Mrs. Damm

The quick version of the story: On Wednesday I was offered a teaching position at Katie's school. I accepted. Starting tomorrow, I will teach language arts and social studies to two groups of fifth-graders.

The longer version of the story:

When Steve was diagnosed in January 2008, my planning mode went into overdrive. There were two main threads.

1. Steve is healed, goes into remission and life goes on mostly the same.
2. Steve doesn't survive this insidious tumor, and everything changes.

I much preferred fantasizing about the first thread. I put all my faith and prayers and hope in the first thread.

It would have been foolish to ignore the second.

At the time, I was a freelance writer and editor. I was staying home with our young children. The money I earned helped to contribute to the household, but Steve's income was primary.

When I considered what would happen if Steve died, I had to consider what kind of career I could have that would allow me to take care of our children. I loved journalism and newspapers, but I had worked long enough as a journalist to know that it wasn't a good long-term single-mom solution. Too many late hours and demands.

Every time I considered what would be best for us, I returned to the idea of teaching.

I've always been fascinated by the process of education, particularly in public schools. I am passionate about sharing my passions -- specifically great books, ideas and authors -- with others. As a writer and editor, I often take complex topics and break them down to be more easily understood. I want my work to mean something.

I was even president of the Newman Smith High School chapter of the Future Teachers of America in 1986-87 (after a somewhat dramatic coup d'etat for which I probably owe a couple of people an apology.)

I didn't do anything about teaching then. I continued to freelance from home, thankful for the ability to work and take care of two grieving children.

About the time I started to worry about our COBRA health insurance running out, I was offered an excellent opportunity to work and serve at a large church. I took the job joyfully, working for a dear friend, writing and editing, making new friends. They were very good to me.

Yet I couldn't let go of the sense that I was supposed to be teaching. So I quietly enrolled in a certification program. I took online classes at night and during weekends. I read books on classroom management and pedagogy. I studied for and passed the state's generalist 4-8 exam, so that I would be qualified to teach just about any subject in grades four to eight.

Then I waited. I continued to work, truly thankful for a good job with good people.

Just a few days ago, everything fell into place. Rapid growth in our neighborhood created the need for another fifth-grade classroom at our neighborhood school. I was offered the job. I accepted. I regretfully gave very short notice of my resignation at the church.

Tomorrow morning, I will commute one-third of a mile from our home. Katie and I will walk in to the school building together. She'll go to her new third-grade class, and I'll go to my new fifth-grade class. I'll be working in a school community that has been integral to our family for eight years. I will be caring for and learning about and mentoring dozens of young people. (If there were sound on this post, this is where you'd hear a happy squeal.)

I know and love enough teachers to know that first years are difficult. Rewarding, no doubt, but difficult. I also know that I am surrounded by a great team and staff who have expressed over and over how they'll help me. And I'm cushioned by a circle of friends and family members who jump in to help whenever I ask -- and sometimes help without me saying a word.

I live with the two biggest cheerleaders, who encourage me every day.

And I keep thinking of Steve, who I know would be tickled to see me in a classroom, who would want to know all the details from my first day and every day after, who would teasingly and proudly call me "Mrs. Damm."

Katie, Tyra & Cooper

Calendar

This dry-erase board has been hanging out on our refrigerator for many years.

If you look closely, you'll see that the last month written is April. April 2009.

Every few months since then, I've considered erasing and starting afresh. Maybe even throwing the whole thing out, as I'm guessing it may be difficult to remove the ink from more than four years ago.

And yet, so far, it stays.

It's a little snapshot in time that I'm reluctant to let go, even as we've moved forward as a family.

There are reminders of dental appointments and school events and birthday parties and counseling. Phone numbers of doctors and friends and the police detective in charge of the case of my stolen identity from that spring. There's a note about medicine and payments due for water and cell service.

There are special quotes, such as 7-year-old Cooper saying, "I feel safe with you."

There's a snippet from a dinnertime conversation about childbirth. After Cooper heard everything (as much as an inquisitive child should hear during a meal), he remarked:

"I'm happy I'm not a girl. I don't want to go through that."

Steve replied, "Amen, brother."

Keeping this outdated calendar and montage of notes and quotes won't take us back in time. It won't restore our family to the days when Steve was alive. I can't explain exactly why it's still there.

