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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. |
| There's a shift happening that I almost didn't notice. The learning curves are changing. Then: Climbing Mountains In the early days after brain surgery, every new piece of information felt like scaling a cliff face. Steep, exhausting, requiring every bit of concentration I could muster. I'd learn something in the morning and by afternoon it would be gone—not just fuzzy, but completely erased, like I'd never encountered it at all. The curve was brutally steep. I'd climb and climb, making progress inch by inch, only to wake up the next day back at the bottom. Every day was starting over. Every conversation was reintroduction. Every task required relearning from scratch. My daily notes weren't just helpful—they were essential survival tools. Without them, I had no bridge between yesterday and today. Break the habit of reading them, and I'd lose not just the details but entire days. Now: Rolling Hills Something's different lately. The curves are still there—I still have to learn and relearn—but they're not as steep anymore. They're leveling out into something more manageable, more forgiving. I'm remembering more. Not perfectly, not like before the surgery, but more than last year. More than six months ago. The information is starting to stick, at least some of it, at least sometimes. I still forget things. I still rely on my daily notes, my systems, my external memory. But now when I relearn something, there's often a flicker of recognition. A sense of "I've seen this before" even if I can't quite place when or where. The struggle is less. The exhaustion isn't as overwhelming. The learning curves are leveling out. The Difference Before, learning felt like pushing a boulder uphill—constant effort with constant backsliding. Now, it feels more like walking a path I've walked before. Still work, still attention required, but familiar work. The terrain is gentler. I don't know if this is permanent improvement or just a good stretch. Brain recovery isn't linear, and I've learned not to make predictions. But right now, in this moment, I can see the difference between then and now. The curves are leveling out. The memory is holding on a little longer. The struggle is easing, bit by bit. That's not nothing. That's progress. And after five years of climbing steep mountains every single day, I'll take rolling hills any time. |
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Sending prayers for continued improvement and recovery 
