these relationships aren't coincidence.

I'm reminded of three just from Saturday's day of love.

Julianne is a mom at Bledsoe. She and I are serving together on the PTA board beginning this school year. But I knew of her long before I met her.

For a few years, I have been reading Chrys Mundy's blog (taken down recently for privacy reasons). Chrys was a friend of a friend; it turns out we have lots of mutual friends -- meeting and forming our own friendship was only a matter of time.

One of Chrys' friends is Rachel, who I would occasionally read about on Chrys' blog. Eventually I started reading Rachel's blog, where I would also occasionally see her sister-in-law, Julianne.

The same Julianne whose children attend Bledsoe. I sort of felt like I had been spying on her (though not intentionally) and was relieved to "come clean" a few months ago.

The third is Brenda. Brenda is a childhood friend of Sharon, one of my dear friends from the Dallas Morning News. (Sharon is also one of my current editors.)

Brenda teaches P.E. at Leon Heights Elementary School in Belton. Leon Heights is the school that I attended in third grade (and a week of second grade -- that's another crazy story). Some of my Belton friends still live there, and their children are Brenda's students.

Brenda and I have corresponded via email a couple of times but mostly hear about each other through Sharon. Brenda was visiting Sharon in Rockwall this weekend, and they decided to drive to Frisco to visit. It was wonderful to finally meet Brenda in person and give her a big hug.

17 years

Father's Day this year was tough for me. I kept thinking, "It's so unfair that Cooper and Katie would get the best Daddy in the world -- but only for eight and four years."

And now I'm even more selfish, thinking, "It's so unfair that I would get to marry the best possible person in the world for me -- but only for 15 years."

Our ceremony was at noon on Saturday, July 2, 1994, at Schreiber Memorial United Methodist Church in North Dallas, the church Steve attended in high school and the church Jim and Betty still attend.

I was barely 22. He was 25. (My goodness, I'm thankful that we married when we did. I can't imagine having any less time with him.)

Steve Damm was more than my husband. He was my soul mate and best friend. He was my shelter. He provided stability and strength that granted me emotional peace and rest. 

Most days I take comfort in knowing that we were blessed to be together even if only for 15 years. That together we created two amazing children. That I have a deep well of joyful, funny, spirit-strengthening memories from which to draw.

But right now I can't push aside the irrepressible ache from missing Steve. From wishing that we'd spend tomorrow together, celebrating our 17th anniversary with Cooper and Katie. From wanting to hear Steve tell stories about how we met (his version was always more entertaining than mine) and our engagement (and how I subsequently forced him to move to Lubbock) and our wedding day (Steve would always say that he was a wreck that morning, until he saw me).

***

Tomorrow won't be totally awful, of course. For one, I get to spend the day with Cooper and Katie. They both make me laugh all the time. 

Take last night, for example. After my Bible study, Cooper and I were visiting. 

"So, Momma, how was Bible study?" he asked. "Did you party? Or par-tay?"

It was exactly the sort of question Steve would have asked -- inflection and all.