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’m a bit of a pantser when it comes to writing. Yesterday, in full pantser mode, I got completely lost in the story, not in a good way. One would think I should know better. But, remembering to remember is something I am still working on. Regardless, I think the basic storyline is still good. I need to practice some plotter skills to bring it back under control.				 |