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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’s early. Too early. I’m sitting here with coffee, unable to sleep, and I’m feeling something I didn’t expect four years into this new life: lonely. In the Air Force, we had a saying: embrace the suck. Whatever difficult thing you were going through, you acknowledged it was going to be hard and you did it anyway. Basic training. A rough deployment. A terrible assignment. The key was knowing it would end. Six weeks. Twelve months. Two years. There was always a finish line. I’ve been trying to embrace the suck since my brain surgery in 2019. But I’m realizing something this morning. This suck doesn’t end. The brain tumor changed everything permanently. There’s no finish line where I wake up and get my old life back. I used to be a Transportation Coordinator at a Walmart distribution center, managing logistics for stores across three states. Every day brought problems to solve, people who needed me, visible results. Trucks rolled. Deliveries happened. People called to thank me or ask for help. That instant gratification was like a drug. Constant hits of challenge, solution, reward. Now I’m a writer. The work is different. I write for weeks, maybe months, before anyone sees what I’ve made. Maybe they read it. Maybe they respond. Maybe it connects. The reward schedule went from instant to something much longer. I’m still adjusting to that slower burn. This morning feels like detox. The struggle is real. But here’s the part I need to remind myself of. I’m writing. Even on mornings like this, when the loneliness hits hard and the quiet stretches too long, I’m still showing up. I finished a memoir. I have a novel in progress. Writing this post helped. It turned a difficult moment into something usable. Something sharable. Some mornings are just harder than others. This is one of them. But the day isn’t lost. The suck may not end, but I’m learning that it can still be worked with. And for now, that’s enough. I’ll move through it the only way I know how. By writing. |
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Best wishes for 2026, and do please keep us in your loopy loop 
