Rambling man

Steve had a charming way of telling stories.

Well, I say it was charming. To be honest, sometimes his storytelling would frustrate me. I would ask a question, expecting a simple, straightforward answer. I suppose it's the journalist in me. I like an inverted pyramid style -- most important information at the top with details of lesser importance at the bottom. An editor can chop off the bottom three inches if necessary.

Steve was more of a wandering narrative kind of a guy. He'd eventually get to the answer, but he'd make a few detours first.

I would sometimes tell Steve, "Please just answer the question!"

When he was diagnosed with a glioblastoma, I reconsidered this habit (his wandering, my impatience) and a few others. Our time was limited. I soaked up every tiny detail in his circuitous tales -- because I didn't know how many more I'd get to hear.

When he snored, I stopped sighing in frustration and nudging him to turn to his side. I was painfully aware that I didn't know how many more nights I'd get to hear him snore. Instead, I would lie next to him and hold his hand or rest my hand on his fuzzy head and pray for many more nights of snoring.

This week I made a huge connection: Cooper tells stories the exact same way as his Daddy. I'll ask "What did you buy for lunch?" and he'll tell me first about what happened at recess, which may have affected what happened at the cafeteria table. I'll get snippets of conversation. And then, finally, he'll list his dessert, drink, sides and entree. (Dessert always comes first.)

I am working to maintain that patience I developed with Steve. I am savoring the details, thankful that our getting-close-to-10-year-old son is willing to share so much of his day with me. And thankful that he inherited such a sincerely charming trait from his Daddy.

Steve holds toddler Cooper on his shoulders, circa 2003. (It's worth clicking on the photo to enlarge it to see the joy on Cooper's face.)

I found this photo tonight and had to share it. Steve gets his tie cut off at Trail Dust Steak House in Aubrey, at Will and Holly's wedding rehearsal dinner, December 1994. 

Tri for Steve

For months now, Liz and I have been training for a sprint triathlon. Today for the first time I feel confident in my ability to finish. It's a good thing -- our race is in two weeks!

We will swim, bike and run on Sunday, May 1, in the Historic McKinney Kiwanis Triathlon.

The day before, Cooper will compete in the Historic McKinney Kiwanis Kids Triathlon.

We're participating in memory of Steve. Can you imagine how tickled Steve would be to see his 9-year-old son cross the finish line after swimming 100 yards, biking 2.5 miles and running half a mile?

And I know Steve would be proud of my training -- I often have his voice in my head as I'm practicing. (Surely by now you all know that I'm not a natural athlete.) Today I swam my best 300-meter time -- 6:19. I was really pushing myself, and the last lap was difficult. But I thought of Steve and how much he cheerfully endured to just extend his life a few months. Then I swam a little faster.

Katie's angel song

Katie made up and sang this after church today. (Drawing is by Cooper, from Thanksgiving 2010.)

Lost and found

Katie hugs Cooper before he leaves for a weekend of camping.

Cooper is camping, which means Katie and I have lots of uninterrupted time together.

She always cries for the first three or four minutes of their separation. Then we find lots to keep us busy and to fill the silence created by Cooper's absence. This weekend has included dinner with the Smiths, a day at the Dallas Arboretum with the Papps and dinner with the Spears family.

Katie prepared breakfast in bed for me -- bread with peanut butter and mini chocolate chips and a side of cheddar bunnies. 

In between, we've been reading, watching Tangled and talking. There's always lots of talking with Katie.

I like to keep track of her most quotable quotes, as my Facebook and Twitter friends can tell you. (When Steve was alive, we would email or text each other Katie-isms. I suppose that status updates are my substitute for being able to tell Steve.)

When Cooper isn't here to share airwave time, I have trouble keeping up with her quotable quotes. I often can't keep up with her train of thought. In Granny Weatherall fashion, she wanders from one topic to another and back again.

One of her most frequent subjects is her Daddy. While we ate a picnic lunch on the Arboretum's amphitheater grounds, she said the day could only be better with Daddy there. She said that he would have loved the beautiful flowers (so true). At dinner tonight, she imagined Daddy sitting with us.

Today she also told me about a writing assignment from school. She was asked to write about a time she lost something.

"So, I wrote about how I lost Daddy. And how I'll find him again one day in heaven."

Pocketknife

Tonight we're packing Cooper for a two-night campout with his Webelo buddies.