One day, that space on the refrigerator will be filled with photos and postcards and magnets from our travels. Just not yet. I'll know when I'm ready.

We're not totally trapped in time around here. Cooper, Katie and I continue to embrace our gift of days. We returned last week from vacation in Oregon, where we soaked up cooler temperatures and the beauty of the coast. We launched many adventures (including a harrowing hike that you can read about here).

I am thankful for these children and how we work together. I am thankful for memories, and I am thankful for more time.

August 2013 photo from Hug Point State Park, coast of Oregon

Journey

Every few weeks, a friend calls or emails and tells me that someone they know has been diagnosed with cancer or a brain tumor. Or someone they know needs help with hospice decisions. And would it be OK if they pass along my contact information?

I always says yes, but I don't always hear back.

I completely understand. When you're in the middle of crisis, there's only so much you can handle. And, let's face it, our story doesn't appear to have the happy ending that people want.

***

Early in Steve's diagnosis, I visited on the phone with a friend of a friend who had taken the same oral chemotherapy (Temodar) that Steve had been prescribed.

She was refreshingly kind, open and willing to share her experiences.

Her experiences and resources weren't equivalent to ours, though. She suggested that we (1) hire a nanny right away and (2) enlist a private yoga instructor to come to the home and (3) have a swimming pool built so that Steve could jump in whenever he felt too warm.

I listened politely and asked some questions. We employed none of her advice here at our very nice but decidedly middle-class Frisco home that sits on a lot much too tiny for even the smallest swimming pool.

Still, I've always appreciated that she was willing to share.

***

Today I heard back from a friend of a friend, a mom whose husband has recently died.

I tried to listen more than talk. I tried not to be too bossy. (I'm irrepressibly passionate, though, when it comes to the benefits of grief counseling.) I tried to acknowledge that our family's journey won't be the same as her family's journey.

I've added her family to my too-long prayer list.

***

Steve didn't have the happy ending that we all desperately wanted. The odds were overwhelmingly against him. Glioblastomas, especially in the brain stem, are cruel. They don't offer much wiggle room for happily ever after.

Our story isn't over yet, though. This is a long journey. I'm thankful for the many joyful moments along the way.

(Photo by Ann Pinson, July 2013)

(Photo by Ann Pinson, July 2013)

19 years

There's no rulebook on how to handle wedding anniversaries when you're a widow.

So each year is different. Sometimes I go to dinner with friends, preferably at a restaurant that (1) wasn't a big Steve & Tyra favorite and (2) wasn't on our list of restaurants we wanted to try.

Sometimes I buy myself a little gift. Last year I bought myself, for the first time, a bottle of Champs-Elysees -- the perfume that Steve always bought for me and that Liz & Holly bought for me when my last Steve bottle ran out.

This year I'm working during the day. Cooper is away for the week, with big adventures at Boy Scout camp. Katie is spending the day with Jim & Betty, wrapping up some grandparent adventures. In the evening, Katie and I will go to dinner -- nothing too fancy.

And I'll reflect on how fortunate I was to marry my best friend, to spend 15 years together, to have two perfect-for-us children. I'll think of the many ways that Steve Damm rescued me.

I'll sing in my head and maybe out loud the lyrics from the song from our first dance, the song that we would dance to in the kitchen in the years that followed.

Was there life before this love

Was there love before this girl I can see

Was there ever love for her before me

And if I look will she 

Look back at me

I'll likely think ahead to next year, 20 years, and wonder what kind of adventure we would have taken to celebrate two decades. Would we have gone to Europe? Finally realized Steve's dream of relaxing on the beaches of Majorca? With or without Cooper and Katie?

Tyra  & Steve, July 2, 1994

I'll stare at a wedding photo and marvel at how young we look. (We were! 22 & 25!) I'll think of how simple my tastes were (and still are). I did my own hair and makeup, as you've probably noticed. We were both less concerned with the actual day and more concerned with, well, spending the rest of our lives together.

I'm certain that more than once I'll get weepy. Tears of sorrow because Steve's life was much, much too short mixed with tears of joy because Cooper, Katie and I have the gift of more days.

Tyra, Cooper & Katie, June 30, 2013, before Cooper leaves for summer camp

Dear Cooper & Katie ...

Cooper runs after Steve, who is holding Katie, on the coast in Gloucester, Mass., in May 2006.

