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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. |
| It strikes without warning. Yesterday, my faithful coffee pot burbled with promise. Today, it has other plans—it does nothing, nothing but betrayal. In the back of the pantry it sits: a jar of instant coffee. No expiration date in sight. But the dust tells a story. A sad story. I unscrew the lid and stare at the freeze-dried crystals. They look less like coffee and more like aquarium gravel. Still, desperate times demand desperate measures. The Denial I try to convince myself it can’t be that bad. People drink this stuff on camping trips, in hotel rooms, even in office breakrooms where dreams go to die. Surely, I can survive one cup. Then Bargaining I reach for the spice rack. Cinnamon? Nutmeg? Cocoa powder? If I add enough extras, maybe I won’t notice the taste. Maybe it’ll pass as Starbucks. Just another pipe dream. Finally Acceptance The first sip hits like a plot twist I should’ve seen coming. Thin. Bitter. A flavor that whispers, “I was almost coffee once.” I swallow anyway, survival. A bad cup of coffee still beats no coffee at all. And instant coffee, for all its faults, is loyal. It may be dusty. It may be sad. But it showed up when the coffee pot failed. Freeze-dried disappointment? Absolutely. But also resilience in a jar. And on mornings when betrayal is an empty pot, I’ll take what I can get. Because sometimes, survival tastes like instant coffee. |
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Sending prayers for continued improvement and recovery 