Now, I feel Steve's absence all the time. There's really not a moment in the day when I'm not consciously aware that my one true love is gone. On top of that, there are moments when that feeling is magnified. Without fail, those moments include shopping for and packing for Cooper's camping trips. Because that's the sort of task that Steve loved. Because I'm not a camper. Because I have questions about how to fit a reel onto a rod. Because I think little boys should have their daddies with them on camping trips.

As Cooper and I triple-checked the suggested packing list with his bags, we realized we'd overlooked an item -- a pocketknife. Cooper doesn't yet own a pocketknife.

I consulted friend and Scout dad Layne, who recommended a knife from the Scout store. I can't make it there tomorrow, though, so Cooper and I were talking about other options in time for his 4 p.m. departure.

"Did Daddy have a pocketknife?"

"Great idea, Cooper!"

So from under Steve's bathroom sink I pulled out the divided leather tray that holds personal items exactly where Steve left them -- keys, wallet, money clip, watch and a pocketknife.

I picked up the little knife, showed it to Cooper and started to sob uncontrollably.

And then our sweet son, only 9 but almost as tall as me, patted me on the back and said, "Oh, Mommy, it's OK to cry. It's OK." 

Then he hugged me. And I cried even more.

"Mommy, I don't have to take that knife. It's safer with you. I can borrow one this time."

As my crying slowed -- though not stopped yet -- I started to explain the knife. It's engraved with the word "Dixon" and a line drawing of a truck.

I told Cooper that Daddy had worked for Dixon Paper Company about 17 years ago.

"Was it a good job?"

Oh, no. It was an awful job. The people were great. The job not so much.

"Did it pay well?"

Oh, no. We were broke. I worked two jobs -- at the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal at night and as a receptionist for a slightly shady financial company in the mornings. Steve had just started classes at Texas Tech, beginning work on the MBA he eventually earned.

But, man, were we happy. We were just married. When our schedules allowed, which wasn't often, we would play tennis at a nearby park, go to the movies, walk the dog, cook and bake, explore nearby towns (like Post and Levelland and Quitaque).

As I held that little knife, a gift when Steve left Dixon for a health care administration job in Lubbock, I thought of our life 17 years ago. All of our plans for babies and travel and careers and a long life together.

"Stupid tumor," I said aloud. (I say it in my head often.)

"I know!" Cooper said. Then he started some sort of unskilled martial arts moves that made me laugh. "I just wish we could have kicked it!"

Then I put the pocketknife away.

Head for the Cure 5K

A few weeks ago, a volunteer with the Head for the Cure Foundation contacted me. She had heard and read about Steve, and she asked if I would put a 5K team together in his memory. 

Of course I answered, "Yes!" What a great way to pull the Run for Steve team back together, add new runners and walkers to the team, and raise money for brain tumor research at M.D. Anderson, where Steve received treatment. And what an appropriate way to honor Steve's memory -- with a sport he loved and the hope for a cure for those cursed brain tumors.

Forty-one of us have already registered for the race, scheduled for 8 a.m. Saturday, May 14, at Frisco Square. Isn't that awesome?!

I'd like to invite you and your family members to join us on the course -- as runners or walkers (or a little of both) or as supporters along the way. I'll be in touch with team members about T-shirts (if you don't already have a Run for Steve shirt) and a meeting place the day of the race.

If you can't or don't want to come out to the race, you can donate money instead. Money will benefit the Brain Tumor Trials Collaborative at M.D. Anderson.

Or, if you can't make it to the race and can't donate right now, you can send good thoughts and prayers to team members. 

Whatever your level and ability to participate (see the details below), please know that our family continues to feel the love from an amazing community -- the incredible group of friends and family members who supported us during Steve's cancer battle, during the immediate days after his death and still today, as our family continues to grieve and adjust to life without Steve here on earth.

We are thankful for you!
1. To read details on the 5K (and the much shorter run for children), click here.

2. To register online for the race, click here.

Please choose the "Run for Steve Damm" team. (You'll receive a discount for being a team member.)


3. To donate to Head for the Cure, click here.

Our team goal is $1,000. We've already raised $300 thanks to generous friends. Thank you!

Will and Steve after a Dallas Half Marathon (I see this photo in the kitchen every morning. It inspires me to keep setting and working toward goals. It reminds me of the power of friendship. And it makes me smile, even when it makes me cry.)

London and Paris photos

I don't want to force our spring break vacation photos on anyone. But if you'd like to see more than what I've already posted, you can find photos here. (No pressure to look at them all! I won't quiz anyone!)