Dear Cooper & Katie,

Today is Father's Day. I've learned, after trial and error, to not make a big deal out of today.

Last year may have been the hardest. We attended worship services at our church, and the message focused on Father's Day -- as it should. Katie, you sobbed through part of it, and Cooper worried about you, and I felt awful at the end of what should be a restorative hour.

Today we didn't go to worship services. We each went to Sunday school -- Cooper to his Confirmation room, Katie to her class and me to the Youth room, where I teach teens. Papa and Grandma will come over for dinner tonight, and we'll have good time without much hoopla.

Of course, I wish your Daddy were here so that you could spoil him and love on him and tell him how much he means to you. And he would do the same.

I know -- really, truly know -- that he is so proud of you. He is tickled that you both love music and play instruments. He is thankful that you love to read. He is proud of how well you get along (not 100 percent of the time but overall remarkably well). He loves how kind and compassionate and caring you both are.

One of the great things about your Daddy is how much he loved children.

In the last nine years of his life, he worked for Children's Medical Center, helping to make sure that children who live in poverty receive quality health care. Cooper, he loved to volunteer at Bledsoe, in your classroom, for parties and special dad days. If WatchDOGS had been around when he was alive, he would have been the first to sign up.

He absolutely doted on your cousins, Brooke and Molli. He loved being godfather to Sydney. He loved our friends' children, including but not limited to Thalia, Carys, Adam, Drew, Ty, Gavin, Reese, Tyler, Conor, Baylen, Connor, Noe, Amy, Will, the whole Dolphins team ...

As much as he loved all those kids, he was over-the-top in love with you two.

He cried at 7:07 p.m. July 3, when you were born, Cooper. And again at 12:34 p.m. on June 20, when you were born, Katie.

He marveled at your development. He would race me to the bathroom, so he could be the first one there for bath time. He loved reading aloud to you, whether it was Dinosaur's Binkit or Harry Potter. He told Cooper and Katie stories at work all the time.

It's really not fair that you are missing out on all these years without your amazing Daddy. At the same time, you both were over-the-top fortunate to have him as long as you did. (That's what I tell myself when I'm really missing him -- it doesn't always make me feel better, but it's certainly the truth.)

I don't know when or if Father's Day will ever be easier. I do know that if you're sad or lonely on this day, or if you feel like crying off and on, that's totally normal and expected and OK.

I love you, Cooper, and I love you, Katie, and your Daddy loves, you, too.

xoxo, Momma

Fragile

In the past week, three people close to me have lost someone to cancer.

Breast cancer. Pancreatic cancer. Brain cancer.

A friend has just been diagnosed with lung cancer.

We humans are fragile.

We are also strong, brave, resilient and full of love. It's our job to share those qualities as often as we can.

How can you help someone who is going through a crisis? Just a few ideas, culled from the strong, brave, resilient, loving folks in the life of the Damm family:

• Let that person know you are available.
• Ask: What do you need right now that I can deliver?
• Offer to make a meal.
• Offer to run an errand.
• Give a gift card to a restaurant.
• Send a letter -- a real letter -- and fill it with prayers and/or jokes.
• Think of a book that inspires you, then share it.
• Share a favorite memory of that person -- something he or she did to lift your spirits, make you laugh, make you feel better about yourself.
• Ask: How can I pray for you? Then be deliberate in that prayer.
• Become friends with your friend's friends. Make alliances. There is strength and creativity in numbers.
• Be kind to others. Allow a crisis to be the perspective we all need to realign priorities.

Hero Angie

The list of family members, friends, loved ones, acquaintances and strangers who have been integral to the ongoing journey of this Damm family is long.

One of the big names on the list: Angie Williams.

Angie is the guidance counselor at Bledsoe Elementary. Her first year at Bledsoe was also Cooper's first year at Bledsoe. Of course, when he was in kindergarten we had no idea how essential a guidance counselor would be in our lives.

Cooper was in the middle of first grade when Steve was diagnosed with brain cancer. 

The Bledsoe family stepped up right away to offer support, help, services and love. Cooper's teacher, Julia, took care of him for seven hours each day. The front office was super flexible in receiving dismissal changes and dealing with other changes. And Angie started to build a relationship with 6-year-old Coop.

She would invite him to lunch in her office. They would play games. Sometimes he would bring a friend. 

