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.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
TNT
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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.
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| Beverly Woodson (world's best principal) and Cooper (photo by Katie's teacher, Shannon Gallant) |
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.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, September 16, 2011
'He was nice.'
It's been a tough week. A week with lots of bright spots, but tough nonetheless.
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.
- 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.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
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:
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:
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| 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. |
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| At the market, she joined in a jam session led by a musician dude. Doesn't she look right at home? |
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| 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.) |
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| Anthony and Gretchen kept us busy for three full days of fun. |
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| Oh, I love the beach. This is my view of Cooper and Katie playing at a Malibu beach. They jumped waves for three hours. |
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| 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. |
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| We rode the roller coaster at the Santa Monica Pier. Katie and Anthony held their arms high. |
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| The Natural History Museum of Los Angeles has an incredible, newly renovated Dino Hall. |
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| Handsome Cooper was fascinated by the La Brea Tar Pits. |
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
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.
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
Friday, September 2, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 29, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
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.
***
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.
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.
***
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| Indian Island, Washington State |
Friday, August 19, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, August 5, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 1, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
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.
Monday, July 4, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, July 1, 2011
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.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Glimpses of Steve
I've shared this column already on the "happy blog." Here seems a good place, too.
From today's Briefing:
Looking back on 10 years in the parenting business
From today's Briefing:
Looking back on 10 years in the parenting business
This week I celebrate a decade in my most challenging, rewarding, exasperating, exhilarating job ever.
 |
| Baby Cooper |
I’ve been a mom for 10 years.
When I gave birth to Cooper, a roly-poly chunk of cheeks and thighs and hair, there was no Facebook or even MySpace. Only three of the eventual seven Harry Potter novels had been published. The towers of the World Trade Center were still standing.
Now he’s three inches shy of me with zero detectable body fat.
He can’t imagine life without instant access to information, no matter how trivial. Nor a world without a mom who chronicles much of his life online.
He never had to wait for J.K. Rowling to finish a manuscript. By the time he caught up with the first few novels, the final books were waiting for him.
He’s traveled all over the country but has no firsthand knowledge of the days when loved ones could greet you at the gate of your arriving plane.
This first fraction of the 21st century has ushered monumental change around the world. Terrorism, economic crisis, devastating natural disasters. It’s often frightening to think of the world that Cooper and his little sister are growing up in.
Part of my on-the-job mom training has been learning when to let those scary events influence our life at home — and when to protect them from harsh reality that can wait.
Only in the past year have I explained the horror of 9/11 to Cooper. That background has helped him better understand our ongoing wars in the Middle East. (I’m still taken aback when he’ll randomly ask at the dinner table, “So, how are things going over in Afghanistan? Have many of our soldiers died lately?”)
With trial and error I’ve learned — and am still learning — when to let him go and when to hold on.
One night when he was in kindergarten, I realized that he was still washing with baby soap. No one told me when to stop buying it. I just kept returning to the same Target aisle to pick up the same bottle of gentle bath wash. In one startling moment I snapped to and realized, “Hey, he’s not a baby or even a toddler anymore.”
This week, I was driving three boys around town. Cooper was the only one who isn’t allowed to play or even watch Halo, a video game in which the player is responsible for killing aliens (I think).
“Why can’t I play Halo?” Cooper wanted to know, again, perhaps hoping that I would cave with his buddies around.
“Because it’s rated ‘Mature,’ and you’re not 17.”
Perhaps you’re rolling your eyes, thinking that I’m overprotective or naïve. That someday soon he’ll be at a friend’s house and Halo will come up and he’ll just ignore my rule. Maybe. But I’m holding on as long as I can.
He’s been bathing with “real” soap for the past few years, but I’m not willing to let go of my standards on violence (or language or sex) just yet. My job experience as mom to Cooper tells me it’s the best decision for our family.
The past decade has also altered our definition of “family.”
When Cooper was 6, his daddy was diagnosed with brain cancer. When Cooper was 8, Steve died.
 |
| Almost-10-year-old Cooper |
We’ve broadened “family” to include folks who cared for us in crisis and still watch over us today. And to include the husband and dad who isn’t living in the house but who is very much an integral part of this home.
Being mom to Cooper grants me frequent glimpses of Steve. They share a wicked wit, love and gift for music, uncommon gentleness, endearing goofiness, wild enthusiasm, legs built for running, unassuming intelligence, poetic word choice.