Tuesday in London
Wednesday in London
Thursday in Paris
Friday in London
Saturday in London
Sunday in London

Random discoveries

Random discoveries from last week's vacation:

1. There is never enough time in a museum for Cooper. He could spend a week at the Imperial War Museum, another at the British Museum, another at the Louvre, another wandering the Tower of London -- and that still wouldn't be enough. He loves to read all the placards, watch all the videos, listen to all the recordings.

Cooper and Katie get as close as possible to the Rosetta Stone at the British Museum -- one of the highlights of the trip for Cooper. (I admit that when I was 9, I had no concept of the Rosetta Stone, its importance or its location.)

2. Katie likes to skim museum exhibits. She soaks in a few details, commits them to memory and then moves on. But a museum gift shop? She could spend a full day in each one.

Katie enjoys touring Shakespeare's Globe (a reproduction of the original theater) -- and this smile is before we hit the gift shop.

3. Cooper knows more about Greek and Roman mythology than I realized. He regaled us with stories as we walked among statues in the Louvre.

4. Pear sorbet with dark chocolate chips is delicious.

This flavor was one of many signs throughout London that a royal wedding is just weeks away.

5. It's not enough to know at which intersection a London bus will stop. You need to know EXACTLY where, as there are probably 10 stops at every intersection -- and "intersection" is loosely defined as a three-block area.

We spent about 30 minutes searching Trafalgar Square for the correct corner to catch this tour bus.

6. Katie is frightened of fruits in foreign lands. I explained multiple times that the bananas in London come from the same fields as the bananas in Frisco, Texas. I had better luck with pineapple. She is not frightened of desserts in foreign lands.

 Katie prepares to dive into chocolate mousse in a Parisian cafe.

7. Nothing can quell Katie's love for George Washington. (She long ago declared her love for the first president and her wish to marry him.) Cooper and I were excited to find this tribute to Abraham Lincoln near Westminster Abbey. "Well, he's not George Washington," Katie said.

8. No matter where we are, Cooper and Katie always make me laugh.

In the tiny museum at Westminster Abbey, there's a tiny sign that indicates children can dress as monks. We asked, and a nice docent unlocked a tiny closet and helped Cooper and Katie with all the layers. Cooper refused to smile for photos -- he was in character. Katie couldn't stop giggling -- perfectly matched to her own character.

9. No matter where we are, I miss Steve a little more each day. I love him a little more each day. I see so much of him in our children -- a great salve for my broken heart.

Uncle Jim helped me, Cooper and Katie re-create the Eiffel Tower photo of Steve and me in autumn 1999. 

Transportation

We were constantly on the move last week.

 We arrived at the airport via Mary Mitchell Trimble.

We flew nonstop from Dallas to London on a 767. (Jim and Betty were on our outgoing flight. We were on different flights coming home. Uncle Jim was already in Europe when we arrived.)

 We walked. A lot. (Cooper, Uncle Jim, Katie, Jim and Betty on our way to lunch near our flat.)

We rode double-decker buses. (We spent much of Wednesday on the Original London Sightseeing Tour.)

 We cruised the River Thames on a boat. (The river cruise was part of the bus package.)

We rode a high-speed train from London to Paris. And back. (We spent a quick day in Paris.)

 We took elevators to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

We walked a lot more. (Cooper and Katie explore the grounds of the Louvre.)

 We took advantage of escalators. (Cooper was thrilled to see "Mona Lisa" in person, after studying the painting and da Vinci this school year.)

We tried to escape the Muggle world for a train to Hogwarts. (This ode to Harry Potter is tucked away in King's Cross Station in London.)

 We soared over London in a capsule in the London Eye. (The giant ferris wheel stands 443 feet tall.)

 We walked some more. (We braved the rain on Friday.)

 Some of us bounced. (Katie gets her wiggles out at the Peter Pan-themed playground in Kensington Gardens.)

 Some of us braved rolling logs. (Cooper walks across the bridge at the playground, also known as the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Playground.)

 We watched the city from inside buses. (Katie claims she was just resting her eyes -- NOT SLEEPING -- while she leaned on Papa.)

 We walked some more. (There were three or four bus lines within walking distance of our flat.)

 We navigated London on the Underground.

We occasionally splurged on taxi cabs when our feet were worn out.

We flew home via Boston, where it was snowing Monday afternoon. (Here we are waiting on a bus shuttle to take us from one terminal at Boston Logan to another.)

