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★★★★★ (1)
Rated: 13+ · Book · Personal · #2276168

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.

March 3, 2026 at 8:14am
March 3, 2026 at 8:14am
#1109693
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.
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