Unexpected moments

A constant thread throughout this grief process has been my ability to cope with expected vs. unexpected moments.

When I can anticipate a grief moment -- a family birthday, our wedding anniversary, the anniversary of Steve's death, receiving his remains (as Jim, Betty and I did last week) -- I often surprise myself with my composure.

And I'm truly not pretending or acting. When I expect a moment or day or series of days to be difficult, and then those moments or day or days happen, I typically remain calm inside and out.

The unexpected moments, though -- they are a different story.

Today they piled one on top of the other.

I woke at 3 a.m. with an awful earache (allergy symptoms are particularly bad for lots of North Texans right now). I was totally capable of getting out of bed for Tylenol and water. But I wanted Steve to do it for me. I cried from the physical pain and the heartache.

I visited my doctor for an annual check-up later this morning. It was the first time I had sat in her waiting room since Steve died. The only other people in the room were a husband, pregnant wife and toddler son. It reminded me of Steve and me. He was by my side for every single prenatal visit in that office when I was pregnant with Cooper. He missed only one when I was pregnant with Katie (and he lamented that missed visit for years later). As I waited for my turn, I wiped away tears.

After the appointment, I visited a dear family at Children's Medical Center. Cole was in a football practice-related accident yesterday and is receiving excellent care at Children's -- the same hospital that employed Steve for nine years.

I hadn't been on the campus in a long time. There was no question that I needed to be there -- wanted to be there -- for Cole's family. I'm glad I had the opportunity to hug his mom and dad and to listen to Kelly describe every mom's nightmare and to smooth Cole's hair while he slept.

But I wasn't prepared for how difficult it would be to park in the garage Steve parked in. To walk the skybridge that he walked every day when he worked at that campus. To walk by other administrator types wearing similar suits and almost identical badges.

Before I drove away to get home in time to pick up Cooper and Katie from school, I sat in the minivan and sobbed.

Too many unexpected grief moments in one day.

Thank God for the unexpected joyful moments. Like Katie choosing cowgirl boots to wear with her bright blue T-shirt and hot pink cropped sweatpants. Like an impromptu morning tea with Liz. Like Julie calling just to check on me.

And like Cooper on the way home from soccer practice tonight. I pointed out the particularly pretty sunset -- orange and pink and purple filling the western sky.

"That's so beautiful not even Leonardo da Vinci could capture its beauty," Cooper said.

(He's learning about da Vinci, by the way, from aforementioned Kelly, his GT teacher at school.)

"The world is full of suffering. It is also full of overcoming."

-- Helen Keller

Michigan trip

If Steve were here, he would tell the story of this year's Labor Day weekend trip to Michigan in a long, winding, entertaining way.

Steve's storytelling was one of the millions of things I love about him. Whereas I am usually linear and concise, he would weave together anecdotes, details and memories in a circuitous, always enjoyable way.

With Steve in mind, I'll try my best to explain how Cooper, Katie and I ended up at Michigan Stadium for the season opening game.

***

Steve's dad, grandfather and great-uncle attended the University of Michigan. Steve's older brother, Jim, attended Texas A&M.

So, as Steve told it, he went to Michigan. (He was wait-listed at Rice University, his first choice.)

He started in the Honors College as a pre-med major. He eventually graduated with an English literature degree, chosen because when he had to make a final declaration, he had more credits in English than any other subject.

And he played trumpet in the Michigan Marching Band.

The 2010 Michigan Marching Band

***

In the middle of Steve's cancer journey, we heard from Laura Ambrook Redmond.

Laura was also in the Michigan Marching Band. I can't even recall now how she learned about Steve's illness. I'm sure it has something to do with Facebook or e-mails.

She is a registered nurse and would send us the most encouraging notes about Steve's care. (We are fortunate to have so many friends in the caregiving field.)

When Steve died, she wrote me to offer the children and me tickets to a Michigan football game.

Laura, her husband and cutie-pie son live in South Carolina, which means they're unable to attend all of the Michigan home games, even though they have season tickets.

I loved the idea of taking Cooper and Katie to Ann Arbor, especially to a football game. Steve attended dozens of games, often marching on the field at halftime and representing the school at bowl games. I met Steve after he graduated; together we watched many games on television. Steve would be the first to tell you that he got really riled up watching his Wolverines.

Steve and I attended one Ann Arbor game together (Michigan vs. Colorado in 1997) and that season's Rose Bowl (Michigan vs. Washington State on New Year's Day 1998).

***

Because Steve died on Labor Day 2009 and because the hours leading to his death were so traumatic (beautiful in many ways, but still traumatic), I decided early on that we wouldn't be home Labor Day weekend this year -- or perhaps any future year.