Candles

Westminster Abbey

St. Paul's Cathedral

Notre Dame

We visited three significant churches last week -- Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral and Notre Dame Cathedral.

In each one, we lit candles and prayed to God in memory of Steve.

I gave thanks for Steve and his family and our children and our shared memories and his love and our marriage.

 (photos from Notre Dame)

Bon voyage and welcome home

Before we left for Europe last Monday, one little tulip was in bloom.

I like to think of it as Steve saying "hello and bon voyage" before our adventure.

We came home this Monday to a lovely welcome -- many more tulips in bloom.

(photo by Liz)

Fulfilling a promise

In 2008, Steve and I booked flights to Europe. We wanted to take Cooper and Katie to London and Paris. We knew Steve's time was limited, but we had faith that his health would stay strong enough for a summer 2009 vacation.

Steve's health declined severely in early 2009. By spring we conceded that we'd have to give up the trip.

Cooper and Katie were disappointed but understanding. And Steve promised them that they would one day go. He and I knew that I would be responsible for fulfilling the promise. 

Soon, I will make good on the promise.

I expect the Paris portion of the trip will be especially emotional for me -- Steve and I were there in 1999 for our five-year anniversary. Still, I'm looking forward to retracing some of our steps with Cooper and Katie. And I'm looking forward to Katie asking a real French person, "Ou est la Tour Eiffel?" (She's been practicing, with Haley's help, since August.)

Living with loss offers valuable lessons on life

From today's Briefing:

Seemingly apropos of nothing, Cooper announced this week: “I love life! I love everything about it except death.”

His enthusiasm warms my broken heart.

Cooper speaks with wisdom gained from watching his dad’s body deteriorate from the effects of cancer. From living in the same house where Steve died. From living with arrested reminders of Steve’s vibrant personality.

Cooper’s words remind me of the lessons I’m constantly learning from Steve’s absence.

Every day is worth celebrating. In the year and a half since Steve’s death, I’ve necessarily let a lot of things go (if not the guilt associated with letting things go). One day I’ll be back to my “normal” self of balancing daily survival with long-term projects, but for now daily survival wins.

At the same time, I’ve placed greater importance on celebrating each day.

I routinely keep fresh flowers in the kitchen, family room and my bedroom. I decorate the kitchen table — our main hub of activity — according to the season. This week, the Valentine’s Day placemats and centerpiece were replaced with Easter décor.

We go out for frozen yogurt because it’s a sunny day — or because it’s raining. Or because we have friends over — or we don’t.

We are tiny but still significant. A few weeks ago, when I was on vacation in Belize, I was able to clearly see the band of the Milky Way for the first time. I could see the constellations (though I couldn’t remember all of their names). I was far removed from light pollution; my view of the sky was like it’s supposed to be.

I even saw a shooting star.

After staring into space for a few minutes, I became overwhelmed with the thought of how very small we are — just miniscule specks representing an indiscernible blip in time.

But we’re significant to one another.

This week, a friend’s friend was diagnosed with breast cancer. Within hours of learning the news, my friend had mobilized a team of women to plot strategy. Meals. Child care. Emotional support.

They are protecting and nurturing another human — there’s nothing insignificant about that.

Nothing is guaranteed. Actually, my daughter reminds me of this frequently. In Katie’s world, it’s natural that a parent would die early — because that’s what happened to her.

So, she’ll talk about her future with certainty and my future with qualification.

Last week during a drive, she said: “Mommy, I hope you’re still alive when my kids are adults. That would be amazing.”

She’s promised that I can live with her when she’s an adult — if I’m still around. I assure her that I’m doing my best to stay healthy and make good choices. That only God knows when I’ll die but that I pray it won’t be for many decades.

She’s not pessimistic — just realistic. Steve was healthy, made good choices. Thousands of people were praying on his behalf.

Katie’s realism protects her heart. And it’s a constant reminder that we can’t afford to waste a lot of time on unnecessary drama. That we should be thankful for every sunrise — not grumbling that it’s time to get up. That we should be enjoying the life we have while we have it, even going so far as to randomly exclaim to anyone who’s listening, “I love life!”

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

Big picture

Most of living with grief requires baby steps -- minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. That's a difficult reality for the likes of me, who has trouble turning off planning mode.