Angie was never heavy-handed, but she was always available -- not just for Cooper but for me. I could always call her, e-mail or stop by her office to ask for advice or just talk through an issue. If she didn't know the answer, she would say so but always offer to find out. And she would always follow up.

A year and a half later, Steve died on Labor Day morning. Angie and I communicated that day about plans for Tuesday. Cooper was insistent on going to school. In fact, he had missed no days related to Steve's illness.

When we arrived that Tuesday morning, Sept. 8, a counseling team was assembled in the school conference room. A plan was in place for discussing Steve's death with Cooper's classroom. 

I will never forget sitting in Brae Williams' third-grade room, with Cooper's friends gathered on the carpet around Angie. She told the class that she had some sad news to share. Her voice broke, and she cried a little as she explained that Cooper's dad had died.

Her explanation was kind, gentle, age-appropriate and thoughtful of Cooper's feelings.

For the rest of the year, Angie would spend one, two or even three mornings a week meeting with Cooper before school. He completely trusted her. He knew that if he felt a wave of sadness, he could visit with Angie. 

Angie also offered resources to me. Once again, she was never heavy-handed. I, too, completely trusted her.

Katie started school a year later. Because Angie had already invested so much in our family, she already knew Katie, too. 

Katie is a much more obviously emotional child than Cooper. Her feelings bubble up quickly, and they're often intense. Angie has been unflappable in guiding Katie the past three years.

After seven years of excellent service to Bledsoe and all its families, Angie is leaving for a wonderful opportunity within the district. When we talked about her new job yesterday, I told her that I selfishly needed her to stay just three more years -- until Katie has completed fifth grade. I'm certain there are other families who feel the same way. 

Last year I asked for Cooper's advice for a child who had lost his father. His first response: "Well, he needs Mrs. Williams."

We are forever thankful for her service, compassion, sense of humor, plus her ability to juggle more tasks than she ever reveals. We are super proud of her and excited about her new job. She'll no longer be our guidance counselor, but she'll always be one of our heroes.

Cooper & Angie, last day of fifth grade, June 1, 2012

Most difficult time of the year

For the most part, I've learned to weather big seasonal events without Steve pretty well. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, my birthday.

I'm still working on this season that stretches from the last couple of weeks of school straight through to early July. Last day of school, Katie's birthday, Cooper's birthday, our wedding anniversary.

I hesitate to even share, because some of you may be thinking, "Can't you move on now?" I'm afraid that someday people are going to run out of patience.

But I can't ignore this difficult season, and I'm working on not being too hard on myself and instead acknowledging that it's tough.

The last day of school has always been one of the saddest days of the year for me. School was my refuge when I was young, and I hated saying goodbye to teachers, friends, routines and security. Those emotions are compounded when you're a mom, and you're saying goodbye to teachers, friends and routines that are meaningful to your children AND you're acknowledging that your children are growing up. (Which of course you want them to do, but good gracious it all goes so quickly.)

So, when you take the end of a school year and pile on top of that it happening without Steve, it can be emotionally messy.

I barely have time to recover from that and then we're celebrating Katie's birthday (she'll be 8 -- 8! -- the same age Cooper was when Steve died) and then Cooper's birthday (he'll be 12!) and the day after that is our wedding anniversary (19 years ago!).

A big part of this whole grief journey is adjusting to the differences between what Steve and I wanted, expected, planned for and prayed for and life as it actually is.

It's accepting that I'm not a stay-at-home mom with a flexible freelance schedule, that I'm not home with Cooper and Katie during their summer break. It's continually accepting that I'm the only adult at home, the only truly responsible party for all things related to home, yard, car, school, health care, discipline, finances and much more.

It's means trying to complete an online registration form that requires two parents/guardians listed, and the only solution is that I list myself twice just to get the form submitted. (Cooper has two moms! Tyra and Tyra.)

On the drive to school this morning, I told Katie that I was going to do my best to attend part of her end-of-the-year party next Thursday but that I wasn't sure I could attend the entire time because of work. I've already rearranged schedules for field day, jump rope club performance, bad-weather makeup day and more.

"That's OK, Mommy," she said, "because I'll know you tried your best."

That's what I'm focusing on these next few weeks -- trying my best with some self-imposed grace when I get overwhelmed.

Tyra & Cooper, spring band concert
Katie & Tyra, spring violin recital

Blooming

Today I felt particularly overwhelmed by life. Not any one thing, just the accumulation of everything. 