I was happy to accept Laura's gift and requested tickets for the first game of the season. Laura and her family planned to be in South Carolina that weekend, and she graciously granted my request.

***

We're fortunate to have dear friends who live in Canton, just a few miles from Ann Arbor. The Healys offered to host us in their home, which gave us plenty of room to get comfortable and plenty of time to visit. (Though certainly not enough time, if you ask any of our combined five children. They get along as if they've spent their whole lives together.)

While with the Healy family, we enjoyed a music concert in Plymouth, a few hours at the swimming pool, a trip to an apple orchard and quality time at home.

Ryan, Cooper, Katie, Kelsey and Brendan

Katie the caterpillar

Cooper, Brendan, Ryan and Ken

We also enjoyed fall-like temperatures, having escaped 100-degree Dallas.

***

The moment that our rental car crossed into Ann Arbor, I started to cry.

Steve and I had always planned to return to the town together, with our two children. He, of course, would drive and I would navigate because that was our travel agreement many years ago.

He would show us his favorite hangouts and tell us fun Steve stories, censored when necessary.

Instead, I was driving with navigation help from the little computer in the car. I had a list of Steve places courtesy of Liz, one of Steve's best college friends and our mutual friend a few years later. I tried to recall all the Steve stories I could, wishing I had written every single one he told over the years.

***

Laura took great care of us from South Carolina. She made sure that I connected with Paul, another marching band alum who tailgates at all the home games. Paul and his family welcomed us into their group, fed us throughout the day and offered great advice on where to go.

She also connected us with Nick, another band alum who works at Michigan Stadium during games. He was able to walk us onto the field a few hours before kickoff. We walked through the same tunnel that players walk through before halves and sat on the storied field.

Her seats were amazing.

I haven't yet mentioned that the game we attended was the very first in the newly renovated Michigan Stadium. The renovations include the addition of a swanky club level. Our club-level seats were cushy; the view was amazing; the bathrooms were spotless.

The three of us were among 113,090 who watched the game in the stadium -- a national record for attendance.

Michigan won, 30-10. And as of today, the team is 3-0.

Cooper, Tyra and Katie in the Big House

***

Cooper and Katie outside South Quad

We left the tailgate party for a couple of hours to tour the campus.

We stood outside South Quad, Steve's freshman year dorm. We walked through the Law Quad, one of the most beautiful spots on campus.

We stood outside the coffee shop that was once the Baskin-Robbins where Steve worked. We admired the beautiful Union. I answered a lot of questions about all the students attending parties at various rental house and Greek houses along our route.

Cooper declared his intention to attend the University of Michigan "if the science program is good enough."

He asked if he should live in a dorm or one of those rental houses. (You can guess my answer, I'm sure.)

I said a silent prayer of thanks that I still have years before I send our babies to college.

Steve & Cooper

When Cooper was a baby, he looked almost exactly like me as a baby. In fact, one of my best friends, Melissa, called him "little Tyra."

As Cooper gets older and taller and thinner, he looks more and more like Steve.

Today is career day at our elementary school. Katie dressed as a paleontologist. (She says she'll go to the University of Texas for her first degree and then the University of Michigan for her second.)

Cooper chose to be a science teacher with mad scientist characteristics. The spiky hair makes him look even more Steve-like.

Perfect timing

On Tuesday I was feeling particularly cheated. I kept thinking of the opening lines from Robert Browning's poem "Rabbi Ben Ezra." Steve and I would sometimes recite the words with each other:

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be ...

I teared up often throughout the day, feeling sorry for myself and missing Steve to grow old with.

What helped turn my sadness around? Sweet words from Cooper.

On Tuesday night he told me and Katie: "My heart almost died when Daddy did. Now it's healing."

And this morning, on our walk to school, he looked me in the eyes and said: "I have a good childhood."

His timing was perfect.

From the moment we learned that something was wrong with Steve, I worried about Cooper and Katie's childhood being ruined. I wasn't sure how we all would weather the challenges of Steve's cancer and all the changes that would come. I couldn't even begin to imagine our lives without Steve on earth.

When Cooper told me that his heart was healing, I immediately felt less burdened. Then he lifted even more burdens when describing his childhood.

I am grateful for the solid foundation that Steve and I created together and the strong legacy that Steve left behind. I am thankful for two children who are as silly and wise and articulate and funny and bright as their Daddy.

Now I need to make sure that I keep their "good childhood" on track. The best is yet to be -- just not in the way I expected.

Katie and Cooper resting on the University of Michigan campus on Sept. 4, 2010.

