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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. |
A few days ago, a tree limb caught my left arm and left me with a 14-inch cut. My first thought? "It's just another scar." I was surprised by that reaction until I understood why it came so naturally. My body already carries a bigger story—a horseshoe-shaped scar around my ear from brain surgery. That mark represents the scariest chapter I've lived through so far. I've learned that scars aren't marks of damage. They're proof of healing. Each one is evidence that I survived something that tried to stop me. My brain surgery scar taught me I'm stronger than I thought. This new arm scar is teaching me that strength can become familiar. What once felt impossible now feels manageable. What once felt terrifying now feels like Tuesday. I've discovered that resilience isn't something you're born with. It's something you build, one experience at a time. Each challenge I survive adds to my capacity for the next one—not because I become numb, but because I develop trust in my ability to heal and adapt. The words "just another" might sound dismissive, but I've found they're actually profound. They represent hard-won wisdom. I'm not minimizing this injury—I'm placing it in context. I have the tools for this. I've done harder things. My arm is healing nicely. In a few weeks, it'll join my collection. Two marks, two stories, countless reminders that I'm tougher than I look. And if another scar finds its way to me someday? "It's just another scar." What scars tell your story of resilience? How has surviving one challenge changed how you face the next ones? |
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