Part of that "everything" included a medical test that required hospital registration -- nothing major but still necessitated all the forms with all the questions that I particularly dread. (Marital status. Next of kin. In case of emergency.) 

I underestimated how much gloom I would feel being in a hospital -- even though it was one that Steve never used. (No offense to hospitals, but if you've seen one, you've kind of seen 'em all.)

***

At the end of the afternoon, just before I left the house for a board meeting at church, Betty called.

Way back in 2007, when Steve was first showing signs of the Damm Spot, we received a red amaryllis. Betty eventually planted the bulb in one of the beds in the yard at their North Dallas home. And then she forgot where it was (the Dallas Damm yard, unlike the Frisco Damm yard, is lush with lovely plants).

Late today, Betty was looking out a back window when she saw something unfamiliar. She braved the cold, windy, damp weather (seriously unusual for us in May) to take a peek.

It is the red amaryllis, pushing out from the soil after all these years, ready to bloom.

***

After the board meeting, and before I drove home, I checked my email. There was a note from Janet.

Janet has known the Damms much longer than I have. Her big brother Chris was one of Steve's close friends in high school and a member of our wedding party. Janet and her family live in a nearby suburb.

She had learned that our church will receive a new senior pastor, Carol Sparks, effective July 1. She wanted to let me know that Carol had served at her church for many years and that she was well loved. Included in Janet's note were the most comforting words:

She prayed for Steve often, as I always kept him on our prayer list.

We live in a small world with big hearts.

***

Steve can no longer wrap his arms around me. He can't offer the comfort that always, always soothed my worried soul.

But God is always, always here. Has always, always been here.

I am thankful for reminders of little miracles. For flowers that eventually bloom. For souls who pray for other souls -- sometimes, often, for people they've never even met. For full circles. For the arcs out there that we don't even know are being formed.

Head for the Cure: May 11

What are you doing in the morning, Saturday, May 11?

If you're in North Texas, I hope you'll join us for Head for the Cure 5K!

You can walk the distance or run it. Or a combination of the two. You can show up to cheer for runners and walkers. Or just to say hello!

We've got a great team so far, and we'd love for you to join us!

If you can't make it but still would like to participate in finding a cure for brain cancer, you can donate to our team. So far we've raised $725! As Steve would say ... Yee-haw!

All money goes toward the Brain Tumor Trials Collaborative through the University of Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center and the Legacy Brain Foundation in North Texas. In two years, North Texas has raised over $350,000! Thank you to everyone who has been a part of this effort!

Use this link to register for the race and be sure to choose Run for Steve Damm when you choose your team!

Use this link to donate to the team.

***

Aunt Ami and Uncle Rich put together a team in memory of Steve for last month's race in Austin. Here's a photo of some of that group. Thank you, Run for Steve runners --21 strong in Central Texas! Woo hoo!

Doesn't the Steve/Fletch shirt (designed by Layne Smith) look great in green?!

41

This week I turned 41. Though 40 is a big milestone, and friends last year made my whole birthday week an extravagant celebration, 41 is even more significant to me.

Our sweet Steve's body gave out a few weeks before he reached 41.

I hope you never catch me complaining about the privilege of celebrating another year.

***

When we were in Austin earlier this year for Cooper to attend Boy Scout merit badge college, Betty, Katie and I explored some fun shops on South Congress.

While I walked across the street to fetch some Hey Cupcake! cupcakes (home of the best carrot cake ever), Katie and Betty returned to one of my favorite shops, Tesoros Trading Co., and apparently chose all kinds of treasures. Jim & Betty gave them to me last Sunday when we celebrated together. And we ate delicious (& beautiful!) cake.

***

The night before my birthday, Katie quizzed me.

"What time do you go to bed?"

11 or 11:30

"When do you wake up?"

6 a.m.

You could see her mind active with plotting.

When I woke at 6 a.m., the kitchen table was set with pretty plates and napkins plus gifts (gifts acquired on multiple shopping trips with our dear friend Liz, who every year makes my birthday as over-the-top as Steve would have done). A "Happy Birthday" banner hung from the mantle.

I went into Katie's room. She was awake, awaiting my arrival and hollered, "Happy birthday!" 

"Katie," I said, "How did you set the table? It was empty when I went to bed!"