Memorial service

A year ago today a few hundred people gathered to celebrate Steve's life. So, it's about time that I finish posting audio from that beautiful, love-filled day. (Today's links are below and are also permanently stored on the right side of the page.)

"Creation Will Be at Peace"

Pastor Andy's remarks (part 1)

Pastor Andy's remarks (part 2)

Pastor Andy's prayer

"Lord of the Dance"

My friend and Cooper's guidance counselor, Angie, attended the Steve Damm Spot dedication service this week at our church. She shared with me the next day a precious conversation she overheard.

Cooper's friend Asher said something like, "Cooper, just look at all these people here who knew your Daddy."

Cooper replied, "Yeah, but do you remember all the people at the funeral party?!"

I love that Cooper's memories of Sept. 12, 2009, are mostly happy. Mine are, too, though I admit to shedding many tears this afternoon as I listened again to the service.

I also fell in love again with sweet, silly, funny, smart, amazing Superman Steve.

Four truths about grief

My Briefing column today is here and here:

Four truths I've learned about what happens when we grieve

I am not a grief expert, but I am an expert on how my family of three has handled grief. A year ago Tuesday, my husband and the father of our two children died after fighting brain cancer for 20 long but not-long-enough months.

Our grief didn't begin the moment Steve took his last breath. It actually started when we first learned of the mass in his brain stem.

During Steve's cancer journey, we were constantly adjusting to what we had to do to attack the tumor (chemotherapy, radiation, blood checks, transfusions, supplements) and what we couldn't do because of the tumor (for Steve that meant driving, lifting more than a few pounds, shopping on his own, running and eventually even walking and talking above a whisper).

With all that adjusting came grief – over what was lost and what we feared we would lose.

The biggest wave hit the morning of Sept. 7, and waves continue to wash over us, sometimes with a merciful pause in between and sometimes in such succession that you're not sure if you'll catch your breath.

Cooper, Katie and I made use of counseling to help us cope. I visited a counselor by myself. I briefly met with a support group. Cooper met with his guidance counselor two to three days a week for the duration of the school year. Steve's hospice agency provided two counselors who worked at our home periodically until this summer. Cooper attended a bereavement camp for children.

With all that help, a whole lot of reading and daily experiences, I've compiled some truths about our grief.

Nothing is out of normal. Valerie, one of the hospice agency's counselors, told me that I might wonder, "Is this feeling or reaction normal?" The answer would always be "Yes."

That gave me permission to cry at unexpected times, to be angry without specific reason, to ignore what wasn't absolutely essential for survival, to focus on something that really didn't matter but made me feel better.

I don't worry when 5-year-old Katie talks about Steve as if he's sitting next to us. I don't worry that 9-year-old Cooper would almost always rather read a book than talk about his beloved Daddy.

My reactions and theirs are our normal.

Don't grade yourself. I don't get an A for getting through a day without crying (a rare occurrence) or an F for sobbing for 30 minutes after watching an episode of The_Office or hearing a Taylor Swift song with the lyrics "you'll never have to be alone." (Please don't judge me.) I don't need the added pressure of evaluating my days as "good" or "bad."

I'm proud of myself for getting out of bed every single day since Sept. 7. For having clean laundry and home-cooked meals. For finding joy even on the hardest days.

Emotions are going to get out some way. I've learned with whom I can share and how much they can handle. If there's no one to talk to, I write – sometimes for others to read and sometimes just for me.

Katie expresses her grief all day, every day. She hugs the air above her in an effort to "touch" Daddy. When I ask, "Who loves you, Katie?" she points at me and then above her – words aren't necessary.

If she looks blue, I ask why. Her usual answer: "I'm always sad about Daddy. And I'm always happy that we're alive."

Cooper holds on to his daily grief and lets it out not in dribbles but bursts. They come less frequently and with less intensity these days. When he does speak or write about Steve, it's with the soul of a poet. He expresses his fear of death and war and sincere hope for nothing more than life and peace.

There is no timeline. A year of grief sounds tidy and organized – perfect for someone like me. But there's nothing orderly about grief, and it follows no schedule.

As Cooper and Katie mature, they'll hit new milestones and understand our enormous loss in different ways. Their questions and recollections will change. They'll probably require more counseling.

I expect that waves of grief will wash over me for the rest of my life – with varying degrees of intensity – though I don't fear drowning.

My constantly honed expertise in our grief has strengthened my faith in our ability to survive.

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

Reclaiming "Spot"

Last night a group of about 100 (I'm guessing, and I'm not good with crowd estimates) helped to dedicate a patch of grass, four oak trees and a beautiful stone bench in memory of Steve.

