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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 was up early again this morning. Not because I had a plan. Just because I woke up and stayed there. Before the worries of the day take hold, there’s a small window where nothing is asking for attention yet. No noise. No urgency. Just quiet and a little room to stretch out mentally. Early mornings don’t promise answers. They just make space. After the brain tumor and the long recovery, thinking doesn’t happen on autopilot anymore. I have to ease into it. These mornings give me time to relax before the day clamps down, to let my thoughts wander around and see what still works. It’s not meditation, exactly. More like sitting still with a keyboard and waiting for the system to boot. And this morning, I can feel it. The gears are turning. Thoughts are lining up. Ideas are bumping into each other in useful ways. Nothing profound yet, but the engine’s running smooth. This feels like a good brain day. I like good brain days. I’ll take one whenever they show up. |
| This morning, somewhere between the first cup of coffee and the second, I realized I’m thinking ahead. The seven-year anniversary of my brain tumor is in September. I still have time before the calendar forces me to acknowledge it. But the thought showed up anyway. Seven years. At some point, I stopped calling it recent. I also stop calling it temporary. The changes don’t feel like an interruption anymore. They feel… installed. I used to think of it as being off course. A few degrees left of center. A drift I’d eventually correct if I just gave it enough time. Lately, I know that’s not true. The course didn’t bend and then straighten out. It changed. Permanently. And after seven years, it doesn’t feel off course at all. It feels like the course. That sounds heavier than it is. Time has a way of sanding things down. Not erasing them, just rounding the sharp edges so you stop catching yourself on them every time you move. Words still slip away. Threads still drop. I still reread things I wrote and think, where did that come from. But I also know how to move here now. I know where the blind spots are. I know which mornings need more coffee and fewer expectations. I know that showing up counts, even when the path doesn’t look like the one I started on. Seven years didn’t give me the old map back. It gave me a new one. |
| I’ve been thinking about permission lately. Not the official kind. The quieter version you give yourself when no one is watching. I don’t match the picture I had of a writer. I failed English 101 and 102 multiple times before I finally got my degrees. I can’t spell for sh*t. My typing is… tolerable on a good day. None of that looks impressive on paper. And yet, here I am. Writing anyway. There’s a myth that writers earn the title through struggle. Through pain, credentials, or some shared suffering that proves you belong. If the work doesn’t hurt enough, you must be doing it wrong. If it comes too easily, you must be cheating. I don’t feel that kind of struggle. The work feels quieter than that. It feels like thinking things through. Like returning to the same ideas and seeing them a little differently each time. Like sitting down early, before the day has opinions, and following a sentence to see where it goes. Sometimes I wonder if that ease disqualifies me. But then I notice what I actually do. I show up. I revise. I question my choices. I finish things. I come back the next day. Not because I have to, but because this is how my mind works now. Maybe being a writer isn’t about how clean the sentences are, or how fast the fingers move, or how many classes you passed the first time around. Maybe it’s just about the habit of paying attention, and the willingness to try again. I’m not making a declaration here. I’m not claiming mastery or authority. I’m just giving myself permission to keep going without apologizing for how it looks. |
| 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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