"Well, I woke up at 2 a.m., and I thought, 'This is too early,' so I prayed to God that He would wake me up at 5:30 and it worked! He woke me up at 5:38!"

***

After this tragic week -- Boston bombings, explosion in West, Texas -- I am even more thankful for the gifts of friendship, family, extravagant love and undeserved grace. 

At Steve's bench: Tyra, Katie & Cooper, April 21, 2013

Boots to fill?

In June 2006, when the only blog I kept was our family blog, the one Steve would later name "our happy blog," I posted a photo of almost-5-year-old Cooper.

He was playing in the family room. He had taken apart baby Katie's floor mat, building cubes and then a tower. And he put on his Daddy's boots.

Click here to see that photo, plus a chubby-cheeked baby Katie.

Fast-forward almost seven years: Cooper is now a den chief through Boy Scouts, which means he helps lead a Cub Scout den. He goes to their pack and den meetings, helps with planning, offers guidance to the younger Scouts and encourages them to continue on to Boy Scouts. This weekend, he gets to go to Cub World, a big festive camping weekend.

The theme is cowboys. He'll wear blue jeans, a plaid shirt and a straw cowboy hat. And he'll wear his Daddy's boots -- this time not for dress up. He actually fits those men's size 11 boots.

I can hear Steve now: "Yeehaw!"

Cooper in June 2006, age 4; Cooper in April 2013, age 11

Heaven on earth

March 31, 2013

When Betty took this photo Easter Sunday morning, Uncle Jim gently corrected her for taking the photo with so much light behind us.

I think the image is just right. I love the bright light, I love our joy, I love those tulips -- my favorite flowers, I love that Cooper and Katie are so healthy.

And it brings to mind another photo, taken the morning of Steve's memorial service. Aunt Ami took this one.

Sept. 12, 2009

Oh, my heart. Look at how tiny our babies are. Seven-year-old Katie is now almost as tall as Cooper was then. And our now-11-year-old Cooper ... I'm reminded of Will Pry's words during the memorial service -- he's got his Daddy's long legs.

That 2009 photo reflects about 18 months of fitful sleep for me. By August 2009, I was surviving on about four hours pieced together each night. I hadn't had a haircut in who knows how long.

When Steve would allow himself to wonder aloud how I would manage our family without him, I would always tell him that I would be fine. And I wasn't just saying what I thought he'd want to hear. I instinctively knew that Cooper, Katie and I would be OK.

And somehow we are. Certainly not without stumbles and scares and doubt along the way.

I sometimes struggle with taking risks or making changes as the only adult in the house. I continue to rely on help from others. (I expect I always will.) I still don't get quite enough sleep. (But when I do sleep, it's solid, soul-restoring sleep.) Our lives will never be perfect. (Of course, we were never promised perfection.)

Overall, though, I'd say that the three of us are doing the best we can without Steve. And when I look at that Easter photo, I see little glimpses of heaven on earth.

Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.

(Psalm 30:5)

Chance meeting

A young man was in line in front of me this morning. He was talking to the cashier about his next round of chemotherapy.

I noticed his bald head, with just a hint of stubble, and a large, U-shaped scar on the right side.

I had two choices: Stay silent or talk.

"Which chemo are you taking?" I asked.

He turned in my direction, unaware that I had overheard.

"It's in pill form," he said. "Temodar."

I nodded. "My husband had brain cancer. He took that, too."

"How is he?" the young man asked.

(That's why silence is often the choice -- because you don't necessarily want to tell someone currently fighting cancer that your experience with cancer doesn't have a happy ending. And it's why I should start using the phrase "late husband" with greater ease.)

I told him that my husband had passed away.

We kept talking. About surgeons, steroids, radiation, oncologists (he sees the same doctor at UT-SW that Steve did). We talked about his most recent clean scan and his next scan, scheduled next month.

I asked for his name. I told him that I would pray for him and his family.

He asked for my name. And he asked how he might pray for me. I blinked back tears, taken off guard that this stranger with a most ferocious tumor would even ask, and told him that I couldn't think of a thing.

He told me that his brain cancer is more difficult on his wife than it is on him.

"Seeing what she goes through," he said, the rest of his words unspoken.

And then he added, "It's making her stronger."

I nodded in agreement.

This young couple has a 2-year-old daughter. The same age as Katie when Steve was diagnosed.