We gathered in our church's Covenant Center (a fellowship hall/gym/all-purpose room) to visit and wait for everyone to arrive. Traffic was much worse than a usual weeknight in the Dallas area because of the never-ending rain from Tropical Storm Hermine. (Cooper prefers to call it Tropical Storm Hermione. Steve would approve.)

Pastor Andy welcomed everyone, and Pastor Wendy read aloud the verse that I chose for Steve's bench:

He has told you, O mortal, what is good;

and what does the Lord require of you

but to do justice, and to love kindness,

and to walk humbly with your God?

-- Micah 6:8

Pastor Debbie directed the combined choirs of Holy Covenant (our church) and Schreiber Memorial (Jim and Betty's church) through Steve's favorite anthem, "Creation Will Be at Peace." ("In the holy mountain of the Lord, all war and strife will cease ...")

The choir was accompanied by a string ensemble -- all teens who played an arrangement composed by our talented friend Grant, a high school junior. His arrangement was a surprise for our family and a very special gift.

Then our group filed out the north door and walked across a short parking lot to the space. We stood together in a gentle rain.

Cooper, Katie, Jim, Betty, Jim and I gathered around the bench. Everyone else circled us.

Andy spoke about the significance of oak trees in this space -- strong, tall, offering umbrella-like comfort. Just like our Steve.

He spoke about Steve's integrity and strong character and his legacy. He encouraged us to visit this space for prayer and meditation.

And he spoke of reclaiming the name "Spot."

The Damm Spot, of course, was our playful name for the tumor in Steve's brain stem, the despicable cells that took root and wrapped around healthy tissue and eventually claimed Steve's life on earth long before any of us were ready.

Now there's a new Spot -- the Steve Damm Spot at Holy Covenant United Methodist Church in Carrollton, Texas. A patch of green with three live oaks and a chinkapin oak and sturdy bench. An open, sacred space at which everyone is welcome to gather.

Andy invited everyone to move in closer, to hold hands or place hands on one another as he prayed for the space and for us.

We returned inside for Zita cookies, tea and lemonade and lots of conversation. The love and energy in that room was warm and life-affirming. And I was reminded yet again of the incredible community -- a Micah 6:8 community -- that cared for Steve and continues to care for us.

Service tonight, with or without rain

Tonight we will dedicate the Steve Damm Spot at church -- with or without rain.

If there's a gentle rain, we'll gather around the trees and bench, so bring your umbrellas and raincoats. If it's pouring, we'll meet inside church. After the brief service, we'll enjoy treats by Zita.

Either way, I'm looking forward to remembering and honoring Steve -- and seeing you there!

7 p.m. tonight

Holy Covenant United Methodist Church

1901 E. Peters Colony, Carrollton

Too many words

There are about a hundred different things I could write about tonight, which somehow puts me at a loss for words. I'll share just a few thoughts tonight and then try to get some sleep.

***

I'm thankful that we had the opportunity to go out of town this weekend. I'm thinking that I won't spend Labor Day weekend at home for a very long time. I don't want to be in the house remembering, "this is about the time I called hospice when Steve's throat was burning" or "this is about the time the nurse told me we were running out of time" or "this is the moment I had to tell Cooper and Katie that Steve was dying."

***

I've been trying to focus on the better memories from Steve's last full day on earth -- the welcome crowd of people who moved in and out of the house, who sat in our bedroom and surrounded Steve with love and laughter. They were there for Steve and also for our family.

When I have trouble sleeping in that very room (which really isn't that often), I think of those special people who gathered for Steve's final hours. I think of the many of you who would have been here if you could have, who sent e-mails and left Facebook messages, who prayed throughout the night, who had prayed with us for so long, who had visited in the previous months or sent notes, who later attended the beautiful memorial service.

I imagine all of you in one room, and it gives me great comfort. Tonight I will rely on that comfort and memories of Steve and God's peace.

***

While we were in Ann Arbor this weekend, we met a number of Michigan Marching Band alums. One of them is Greg, who was a videographer for the band in the late '80s.

He gave me this photo of Steve (center), Eric (in the fun ski sweater) and others. The date on the back is October 1988.

This photo also gives me comfort and makes me smile. (And reminds me of our dear Cooper, who says he now wants to go to the University of Michigan, just like Daddy.)

Good luck charms?

Michigan beat Connecticut 30-10 today.





Could it be because we sat on the block M a few hours before kickoff?

Probably not.

We had a fantastic day, though, with big thanks to the Redmond family for the tickets and introductions; the Healy family for hosting us in their home; the Dodd family for taking care of us during the day; and Nick, who was able to get us into the Big House the morning of the game and let us walk on the field of the newly renovated stadium.