These baby steps, though, protect me from the big picture. When I tell myself that we will get through today without Steve by right here in the house (which I clarify because, yes, he is always with us but that's not what I'm writing about here), well, we get through today. It's what we do -- not in a rote or robotic way but mostly with joy and cheer.

Monday through Friday, the three of us wake up, eat breakfast, pack for school. Cooper and Katie go to school, and I exercise, work, run errands, take care of the house, volunteer, meet friends for coffee and more. Then they come home, and we attend to homework, appointments, playing, dinner, bath time, story time and bed. I work some more, watch TV, read, play Words with Friends on my iPhone.

Repeat.

The weekends are predictable in their own way: birthday parties, soccer games, church, Sunday school, piano lessons, an occasional play or museum visit, grocery shopping.

Repeat.

(In fact, today Katie mused on the drive home from piano: "You know what life is? It's a lot of sitting, walking, watching, playing, standing and having fun. And eating and drinking.")

Steve's absence is present during all of these motions. The triggers surround us -- as they should be. Steve's sink in the master bathroom is still "Daddy's sink" -- complete with his last toothbrush. Photos in every room of the house. Warm memories at every turn.

Still, there are moments when I allow myself to think "big picture," like today on the drive home from church.

This isn't a temporary condition. (At least not on earth.) Steve isn't away somewhere, hiding out, plotting his return.

In those moments, when it hits me all over again, tears well in my chest and fall from my eyes. I'll think, "Why on earth, Tyra, are you realizing this all over again? You live with this every day."

Then I remember how we live, often taking baby steps to get through each day, and remember the protection that provides. And I, the kind of planner who probably annoys others, give thanks for the occasional blind spot of the big picture.

And, of course, I give thanks for these two incredible children.

Before church this morning

Save the Date: May 14

I've got exciting news! Frisco is hosting a Head for the Cure 5K, with proceeds benefitting the Brain Tumor Trials Collaborative at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center.

I've been asked to organize a team in memory of Steve. What a great opportunity to:
1. Raise money to fight brain tumors
2. Pull together folks who love Steve and want to honor his memory
3. Continue the tradition of the Run for Steve team
4. Support families currently praying for a cure

Here are the details on the race.

What: Head for the Cure 5K North Texas
When: 8 a.m. Saturday, May 14
Where: Frisco Square (at Main Street and the Dallas North Tollway in Frisco)
Cost: $22 if you're a member of Run for Steve ($32 if you register after April 23)
Register: www.headforthecure.org

What can you do?
1. Register for the 5K. Not a runner? That's OK! You can walk it. There will be lots of walkers. Click here to register. Be sure to choose the team option, and choose the Run for Steve Damm team.

2. Can't be there for the race but want to help? You can donate money to Head for the Cure. Click here for the Run for Steve fundraising page.

I'm really excited about this race and hope that we have a great, big Run for Steve team. (Katie would ask that it be a "hunormous" team.)

We will wear the gray Run for Steve shirts from 2009. If you don't have one, no worries -- you'll have an opportunity soon to order your own.

E-mail me with questions. And check out the Facebook page on the Frisco race. Thank you!

Coming spring

"No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn."

-- Hal Borland 

I noticed these tulip sprouts in our front beds today. The timing is perfect.

I'm fighting a cold and am unusually tired. Being sick -- even just a little bit -- without Steve makes me feel a little sorry for myself. Yes, I can brew my own tea and pour my own juice and heat soup on my own. And, yes, I could let someone else do it for me. But I what I really want is Steve here to do one or all of those things, to call and check on me from the office, to send a silly text or e-mail to make me laugh.

These sprouts, springing from bulbs I planted on Steve's 41st birthday, are sweet reminders of the seasons of life and God's generosity and a much bigger world outside my own.

Sweethearts

Last summer Cooper attended Camp Erin, a weekend camp for children who have experienced the death of a loved one. Last night we attended a Camp Erin reunion for the 2010 campers and their families.

Cooper and Katie played on the playground, we ate dinner and s'mores, we watched a slideshow from camp, and we visited with other families.

We were also invited to make bracelets in memory of our loved ones.

Cooper's memory bracelet

Katie working on one of three bracelets

Katie was too young to attend last year. This summer she'll meet the age requirement, and she's ready to go. (We do have to apply first, then get accepted -- details that Katie views as mere formalities.) Cooper hopes he can go again, too. I am thankful that they don't hide from their grief.

And I am thankful that Steve's love lives on in these two -- my sweet Valentines.

Katie and Cooper before school this morning