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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. |
| It’s 5 a.m. and I’m already winning. The house is quiet. The town is quiet. Even the internet feels quieter. The only thing working this hard this early is my coffeemaker, and we’re a team. There’s something mischievous about being awake before the sun. Like I’ve snuck into the day. No emails. No expectations. No one asking me where anything is. The words behave better at this hour. They line up. They don’t argue. They don’t demand snacks. By the time the rest of the world rolls out of bed, I’ve already built something. A page. A thought. Then I can face the day like a responsible adult. But at 5 a.m.? I’m a little feral. A little brilliant. And very well caffeinated. |
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