More details to come soon.

Go Blue!

September

The physical pain of grief left my body a few months ago.

It is back. My heart often aches, truly aches, and my stomach feels unsettled, almost like butterflies.

I'm often taking involuntary sharp breaths as I think of Steve or see a photo or remember one of the many details that made Steve so Steve.

***

It was a year ago today that Steve learned that he would have to quit his job -- he was almost out of the intermittent leave that had allowed him to work a reduced schedule from home and still receive full-time pay and benefits. The news was necessary but devastating.

"But I don't want to quit," he told me over and over from his hospice bed. I used one hand to hold his hands and the other to wipe tears from his face.

He didn't want to quit so many things -- his career, his fight against the Damm Spot and all the subsequent challenges, his will to live and enjoy life with his family.

I believe that that was the day he started to let go. When his work was taken -- and it had to be taken -- he realized that his time in his body was nearing the end. The last bit of control that he had, his ability to work independently, was gone.

A resignation date was set for the following week. When he died the morning of Sept. 7, he was still technically employed.

***

I'm thankful for continued care, especially during these trying weeks, from so many people who love us and who loved Steve.

I'm also comforted by the peace in knowing that Steve and I together -- with the incredible support of hundreds of family members, friends, caregivers and strength-giving God -- did everything possible to extend his life. I have all kinds of doubts in my everyday life, but I have no doubt we did the best we could do.

***

I also find continued comfort and plenty of laughter from Cooper and Katie.

Recently:

Katie composed a song while we were shopping. Sample of the lyrics: "In the world of love anything can happen. In the world of love, everything is pretty."

More than once last week, the first week of school, Cooper said: "Today it feels good to be alive."

Katie, while walking around the house: "There's a lot of jolly and fun in this house."

Cooper, upon learning that Steve and I were in Paris two years before he was born: "Well, I was probably in the final draft of creation then."

When we heard the song "Bust a Move" this weekend, I said, "Daddy loved the song." Katie replied, "Well, then I like it already."

***

I do hope many of you North Texans will be able to join us Tuesday night for the dedication of Steve's space. Full details are here.

Road to Houston and back

Cooper, Katie and I are home from a quick weekend trip to Houston. The Webelos from Cooper's Scout pack spent Saturday night at NASA's Space Center.

We drove south after school Friday and returned this afternoon.

I must admit that I don't have the best attitude about Houston and the journey to and from. There are too many memories that get in the way.

When Steve and I were dating, he lived in Brenham and I lived in Carrollton. Most weekends he would drive up here to visit; a few times I would go to Brenham, and we'd sometimes visit Houston.

So when I think of our earliest years together, I remember my first-ever trip to Ikea and ice skating at the Galleria and the night Steve surprised me with a new car at a Saturn dealership when we were allegedly there just to look around.

Fast forward to 2008. We had chosen to seek advice from M.D. Anderson about what exactly had taken residence in Steve's brain stem.

We were thankful to have such a prestigious cancer center so close -- and Uncle Jim and dear friends who lived right there and were instantly available. But Houston lost its romantic allure.

On Jan. 16, we were at M.D. Anderson for an MRI and clinic visit. We expected to fly back to Dallas that night. Instead, we learned that Steve would require a risky biopsy the very next morning.

I left Steve in Jim's care and flew home by myself. A few hours later, Liz and I drove my Ford Escape south on Interstate 45. We drank coffee, ate chocolate and talked nonstop.

On Jan. 20, I drove Steve home with the help of Jayshree, who kept us company and kept us laughing despite preliminary biopsy results that identified the mass as a malignant, inoperable tumor.

Road trips to and from Houston will never be the same.

I miss my best friend, who long ago had agreed to always be my driver on road trips. I miss listening to him sing and tell stories about growing up in Spring. I miss reminiscing with him and planning our future together.

I'm not quitting Houston. I'm hopeful that with time those awful memories will fade (though not disappear) and those sweet early memories plus new ones will sharpen.

Dedication service

You are welcome to attend the dedication service for Steve's trees

(Children also welcome, of course)

7 p.m., Tuesday, Sept. 7, 2010

Holy Covenant United Methodist Church,

1901 E. Peters Colony, Carrollton

(the trees are on the north side of the campus)

Simple reception immediately following,

in the church's Covenant Center

Questions? E-mail tyradamm@gmail.com

Fourth-grader and kindergartener

Cooper, first day of fourth grade

Katie, first day of kindergarten (I don't know where she gets these poses.)

Cooper and Katie

Emotional week

It's been an unusually emotional week here. There have been lots of extra grief triggers piled on top of the regular everyday grief triggers.

