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 is six in the morning. The coffee is fresh. That alone feels like a small victory. I am halfway through "Sable's Run" There is a strange accomplishment in this moment. Not the kind you post about with fireworks or checklists. It is the quiet kind. The kind that sits with you while the house is still asleep and the only sound is the page turning and the coffee cooling beside you. The second half is where stories either hold together or start asking uncomfortable questions. Why am I here. Did I set this up well enough. Am I brave enough to let it end the way it wants to end. This morning, I am not fixing anything. I am not revising myself out of the story. I am just reading. Letting Sable run. Letting the work speak back to me. Maybe that is the accomplishment. Showing up early. Pouring the coffee. And realizing the story carried me this far. |