Where we are today was blessedly unimaginable 10 years ago, when Steve and I were meeting our firstborn. Thank God no one gave me a detailed job description or list of heartaches to come. I can’t guarantee that I would have said yes.
Instead, we adapt every day to the changes around us and within. I’ve learned that there are no guarantees for security or stability or health. That nothing totally prepares you to be a parent, except being a parent. And that love grows exponentially over a decade.
Imagine what I’ll learn in another 10 years.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Rough season
In the next few days, we will celebrate:
1. Father's Day
2. Katie's 6th birthday
3. The beginning of our family: mine and Steve's 17th anniversary
4. Cooper's 10th birthday
Lots of folks talk about "firsts" being difficult. And they were. But I'm not convinced that "seconds" are any easier.
A few friends and I are studying the Old Testament book of Ruth this summer, using a study guide by Kelly Minter. One of last week's lessons focused on weeping forward vs. weeping backward. When Ruth chose to follow Naomi to Bethlehem, she was weeping forward, moving forward, leaving behind her people and the comfort she had known for an unknown, possibly uncomfortable life -- but she was following God's call. Orpah (not Oprah, as I often read/write), on the other hand, was weeping backward, retreating to the comfort of her own people, ignoring God's call.
Minter writes, "Be encouraged. God sees your tears. Cry them, wipe them, feel them, but don't let them stop you. It's possible to cry and walk."
One of my prayers during this rough season is that I'm able to weep forward.
1. Father's Day
2. Katie's 6th birthday
3. The beginning of our family: mine and Steve's 17th anniversary
4. Cooper's 10th birthday
Lots of folks talk about "firsts" being difficult. And they were. But I'm not convinced that "seconds" are any easier.
A few friends and I are studying the Old Testament book of Ruth this summer, using a study guide by Kelly Minter. One of last week's lessons focused on weeping forward vs. weeping backward. When Ruth chose to follow Naomi to Bethlehem, she was weeping forward, moving forward, leaving behind her people and the comfort she had known for an unknown, possibly uncomfortable life -- but she was following God's call. Orpah (not Oprah, as I often read/write), on the other hand, was weeping backward, retreating to the comfort of her own people, ignoring God's call.
Minter writes, "Be encouraged. God sees your tears. Cry them, wipe them, feel them, but don't let them stop you. It's possible to cry and walk."
One of my prayers during this rough season is that I'm able to weep forward.
Keep alert, stand firm in your faith, be courageous, be strong.
Let all that you do be done in love.
Let all that you do be done in love.
(1 Corinthians 16:13-14)
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Stephen Damm Memorial Award
Last night graduating neurology resident Dr. Cherie Herren received the Stephen Damm Memorial Award for excellence and compassion.
I presented Dr. Herren with the award (a generous gift from Dr. Shilpa Chitnis and her family) at UT-Southwestern's neurology and neurotherapeutics graduation dinner.
While there, I was also able to meet Dr. James Battiste, last year's recipient of the award, which was established just after Steve's death to recognize a fellow or resident in the department "who best exemplifies the excellence and compassion in patient care for which Steve Damm was well known."
Dr. Battiste told me that receiving the award last year "sealed the deal" on his decision to pursue neuro-oncology. It's obvious from his demeanor and the many accolades he received last night that his patients will be cared for extraordinarily well.
Steve would be especially proud of Dr. Herren, whose speciality is pediatrics. She practices at Children's Medical Center Dallas, Steve's employer for almost a decade. He would also have been tickled to meet Dr. Herren's tiny, beautiful 3-month-old twin girls.
Once again, I marvel at the legacy of our Steve and thank God for him and his 40 years on earth.
I presented Dr. Herren with the award (a generous gift from Dr. Shilpa Chitnis and her family) at UT-Southwestern's neurology and neurotherapeutics graduation dinner.
While there, I was also able to meet Dr. James Battiste, last year's recipient of the award, which was established just after Steve's death to recognize a fellow or resident in the department "who best exemplifies the excellence and compassion in patient care for which Steve Damm was well known."
Dr. Battiste told me that receiving the award last year "sealed the deal" on his decision to pursue neuro-oncology. It's obvious from his demeanor and the many accolades he received last night that his patients will be cared for extraordinarily well.
Drs. Herren and Battiste
Once again, I marvel at the legacy of our Steve and thank God for him and his 40 years on earth.
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