1. We had our final visit with the hospice grief therapy team. Lisa started working with Cooper and Katie last summer, while Steve was under hospice care. Valerie joined just after Steve died. At first they visited every other week. Then we stretched it to once a month. We went the whole summer without a visit until this week, when we met them for ice cream and a "graduation" party. Katie was demonstrably upset saying goodbye. Cooper was quiet, working through the goodbye in his own way.

Katie did brighten a little at the end of the party. "Well, we might see them again, if someone else dies."

Valerie, Katie, Cooper and Lisa

2. Our dear friend Haley, who helped with Cooper and Katie all summer while I worked (and often helped me with household projects), left Saturday for Europe. She's a senior at Baylor and will spend this semester studying in France. I truly couldn't have made it through summer break without her help, patience and humor, and Katie and Cooper love her very much. Katie, again, had difficulty saying goodbye.

Cooper is already scoping out Christmas gifts for her late December return.

Cooper, Haley and Katie

3. Katie's fish, Beta, died Saturday. (I actually wrote about my Beta deathwatch in a column this week. I didn't jinx Beta, right?!)

We buried the little blue fish in the back yard. Katie tried to say a prayer aloud but couldn't for all of her crying. Cooper and I both said a few words about the fish. We thanked God for all of the earth's creatures and for those that brighten our lives, if only for a little while.

Katie now wants two goldfish.

4. School begins tomorrow. All three of us are ready, no doubt. But I'm never really ready to take these big steps -- like our baby going to kindergarten and our son going to fourth grade -- without Steve right here.

Uncle Jim has been up from Houston all weekend. He went to meet-the-teacher night with us and will join us for the walk to school in the morning.

Uncle Jim, Katie and Cooper

5. I'm working on continued details for the Steve memorial trees and bench at church. I am not burdened with the task -- I of course love anything related to Steve. But choosing the words for his bench makes my heart ache.

We will gather at 7 p.m. on Tuesday, Sept. 7, at Holy Covenant United Methodist Church to dedicate the trees. Anyone is welcome. I'll post more details soon.

6. I received a letter that Steve's cremated remains are ready. He chose to donate his body to UT-Southwestern for research, and I chose to receive remains when available.

I knew that eventually I would receive notice from UT-SW, but nothing really prepares you for receiving the actual letter in the mailbox, mixed in with bills and catalogs.

7. We are preparing to say goodbye to the Dubes, who have lived across the street from us since Cooper was 2. We've watched them grow from a family of two to a family of five -- two darling boys and beloved dog Scooby. They are returning to the East Coast to be closer to their families and leaving behind a community that's closely knit largely because of their open arms and inclusiveness.

8. The end of August means we're closer to Sept. 7.

What makes all of these triggers easier to handle? I am blessed to live with and care for two of the most expressive, life-embracing people I've ever known. We are surrounded by friends and family members who brighten our days -- just this week included fun with the cousins; play date with new friend Julie and her children; visits with Gabriel; gymnastics with Noe; lunch with Mary; afternoon and dinner with Jim and Betty; time with Jim; neighborhood barbecue; birthday parties for two neighbors; and more.

And one afternoon this week we found rainbow in the eastern sky -- a huge, glorious symbol of God's promise. And a beautiful reminder of Steve, who, according to Katie, helps create rainbows from a computer in heaven.

Cooper and Katie before church this morning

Things I miss

For almost a year I've been keeping for myself a running list of things I miss about Steve. I have a fear of forgetting the little details that made our lives so rich.

Tonight my list is long.

Cooper, Katie and I returned from a short getaway with the Woodburys to Beavers Bend State Park, just outside Broken Bow, Okla. The seven of us had a great weekend on the river, in the lake, in the cabin (actually a very nice home at the top of Horseshoe Mountain), in the minivan to and from.

Brooke, Katie, Cooper and Molli on the back deck of the cabin

Of course, I missed that there were seven and not eight.

I missed the special bond between Steve and my sister Melane. They made each other laugh with goofy faces, silly dances and knowing looks.

I missed hearing brother-in-law Greg calling Steve a doctor. (Steve worked with doctors and managed pediatric practices. Greg would often jokingly call on Steve for medical advice.)

I missed watching Steve interact with his nieces Brooke and Molli. He loved and protected them fiercely.

I missed him when he wasn't in the lake to toss Cooper and Katie into the air or carry them on his shoulders or pretend to be a shark.

I missed Steve imitating the sound of me brushing my teeth while I brushed my teeth.

I missed being part of the team that was Steve and Tyra.

