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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. |
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I always wanted to be a writer. That is no secret if you’ve been following this blog. That sounded simple enough. Writers write stories. They get up early or stay up late. They stare out the window or at a blinking cursor. They drink coffee and pretend that counts as work until the words show up. That part I understood. What I didn’t think about was being an author. I didn’t even use that word for myself until I had something published. Before that, “author” felt too official. Too big. It sounded like someone who knew what they were doing. I most certainly do not. Then a story went out under my name. And suddenly it wasn’t just about writing anymore. There were edits. Decisions. Emails. Fixing small things that shouldn’t have been wrong in the first place. Waiting on feedback and pretending I wasn’t checking for it. Thinking about what comes next. Writing feels like sitting at the workbench building something. I like building stuff. Being an author feels like someone knocked on the door and asked when it will be finished. No one warned me about that shift. I thought if I could just prove to myself that I could tell a story, that would be enough. After failing English Composition more times than I care to admit, just finishing something felt like winning. But finishing isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of responsibility. That surprised me. I love the writing. The quiet. The early hours before the day starts. That part still feels like mine. The author part feels heavier. Not bad. Just heavier. Maybe this is what growing into it looks like. You don’t stop loving the fun part. You just realize there’s more attached to it than you expected. The coffee just finished brewing. So I’ll pour a cup, sit down, and write. The rest can catch up to me. |
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