Seize the moment.
That is what many of us are trying to do.
As I am trying, I hear many questions still running through this damaged mind. What is it like saying goodbye to a person who is still alive? What is it like never being able to say goodbye to that person, never being able to grasp or grieve their loss?
You knew him or her—or yourself—well. Now you are learning about and accepting the new self or spouse or parent or child or friend or coworker. Now you are trying to learn them. Now you are trying to accept them. You are trying to know them—why they do what they do, how they feel, what you should do, how you feel. You are trying to learn and accept and know you.
Should you help them complete the sentence or remember the name? Should you, as the patient, let those around you locate that word hiding in an unnoticed location in the damaged brain?
Or maybe this is the only you—epilepsy has always been a part of your life.
This isn’t a collection of easy answers. It offers ideas but is mainly a confession of the adventure many of us endure.
Each word we work to remember.
This is my effort to adjust to the new me.
This is our effort to adjust to the new us.