%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
|
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. |
| This morning I sat down with my coffee and told myself it was time to get back to work. I even used a very official sounding word for it. Agenda. That sounded responsible. Organized. Like a man who clearly knows what he is doing with his morning. The truth is, the last three days did not follow any kind of agenda at all. My wife decided it was time for us to get out of the house. When your wife has an idea like that, the correct response is not to reach for a calendar or a productivity chart. The correct response is to grab your keys. So we went. The writing desk stayed right where it was. The keyboard didn’t complain. The stories didn’t evaporate. They just waited patiently like they always do. Now I’m back in my chair with my coffee, trying to remember what exactly I thought I was going to accomplish today. That’s when the word agenda popped into my head again. Writers like to pretend we have those. Sometimes we do. Sometimes the real work is just sitting down, warming up the brain, and figuring out what today’s writing day is supposed to look like. In other words, sometimes the agenda is no agenda at all. Apparently the first item on today’s agenda was figuring out what the agenda is. |
| There’s something honest about a slow-start morning. The brain doesn’t spring up shouting, “Seize the day!” It rolls over, squints at the clock, and wants five more minutes and a carburetor adjustment. I picture an old truck on a cold morning. You turn the key. It coughs. Pauses. Decides if you’re serious. Then rumbles to life, reluctantly. No warning lights. No smoke. Just a polite mechanical grumble that says, “We’ll get there. Relax.” Outside, the sky is blue and pink at once, undecided on its mood. The sun stretches over the horizon, unrushed. No problem. No announcement. Just light arriving. Slow isn’t broken; it’s just warming up. I don’t need fireworks before sunrise, only a steady idle and a good cup of coffee for quality control. Not yet a good brain day. Promising, though—the engine’s catching, vibrations evening out. The road is ready, and so am I. |
| At 6:38 this morning, I realized I had actually slept. That felt like an accomplishment after last night. My brain had been chewing on growth and what I’m supposed to be doing at sixty now that the ladder I climbed for decades isn’t leaning against anything anymore. While I was thinking, I kept glancing at the guitar in the corner. My wife gave it to me last Christmas. I’ve played it once. It sits there every morning while I drink coffee and type. I try not to look at it too long. It feels like it’s waiting for me to either strum it or admit I’m intimidated by wood and strings. There was a time when I understood growth. I wore the uniform. If I were moving forward, I could see it. More rank. More responsibility. More weight on my shoulders. Growth meant pressure, and I was good at pressure. Then life hit reset. The brain tumor shut down the old dashboard. Retirement followed. Not planned. Not scheduled. Just done. And ever since, I’ve been trying to grade myself with measurements that no longer fit. How much did I accomplish? What am I building? What mountain am I climbing? When the answers feel smaller than they used to, I tell myself I’m getting dull. Safe, but dull. Like I’ve gone from mission to maintenance. But this morning it finally occurred to me: I might not be dull. I might just be running a different operating system. The old one was built for acceleration. Push harder. Do more. Carry more. This one feels different. It notices when I’m tired. It asks whether something fits before I commit to it. It values clarity over noise. The biggest change might be self-awareness. I pay attention now in ways I didn’t before. That doesn’t look impressive from the outside. There’s no medal for alignment. But maybe growth at sixty isn’t about doing more. Maybe it’s about measuring differently. The old scoreboard isn’t hanging on the wall anymore. So I guess it’s time to change the scoreboard. |
un: 
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Community Feed
Puzzle Hub
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
is the most fundamental aspect of existence.