I am thankful for the memories and the love that never dies and the opportunity to live when Steve can't.

But still, my list is long.

Easter 2006

August

I've never been a huge fan of August. For the first 36 years of my life, the heat and humidity of Texas were to blame. When I was young, I was restless for school to begin. When I was working in a newsroom, I was restless for the slow news days of the end of summer to pass.

Then came last August. By this time last year, we faced crises every day. We were running out of ways to make Steve comfortable. He was definitely cheered by visitors, by his family, by the books he continued to read and by the work problems he continued to solve, but his body was making life miserable for him.

And Steve, who rescued me many times over, was unable to be physically rescued. It was and is a terrifying, humbling feeling.

Now it's August 2010, almost a full year after Steve's body stopped working altogether.

I am proud of how our little family has weathered this grief storm. I know that Steve is proud of us, too. I truly find more joy than sorrow in everyday life. We laugh more than we cry, and we don't apologize for crying.

Still, August is oppressive. Now it's more than the heat. It's the memories of Steve's pain and what little could be done and the current sting of his absence and the reality that every day since Sept. 7, 2009, is another day without him.

Cooper, Katie and I talked about how much we miss Steve at dinner tonight. They don't have dates in their head like I do, so I reminded them of the upcoming "anniversary" (is that the best word to use?) and told them that I would probably be more sad than usual.

We do have plans to make Labor Day weekend a special time for just the three of us -- plans that Steve would definitely approve.

And before we ever reach September, we're spending a couple of days with the cousins; we'll finish reading The Secret Garden; Katie will begin kindergarten; Cooper will begin fourth grade; Cooper will have a Scout sleepover at Space Center Houston; we'll celebrate friends' birthdays; and more.

Life will continue, just as it has for the past 11 months. And maybe next August won't sting quite so much.

Steve's trees

Katie and Cooper before the planting on Thursday (and just after Cooper's mouth was fitted with top and bottom expanders)

Four new trees fill a triangular green space that I've never really noticed before, though I've parked near it almost every Sunday and many other weekdays over the past decade.

The space before the trees

You can't miss that section of our church's lawn now.

The trees were planted Thursday in memory of Steve. Cooper, Katie and I helped to plant one of them -- a beautiful chinkapin oak.

Well, "helped" is used loosely. After the professionals dug the hole and rolled the tree into place, we used shovels and our hands to return some of the soil to the hole. We watered the roots a little.

Cooper replaces soil -- or, more accurately, clay. If you've ever lived in North Texas, you understand.

Katie waters the freshly planted chinkapin oak.

We let the landscapers completely take care of the three live oaks. (I realized how little we were actually contributing to the project. Plus, both Katie and I get a little cranky in August's extreme heat and humidity.)

The children and I have agreed that though all the trees are in memory of Steve, the chinkapin is officially "Steve's tree." We parked right in front of it this morning, and Cooper and Katie gently hugged the trunk.

In the next few weeks, we'll also place a stone bench on the lawn, and Pastor Andy will officially dedicate the space. (I'll post details here; everyone is welcome to join us.)

The trees in that space are appropriate for many reasons. Steve loved our church. He loved trees. He believed in planting Texas natives in Texas. He was a burgeoning conservationist.

It will be even more comforting when the bench is in place and we can have an official spot to remember Steve.

(Special thanks to Susan, Andy and Mike for logistics and planning.)

Steve's four trees

Cooper and Katie this morning

Camp Erin

Cooper spent last weekend at Texoma Youth Camp as part of Camp Erin, a bereavement camp offered for children ages 6-18 who have experienced a death of a loved one.

The camp was run by ChristianWorks for Children and paid for by the Moyer Foundation, which has committed to funding Camp Erin in North Texas for the next decade. Cooper was part of the inaugural group.

The weekend was a mix of traditional camp activities -- fishing, boating, arts and crafts, games, campfire -- and grief work.

On the first night, each child was invited to the front of the group to share a photo of their loved one. Each photo was taped to a giant board so that the final result was a collage of photos of moms, dads, grandparents, aunts, uncles and siblings who had died.

Cooper told me that when he placed his photo of Steve he told the group of campers and volunteers, "This is my Daddy, Steve Damm. He had a brain tumor."

The photo Cooper placed on the collage (from 2005)

Each child decorated a memory box. Cooper created a colorful, cheerful box. He chose a giant S sticker for the top and also created a shield out of fabric and buttons. He cut out letters to spell "Steve D." He can fill the box with photos and other items that remind him of Daddy. The box already includes three buttons -- two that look like buttons from Steve's cardigans and another with an image that reminds Cooper of The Secret Garden -- and phrases chosen by Cooper.

