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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. |
| Thanks to this, I never knew my family was poor. We never had donuts or sweet cereals. Breakfast was often baskets and gravy with scrambled eggs. Mom made the briskets by hand and the gravy with flour and butter. We got the eggs from chickens caged behind the house. Every morning, I would get the eggs—usually three to six, depending on the chicken's mood. Mom made chocolate toast on Saturdays. It's like the commonly known cinnamon toast, but it's better. My friends often showed up on Saturday morning to get a slice of toast. When friends wanted Mom's chocolate toast, I thought we were rich. Why else would my friends come over if we didn't have something special? When I was 12 years old, I started learning in school about money, finances, and the economy. That is when I figured out how poor we were. Using a little cocoa and sugar, my Mom made the most delicious treat to make all the kids think we were rich. If you have never had chocolate toast, you need to try it. If you have kids, you need to make it for them. I am sure they will feel special. 1 part cocoa powder 2 or 3 parts sugar to taste Spread butter on your favorite slices of bread. Anything will do, from leftover hot dog buns to brioche. Sprinkle as much cocoa sugar mix as you like. Then, toast until the bread is golden brown and the sugar melts. Trust me, it is a treat. |
| First, it is vital to see if my fingers can remember where all the keys are. Then, just let the thoughts flow and see where they go. But will the sentences make any sense? What about the grammar? I am sure that will be difficult. They say not to worry about that and write. But what? Even in free mode, the words are difficult. The sentences are choppy. I wonder what the autocorrect software is thinking. Even in this short time, my fingers are starting to ache. I am trying to get the process going. Free writing … is it free? There is so much energy being used right now. The brain injury starts warming up. I can feel the heat to the left of the center. Then, the trimmer in my right hand is no help in hitting the correct keystrokes. These are the reasons I have all but quit writing. The mechanics of using the keyboard are painful. I have pain in my fingers and a burning feeling in my head. I can tell precisely where the scar is inside my breast. Does it matter what I type? Do the words have to make sense as long as they are true? These are daily questions for me—for my words, for my sanity. I have yet to set a word count goal, but these few words are a place to start. |
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Sending prayers for continued improvement and recovery 
