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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. |
| There are two thoughts keeping me company this morning. One is small. It’s the earliness of the day. I’m awake before the town, before the noise, before anyone needs anything from me. The coffee is good, maybe because it’s early, maybe because nothing has started asking questions yet. There’s a quiet peace in being up at this hour, and I’ll admit to a slightly smug appreciation of it. The other thought is not small at all. My niece is in the hospital with a serious brain injury. I don’t know what her journey is going to look like from here. There are too many unknowns right now. I do know what it’s like when the brain becomes unfamiliar territory. When life suddenly tilts and you’re not sure how far from center things are going to shift. My injury wasn’t as severe as what she’s facing. I’m not comparing. But there’s a kinship that comes from having walked part of that road. From knowing how much patience, grace, and strength it takes to relearn yourself when the map changes. This morning, I don’t have answers. I just have coffee, quiet, and a lot of hope aimed in her direction. I don’t have a large audience here. But if you’re reading this, I’m asking for prayers for my niece. For healing. For clarity for the doctors. For strength for her and for everyone who loves her. Every prayer counts. Truly. This is one of those moments that pulls life a little left of center. And all we can do is show up, breathe, and trust that support—seen and unseen—matters. Thank you for being part of that support today. |
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