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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. |
| It’s 5:45 A.M., and my internal compass has decided to spin like it’s auditioning for a weather vane in a hurricane. North? South? Who cares—it’s too early to be anywhere but horizontal. Yet here I am, eyes open, brain humming like an old fridge that refuses to quit. This is the hour when the world hasn’t quite committed to existing. The sky’s dark gray, the birds haven’t started their shift yet, and I’m trying to remember why I thought decaf was a good idea last night. My pillow whispers seductively, “You could still go back to sleep,” but my brain replies, “Or we could replay every embarrassing thing you’ve ever said since 2019.” There’s something crookedly peaceful about it, though. I imagine the compass in my head twitching a few degrees off center, pointing not toward True North but toward Something Else. Maybe that’s where the writing comes from—this odd place between insomnia and inspiration. The needle wobbles, and suddenly I’m thinking about unfinished stories, unspoken words, and whether chocolate toast counts as breakfast. By six o’clock, I’ll probably have convinced myself that being awake this early is part of my “creative process.” By seven, I’ll deny ever saying that and beg the coffee maker for mercy. But for now, I’m just lost in the quiet, a little off-course, a little amused, following a compass that never quite points where it should—and maybe that’s the whole point. |
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Sending prayers for continued improvement and recovery 