I wished him good luck, and we said goodbye.

As I prayed for Ryan today, I also prayed that I made the right choice in speaking instead of staying silent. 

Love stays strong

From today's Briefing:

A month after Steve died, our children and I escaped town for Legoland in Southern California.

As we were buckling our seatbelts for the flight out of Dallas, 4-year-old Katie looked around the plane and said, “I wonder if people think it’s weird that we’re flying without a dad.”

I patted her hand and answered, “It’s weird to us, but I don’t think they’ll notice.”

Of course, it’s all we could think about. Our grief was jagged.

For so long we had been an even set of four. A man, a woman, a boy and a girl. With Steve’s final breath, we became an odd set of three.

We’ve adjusted during the past few years. Steve’s absence has become more routine.

Right after his death, I would sometimes pause and wonder why I hadn’t yet told Steve about an important event or a conversation. Now I just wish that I could.

The grief remains, no doubt, but the edges are smoother. I’ve learned how to buy groceries for three people, not four. I’ve learned the optimum schedule for washing and drying laundry for three, not four. We instinctively set the dinner table for three, not four.

Because life as a trio has become so routine, just as with those strangers on the plane, his absence is often invisible to folks around us.

Last year, one of Katie’s sweet first-grade friends was playing at our house. Katie showed her friend a book.

“That was my dad’s,” she said. Her friend, in reply: “You don’t have a dad.”

Katie said firmly, “Yes I do! Everyone has a dad. Mine died. But I have a dad.”

Katie’s the youngest in our trio; she had the least amount of time with Steve. That doesn’t diminish a single bit of her strong devotion.

She frequently prays for him and wonders aloud what he’s up to in heaven. She shares stories she remembers and asks for details she doesn’t.

We often talk about him at dinnertime, when the three of us gather at one end of a table designed for six. I sit on the end, Katie on my left, Cooper on my right.

The other half of the table isn’t empty. It’s usually crowded with art supplies and spelling lists, flash cards and random books.

Saturday night, the whole table was crowded. Rather than disrupt projects midstream, we chose to sit at a card table temporarily set up in the entryway (left over from hosting Bunco the night before).

We placed napkins in laps. Cooper said grace. Katie looked at the empty chair to her right, sighed and said, “Daddy should be there.”

That little card table, designed for four, made his absence palpable.

Then we moved on to fascinating topics, including raccoons (current second-grade project) and the “Harlem Shake.”

At open house this week, I read Katie’s report on raccoons for the first time. (Did you know those bandits can run as fast as 15 mph?)

And I read her response to a writing prompt in advance of St. Patrick’s Day. Handwritten on a green shamrock were these words (edited by me, only to correct spelling): “I am lucky because … even though my dad died, he is the best! I love love!! You dad!”

Yes, our grief remains, the raw edges worn by the passage of time. The love remains, too, burnished even in absentia.

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

Lucky

"Even thow my dad dide he is the best! I love love!! you dad!"

Second-grade work by Katie

Gentleman

There are moments every day that I miss Steve. I don't usually speak them aloud or post them on social media. They don't consume me or dampen my joy (usually) -- they are just a part of life without him.

Sunday morning was a particularly big moment.

Our church hosted the Rev. Zan Holmes Jr. as guest preacher. There's nothing like a Zan Holmes sermon. During the Sunday school hour, both he and the Rev. Bill McElvaney (another living legend) spoke about taking risks in ministry. They each shared stories from their civil rights work in Dallas in the 1950s and '60s.

Cooper wasn't feeling well that morning. He didn't complain much, though, and he listened attentively to both ministers. (Cooper is a longtime student of the civil rights movement, starting with his interest in Rosa Parks around age 4.)

At the end of the Sunday school presentation, Cooper leaned toward me, whispered, "I'm going to go thank them both," then walked across the sanctuary.

He stood in front of these distinguished men, waiting respectfully to get their attention. When they noticed him, both Zan and Bill stood. Cooper looked Bill in the eyes, shook his hand and thanked him for coming to our church and for his work. He did the same with Zan.

Later that afternoon, after Cooper had rested and before his Boy Scout meeting, I sat with him to tell him how proud I am of his character and gentle spirit.

So much like his Daddy, who I miss so much.

Cooper & Katie, on Steve's bench at church, Feb. 24, 2013

Dance

On Saturday, Uncle Greg escorted Katie to the Daddy Daughter Dance.

