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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. |
| I have struggled to complete my novel. Today, I broke down and tested AI-assisted writing. It accomplished two things. One, my vision of a complete story is now realized. Two, I feel even more fake as a writer than before. The other thing I proved is that anyone can prompt AI to write junk. This is even more disheartening because the story I generated reads much like the books I read. So, now I question how much AI is being used. |
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Sending prayers for continued improvement and recovery 