Inside of Cooper's memory box

Top of Cooper's memory box

On Saturday night, long after the sun had set, the volunteers lined a pathway from the dining hall to the shore of the lake. Each volunteer held a candle or flashlight. Each child carried to the beach a lit candle in a sand-filled bag -- the candle to represent the loved one.

One by one, each child placed the light on the water. The volunteers extinguished their lights so that all the group could see were candles drifting away on the lake's surface.

I wasn't there, but I can close my eyes and picture about 80 candles drifting away until they can't be seen at all, until there is only darkness. What's harder to imagine is the pain that those children have suffered.

When Katie and I arrived Sunday, the staff filled us in on the weekend's events and suggested ways to help the kids process their work. Then each child walked in with a poster. On one side was the emotion he or she had felt when arriving. On the other was the emotion he or she felt upon leaving.

We all received notecards and pens for writing notes to our loved ones. We tied the notes to balloons, and at once we released them into the air -- not unlike our birthday celebration for Steve.

I thanked Cooper's cabin buddies -- two adult volunteers -- for their help and care. They said that Cooper cheerfully cooperated in every activity and that he eagerly helped other campers. They told me Cooper was a special boy, someone to be proud of.

I relayed those messages to Cooper on our walk to the minivan. I told him how proud I was that he was willing to go to camp. I told him he was awfully brave to share so much of his emotions and memories. And I told him that Daddy was proud of him, too.

Cooper and Steve, Green Bay, Wis., summer 2007

Not what we thought

Today's Briefing column is here and here:

Some tales aren't what we thought they'd be

Summer nights are perfect for reading classics out loud.

I recently chose The Secret Garden as our ongoing bedtime story. It had been sitting on Katie's shelf for four years, always passed over for picture books or other chapter books.

Cooper, Katie and I settled in on the sofa, and I started reading Frances Hodgson Burnett's words for the first time. And Katie began to cry.

Little Mary Lennox becomes an orphan early in the story; both of her negligent parents fall victim to cholera, and sour Mary is left all alone.

As Katie cried and pleaded with me to stop reading ("This isn't what I thought it would be!"), I felt inadequate on two fronts.

One: How could I not have read this century-old classic before? What other important works of literature am I missing?

Two: What kind of mother am I to not screen the basic plot before reading to my two children, who lost their father to cancer less than a year ago?

I assumed that there must be a redeeming moment for orphaned Mary, so we kept reading, this time with my right arm wrapped tightly around a sniffling Katie.

We're more than halfway through the novel now, and Mary's life is turning around. Katie hasn't cried since that first night.

Summer nights are also perfect for watching a movie under the stars.

Last Friday night, Cooper, Katie and I joined other Frisco folks on the lawn in front of City Hall to watch The NeverEnding Story.

We claimed our patch of grass with a blanket and settled in for the 1984 film. And Katie began to cry.

First we learn that young Bastian's mom has recently died. His dad scolds him for not doing better in school. Then Bastian is pulled into a fantastical story in which the horse Artax drowns in the Swamps of Sadness.

"This isn't what I thought it would be!" Katie cried again. I snuggled her tight, smoothed her hair and apologized. My feelings of inadequacy returned.

One: How could I not remember the basic premise of a movie I watched dozens of times (albeit not once in the past two decades)?

Two: What kind of mother am I to not do some cursory research before subjecting my children to fictional sadness not too far removed from their own?

I texted my sister to report the fiasco, and she wrote back that the movie gets better. So we stayed, and Katie was eventually won over by the flying luck dragon and the hopeful ending.

Summer Saturdays are perfect for a newly released G-rated movie.

Last Saturday, the three of us settled into comfy theater chairs to watch one of my favorite childhood series come to life on the big screen.

Ramona and Beezus would no doubt be a safe choice. I knew that both parents stayed healthy and alive. I never cried once while reading Beverly Cleary's books about the Quimby family.

Yet I cried during the movie (and held Katie's hand to make me feel better). Why? Because both parents stayed healthy and alive.

Dad comes home from work to enjoy dinner with his family. After he loses his job, he spends time coloring and playing with Ramona. When Aunt Bea gets married, he dances with his daughters.

Katie cries when fictional characters experience the pain she's felt. I cry when fictional characters experience the life I wish we still had.

I'm slowly realizing that I can't shelter my children from literature and news stories and movies in which parents die. (For one, we'd have to eliminate almost every single Disney film.) I'm also realizing that I can't shelter myself from unknown grief triggers.

And I'm reminded every day that the three of us are fortunate to have one another and to be able to grieve together – and hold each other when we're heavy-hearted.

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