(She has specific criteria for her dance "dates" -- they must be related to her and they must be daddies. So Papa and Greg are on her short list.)

She had been looking forward to the event for weeks.

When she went to bed on Thursday night, she said, "I can't wait until Friday, because then I'll be able to say, 'The Daddy Daughter Dance is tomorrow!' "

Early Saturday afternoon, she had her hair styled at the Dry Bar. (She wouldn't allow curls, but the stylist did sneak in an adorable flip at the ends of her shiny, long hair.) As we walked back to the car, she asked how old you have to be to go to the dance.

"The minimum age is 4," I told her, "but you first went when you were 3."

"Why?"

"Well, we weren't sure that Daddy would be alive for the dance when you were 4," I told her, "so we decided to cheat a little."

Katie thought for a moment and then replied, "That was a sad prediction to have to make, but it was a good prediction."

We arrived home just as Greg was arriving from Anna.

I acted as chauffeur. First stop: A pre-party at a friend's house.

Next stop: The Frisco Convention Center. I dropped Greg and Katie off near the entrance and cried a little as I watched them walk hand-in-hand into the dance.

Greg texted me photos throughout the dance -- every one with a beaming Katie.

Ninety minutes later, I returned to pick them up. Katie was sobbing.

"I miss Daddy," she cried as Greg helped her into the minivan.

I fought back tears as I told her that I miss Daddy, too, and that Uncle Greg misses Daddy.

By the time we arrived home, she had mostly recovered. I learned about some of the songs and the snacks. She thanked Uncle Greg for taking her and thanked me for always letting her attend.

I am so thankful for the incredible men in our lives -- excellent role models and gentle souls. I know that we are blessed to have so many people care for us.

But sometimes, I feel just like Katie, wanting to cry to when it's impossible to think of anything else except Steve is missing.

'First Look of Life'

I've been looking for a Baby Katie photo for a second-grade project. While perusing old photos, I noticed how many of our Steve-and-Katie photos look like this one:

Katie and Steve, February 2006

He rarely looked at the camera with Katie in his arms. He usually stared at and admired his little girl.

Today, Katie is fully secure in her Daddy's love, even though he's been gone for more than three years. He poured so much love into both Cooper and Katie -- long before he was ill and, of course, while he was living with cancer.

I'm thankful that we have photos. More than that, I'm thankful that both Cooper and Katie have warm memories and constant love today.

In fact, when Katie decided to enter the PTA Reflections contest last fall, she chose to draw a photo of her Daddy holding her for the first time. (The theme this year is "Magic of the Moment.")

Katie's pastel drawing, titled First Look of Life (which recently received an Award of Excellence at school)

Moments to share

There are little moments all the time that I wish I could share with Steve. 

Moments like last Wednesday, when the school nurse called to tell me that Cooper had injured his shoulder during P.E. I had been in a deep sleep, ill from flu, when the phone rang. 

I started to get dressed and drive in the cold, dreary rain to pick him up. Then I called Katrina, who had earlier made me pinky promise to let her know if I needed help -- and who happens to be married to Frisco's best ER doctor.

We worked out a plan to get Cooper help right away. Then the school nurse called again and told me that upon re-examination all he really needed was pain medicine. Katrina delivered medicine, and I fell back asleep.

(Steve had injury-prone shoulders. Gracious, I wish he were here to discuss his troubles with me and Cooper.)

Moments like this morning, when Katie was in a dental chair for usually routine dental work that in her case required heavy sedation because of severe anxiety related to anything medical. 

She was a little loopy and a little scared, and I held her hand and told her that she was brave. I told her that I love her and am proud of her.

I wanted to say, "Daddy loves you, too," but I couldn't predict how she would react under the circumstances, so I kept those words in my heart.

Moments like tonight, when Cooper was ready to fall asleep and he asked me to take his B (his special blanket) to my room because he was afraid that it might fall apart. (It's well loved.)

I reminded him that Grandma had knit him another B. I found that newer blanket in his closet, and I wrapped old B inside new B. I tucked the combo B under his right side.

He had tears in his eyes. Me, too.

Then intuitive Katie called from the next room, "Cooper, are you OK? Is everything OK?"

And Cooper, who protects his sister at almost all costs, started to genuinely laugh and say, "Yes, I'm fine."