Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
In September 2019, a seizure revealed a lime-sized meningioma pressed against my hippocampus—the part of the brain that governs memory and language. The doctors said it was benign, but benign didn’t mean harmless. Surgery removed the tumor, and three days later I opened my eyes to a new reality. I could walk, I could talk, but when I looked at my wife, her name was gone. I called her Precious—the only word I could find. A failure of memory, yet perhaps the truest name of all. Recovery has been less cure than re-calibration. Memory gaps are frequent. Conversations vanish. I had to relearn how to write, letter by halting letter. My days are scaffold by alarms, notes, and calendars. When people ask how I am, I don’t list symptoms or struggles. I simply say, “Seven Degrees Left of Center.” It’s not an answer—it’s who I’ve become. Note ▼ |
My mechanical keyboard clicks on. The sound isn’t steady, not like a metronome. My hands shake, my timing wavers, but the clicks still come. And each one is proof of progress. The rhythm is imperfect, but that makes it more honest. Every sound is a marker that thought has made it onto the page despite hesitation, despite difficulty. Each click carries weight: not just letters forming words, but effort overcoming resistance. Writing has never been about silence for me. The sound matters. It reminds me that words are real, physical things — crafted through touch, not just floating on a screen. For some, the clatter of keys is nostalgic. For me, it is proof. The keyboard clicks on, uneven but unstoppable. So do I. |