Her BrainStorm

“You’ll have a ‘new’ normal” said the nice lady at rehab. I was referred to attend cognitive therapy due to the severity of my condition; after all, brain tumor surgery is not an every day, common occurrence. Statistics show that less than 1% of the adult US population are affected. And yes, I just “happened” to fall within that minuscule percentage within the ONE PERCENT. Mercy me.

I walked into the therapy session with my head held high veiled with the utmost confidence that I could easily “pass” any given assessments that would help these professionals gauge whether I was “normal” – or not. I worked on complex international taxes for political leaders AND I could remember the full addresses of every house I’ve ever lived in since second grade – INCLUDING zip codes, thank you very much. I’m not disabled. I shrugged off my insecurities behind a grin. I sat down across a nice woman behind a big mahogany desk. These desks could sure use an upgrade, I thought to myself while preparing to answer some questions I was certain I’d pass with flying colors. A short story was read out loud to me. My job was to answer three or four questions relating to the story. Simple. As a matter of fact, I’m sure I can regurgitate the seventeenth conjunction that was used in the short story. No biggie. My memory is intact. Or so I thought…