I’m taking a workshop class on Saturday mornings from 10:00 – 1:00, the time I used to begin grading essays with a sigh. The class is about writing memoirs, and we have met twice so far with only two more classes to come. 10 – 12 pages is our final goal. Yes, I’ll have it written, or will I?  Others are writing with ease. One man has even written a full memoir, compiled in a bound book. I still scramble to put my own personal thoughts into logical sentences, now aware of the lasting effects of my aneurysm from one year, one week, and three days ago.

No, I don’t always count the days, but this recent 1-year anniversary shook me within myself though I barely told anyone of it beyond my closest family members. I’m more protective of it — more protective of myself — as I now navigate my life. These past months were filled with more pain than I wanted to admit. Headaches in new parts of my, soreness throughout my body after simple walking, a seemingly never-ending hazy fatigue that struck suddenly then persisted throughout the day: all of these were my physical realities. More shocking to me, though, were the psychological pains: feeling like I was two seconds behind everyone else, trying desperately to keep up with simple conversations, experiencing isolation so trying to reach out, realizing some others simply didn’t care about my aneurysm much less its aftereffects.

The worst days are those when anxiety strikes. Gripping fear overcomes me, and my body tenses like it has just been hit. Racing heart, averted eyes, dry mouth, racing ideas: all these suddenly converge as I make it from one normal moment to another.  Nothing is normal at this time, at least it is not my old view of normal. Perhaps the most dreadful new realization is that I no longer have my old sense of normal. What can I expect? What will my day bring? Who will I be that day?  Each moment I am awake I cannot always tell who I will be later, what will await me. True, I am still Jan. I have my same passions, interests, and opinions. A bit more superficial than that, however, I am limited in my physical capabilities. Not as fast, not as powerful in strength, not able to depend on stamina as I once had, I do not know what I can continue to do each day. Far deeper, though, I am now keenly aware of the fleeting value of life — the fleeting potential of what we can do each day. Opportunities are not once they once were. I continue to appreciate each day, but now that appreciation extends more deeply and widely. I also face a daily reminder that nothing is guaranteed, not even that next moment.

So, I now have essays to grade. Five classes of student writing, much of it earnest and conscientious and some of rushed and thoughtless. With each passing mark, I’ll think about my developing memoir. I’ve started with a few pages, but so many more need to come. There’s a hope I had in taking this class; there’s a trust that I’ll have that next moment. Time for me after time dedicated to others.