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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
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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. |
| Some days my brain feels like a computer with too many tabs open. Half are frozen, a few are playing mysterious audio, and one politely asks if I’m still there. Spoiler: I’m not. It always starts small. One story idea sparks another, and soon I’m juggling a memoir, a couple of sci-fi worlds, and a blog post about how I can’t focus on any of them. My mind tries to organize it all but loses the list somewhere behind a cold coffee mug and a half-remembered sentence that was going to be brilliant. Each unfinished project sits there like a neglected pet, watching with sad eyes. I promise I’ll come back soon. Of course, I rarely do. Yet too many projects also mean too many sparks, proof that the creative pulse is still alive even if it beats out of rhythm. Maybe the goal isn’t to finish everything. Maybe it’s to keep the compass needle moving, even when it spins the wrong way. |
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Sending prayers for continued improvement and recovery 
