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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 told myself I’d be calm about this part. That I’d send Seven Degrees Left of Center off to my beta readers, close my laptop, and simply… wait. I lasted about three days. There’s something oddly vulnerable about knowing people are reading your work in real time — not in theory, not “someday when it’s published,” but right now, while you’re pacing the kitchen, overanalyzing every comma you didn’t change. It’s like handing someone your diary and then pretending you don’t care if they notice the smudged pages. The funny part is, I trust my beta readers. Completely. I asked them because they see what I can’t. But waiting for feedback still feels like standing seven degrees off-center — close enough to balance, but just tilted enough to make me aware of every little wobble. So I do what writers do when they’re waiting: reorganize my files, convince myself the coffee maker sounds like an incoming email notification, and reread my own sentences until I’m sure I’ve broken them. But somewhere in all that waiting, something shifts. I start realizing that this is part of the process — not a pause, but a space. A quiet moment where the story breathes without me. It’s humbling, really. Because feedback isn’t just about fixing flaws; it’s about learning to let go, to trust that what you’ve built can stand on its own while others walk through it. Maybe that’s what this whole book has been about from the start — learning to navigate slightly off-center, to find direction even when the compass spins a little wild. So, I wait. Coffee in hand. Inbox open. Still learning the art of patience, one refresh at a time. |
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Sending prayers for continued improvement and recovery 
