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. |
| Nothing changes until you change your mind. This morning, I am giving it a try. Before watching the news, I sat down to write. I have always considered myself a writer, but I have to admit I haven't practiced lately. My brain is still healing. Even in these few words, the heat is building—a rather odd feeling... I have an MRI coming up—the five-year check—the last of the annual MRIs if all goes well. Five years have passed so quickly that I can't remember the time going by. The surgery feels like it was a couple of weeks ago. I have a hard time believing five years have passed, mostly because time doesn't exist in my brain as it should. Time is a salad of memories. They do not exist linearly. Instead, they are like a bowl of spaghetti. What seems like yesterday could have been last year and visa versa. My precious wife has gotten used to the chaos I can cause. The blessing is she is still with me. You know that in fitness and health. That is today. Change the start of the day. Change the day. |