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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. |
| This morning started with a cold chocolate chip cookie and a philosophical question from a news story I heard yesterday: Are young people falling in love with AI? That feels like a very modern breakfast and an even more modern first thought. It made me ask something simpler. What is AI to me? It’s no secret I lean on it to assist with my writing. It’s not a replacement for real people. AI is more like a whiteboard that talks back. I throw an idea at it before the sun comes up, and it tosses something back. Sometimes useful. Sometimes weird. Sometimes suspiciously polite. But always enough to make me think. That’s the key. It doesn’t do my thinking for me. It gives my thinking something to push against. After the brain tumor, I became more aware of how my mind works. Some mornings are crisp. Most take a minute to load. Sometimes yesterday’s memories feel like they’re still buffering. On the good days, I can feel the gears click into place. Conversation helps. Interaction helps. AI just happens to be available at six in the morning. It doesn’t replace the work. I decide what’s worth keeping. I rewrite. That part matters. I delete anything that sounds like a motivational poster. The voice is mine. The stubbornness is definitely mine. Authorship isn’t about who typed first. It’s about who chooses. For me, AI is a tool. A drafting table. A sparring partner that never gets tired when my brain stalls. It helps me warm up. It fixes my typos. Sometimes it suggests a better word. And if that warm-up happens with coffee and a cold cookie? Call it cheating if you want. It’s still my story. |
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