

| 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. | 
| I have spoken about this before: Time Travel. I experience this phenomenon occasionally, though not as often as I did a few years ago. What happens is a group of memories are reconnected all at once. This is more common when I meet someone I haven't seen in several years, especially if I haven't seen them since the brain tumor. The experience is surreal. It isn't like a movie, but it kind of is. I experience the memories in real time as if they were happening again. The brain is a complex recorder. I have come to believe every minute of every day is recorded. We haven't evolved or learned how to tap the vast storage of memories. So, I get to go back in time and relive events. Now that I have gotten used to the phenomenon, it is kind of cool. |