Tuesday, September 17, 2019

I'm thankful my high school years weren't my best years

I have just celebrated 30 years since graduating high school with a reunion at a suburban country club, including a pasta buffet, a DJ serving up '80s tunes and a roomful of people I either remember well or have no recollection of ever seeing once in my entire life.
I left feeling not nostalgic but thankful. Thankful for enduring friendships, fond memories, shared experiences and, most of all, thankful that my high school years weren't my best years. If I could whisper in the ear of 1989 me, I would share, "The best is yet to come."
My generation lacks a singular defining moment. We were mercifully spared the Great Depression and World War II. We were too young for the draft or Woodstock.
We recall gas shortages, hostage crises and the malaise of the 1970s. We remember the flash and excess — and the parachute pants and shoulder pads — of the 1980s. We witnessed the crumbling of the Soviet Union in the early '90s and the dot-com boom and bust during the rest of that decade. We watched pension plans decline and mostly disappear.
We were in the middle of starting families on Sept. 11, 2001. We've been raising our children in a post-9/11 world, seeking balance between sheltering and preparing our kids for an uncertain future.
My generation has learned to adapt to technological changes — some forced upon us and later others of our own design. We grew up with phones attached to walls and televisions that required antennae and someone willing to turn a knob to change the channel. We embraced cable TV, video game consoles and the social-life salvation of call waiting.
I first used an Apple Macintosh SE computer in yearbook in 11th grade, creating pages on a wee screen not much bigger and far less powerful than my current iPhone.
No one I knew owned a mobile phone in college.
I wore a company pager in the late '90s.
I can identify a floppy disk, know how to change the thermal paper on a fax machine, and understand the importance of rewinding VCR tapes — though none of that matters anymore.
I've embraced social media, online shopping, the cloud, countless new applications for work and artificial intelligence (Alexa and I banter every day).
And yet, in a sure sign that I am aging, I'm finding that I have limits.
I have no interest in curating a list of YouTubers to follow. I'm happy to access YouTube for the occasional how-to video (thank you, sink disposal repair geniuses!), but it's never been my go-to entertainment venue.
While I have the Snapchat app, I rarely use it and am perplexed by teenagers who keep up daily streaks by sending photographs of their forehead or a car dashboard or ceiling tiles.
I find myself irritated when my son says he "talked" to someone when in fact he used his phone to send typed messages back and forth. "Talking" requires the exchange of spoken words.
I keep thinking that I understand the definition of a meme, but my daughter tells me I'm wrong. The exact characterization of a VSCO girl eludes me, though I gather that the current version includes puka shell choker necklaces, slip-on Vans and scrunchies (you know, the oversized ponytail holders we wore in '80s). I'm just now catching up to the idea of an eBoy, though I can't be sure that I've seen one in the wild.
I don't need to adopt these trends of Generation Z, and I don't begrudge them their fads, even the ones that will make them cringe when they look back in a couple of decades. I look forward to how they'll change the world, and I hope that they, too, keep seeking their glory days and the promise that the best is yet to come.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Tuesday, September 3, 2019

10 years without Steve: My journey through life and grief in the decade since my husband died

From Saturday's Briefing:

It's been 10 years since my husband took his final breath. I have lived with, wrestled with and made tentative peace with grief ever since.
My journey through a decade of grief is unlike anyone else's because every single path is unique. There is no lockstep through stages. There is no timeline, no guarantee of expiration.
In these years without Steve, I have prayed with and prayed for friends and acquaintances on their own grief journeys. I've learned to offer advice only when asked, and even then I tread lightly, hesitant to intrude on the sacred process of continuing life with a shattered heart.
Yet, there is value in listening to one another's stories, in making connections, in realizing that we are bound together because we feel pain as deeply as we love. With that in mind, these are some of my truths about grief.
The tug of loss never fully disappears. In the first few months after Steve's death, his absence was the first thing I thought of when I woke up and the last thing I remembered as I fell asleep. Our loss doesn't consume me now, but it never goes away.
When our son graduated from high school this past June, I of course wished that Steve had been sitting next to me in the arena, but I didn't dwell on his absence. I was thankful for the family members and friends who were there, for the people who have helped to sustain us.
A few weeks later, though, the morning before Cooper's college orientation, I broke down in the middle of the hotel dining room. There were matched sets of moms and dads at every other table, but at mine there was only a mom with tears in her oatmeal. That wave of grief came out of nowhere, reminding me of its fickle ways.
You can curate your own healthy ways to cope. Cooper, Katie and I find solace by honoring Steve in small, everyday ways. I share Steve stories and photos. We listen to his music and watch his favorite movies.
Cooper inherited Steve's quick wit and sarcasm. Katie inherited his gift of storytelling. They may not remember the tenor and tone of his voice, but they often sound just like him, with familiar phrases and observations.
We go all out to remember him on Nov. 4. For eight years now, we've celebrated Steve's birthday by encouraging acts of kindness in his honor. With the help of enthusiastic friends and social media, our annual tribute to Steve and the power of kindness has spread around the world.
Give yourself credit for what you've built. No one asks for trauma or tragedy, yet it finds us all. The process of living through the associated grief creates all kinds of character-building opportunities.
We've gained perspective because living with loss clarifies the gift of each new day and helps to prioritize problems.
We've developed empathy for families facing a cancer diagnosis or unexpected death. For parents who lose children and children who lose parents. For single moms and single dads. For children in crisis. We're reminded that many struggles are hidden or unnamed and that everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and grace.
We've built layers of resiliency. We have failed one another and asked for forgiveness. We have created huge messes (the great bathroom flood of 2011 comes to mind) and then tamed the chaos. We have cobbled together basic home repair skills. We have been lost but always find our way home.
Life continues. We've discovered new music, authors, movies and restaurants. We've attended weddings and memorial services. We've cuddled newborns. We've traveled across the country and even ventured overseas.
Katie learned to play the violin and then the oboe. Cooper earned the rank of Eagle Scout.
I earned a teaching certificate and now teach middle-school students.
We left our longtime church and found a new congregation closer to home.
Our circle of friends is wider. Our well of memories is deeper. Our passion for life continues. Steve has been gone for 10 years, but I know that he would totally approve.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
Cooper, Steve and Katie in October 2005

Katie and Cooper on Nov. 4, 2018, delivering flowers and pumpkin bread to friends in memory of Steve's 50th birthday.