I wanted to be a writer

Most of my friends from my childhood know this.  It was always my dream to become a writer.

When I was in the 6th grade, in Mr Johnson's class at Chester-Andover Elementary School in Chester, VT, they had a Halloween writing project.  You could choose the title from a list of titles.  I chose "the Icy Fingers of Doom".  I wrote about a teenager who went for a run and kept feeling something was wrong. If I remember correctly, she got home, felt the icy fingers of doom, and found her parents dead.  My story was published in a children's magazine.  The year was 1979.  I'm sure you must have read the story, perhaps multiple times.

When I was in high school, under the teachings of Mr. B, I started writing the story about Stanley and his life at Sunshine Sanctuary, a retirement village.  I loved that story.  I also had Mr. B as a college professor and continued to write about Stanley in my college English course.  I remember that because Mr. B made me feel SO proud when he read MY story out loud in class!  To this day, I love getting pats on the back for something I do well.  But who doesn't?

I used to read a book a day, when I had the time.  And then I got cancer, had chemo and was put under anesthesia for 12 hours.  That was two years ago, and I have yet to complete even a magazine article since.  Something happened to my brain, I have chemo brain.  Yes, it actually exists.  Trust me.

The local library is offering a series called "Memory Cafe" to help people with memory loss.  I've been following it's progression online, but am too filled with social anxiety to actually join.  I think it's a wonderful idea, different speakers giving tips on rejuvenating your memory.  I might pop in one of these weeks.

My favorite thing to say to people when I have one of my "I can't think of the word" moments is "I used to be smart, really I did".  Maybe I'll be smart again someday.