Aware.

Twelve miles. That’s what was on my training plan for this weekend’s long run. Two weeks away from a Ragnar Relay, and just over a month away from a half marathon. I’ve been slowly building my mileage and I decided that this weekend I would tackle my long run on Saturday, despite the fact that today’s schedule was a chaotic one.

Twelve miles.

I wanted to do the mileage today as a way of showing myself that I am strong and that I can do hard things.

Today is Usher Syndrome Awareness Day.

When I was first diagnosed, my world felt wrecked. I was very afraid. I had a lot of fear about what my life would be like. I had a lot of fear imagining the unknown. I imagined the worst, as I tend to do.

Someone says you have a genetic disorder that causes progressive loss of vision and hearing, that it’s the leading cause of deafblindness and if your brain is like mine, you imagine yourself robbed of those two sense, unable to communicate with the world around you. That first year I cried. A lot.

But some of that fear has faded over time. In part because I can tell that the loss is slow and that even if the worst DOES happen, it won’t be tomorrow. In part because I now have a phenomenal crew of docs in Iowa who keep me focusing on medical research being done and staying positive about it. In part because there’s really NOTHING I can do about it right now anyway.

And so I run.

I started running just to see if I could. And I kept running because I was able to see measurable results for the work I put in. I could see that even if I wasn’t necessarily getting speedy, I was able to go further. And that felt really exciting. Being active and fit has been a focus throughout my entire adult life thus far and I wasn’t about to stop because of my stupid eyes.

A 10K. A 15K. A half. Another half. I’m never going to be a marathoner, but I have fun doing what I didn’t think I could.

Sometimes when I run, I'm very aware of my vision loss. I’ve tripped over more sidewalk cracks that I care to admit (but if no one sees you, did it even happen?). Sometimes I’ve been startled when another runner passes me because I wasn’t able to see them in my periphery. When the sun starts to fade, I hurry as though I’m going to turn into a pumpkin - because I don’t want to be out in the dark without at least a headlamp. My night vision isn’t great.

This morning, I set out in the fog to run twelve miles. I wanted to feel like a badass. I wanted to be able to say, See? I’ve got this. I’m not scared anymore. And even though I cut the run a mile short (eleven was all I could manage), I know in my heart that pre-Usher Sarah wasn’t doing this. And I’m proud that I continue to put one foot in front of the other.

Today is Usher Syndrome Awareness Day… in Michigan, there’s 51 minutes left. If you don’t know about Usher Syndrome - and you may not! - here’s a good resource to learn more:

Usher Syndrome Coalition

I still get scared sometimes - I’d be a fool not to. Most days, though, I’m just living life as best I can. Aren’t we all?

The Equinox Was Owned - Usher Syndrome Awareness Day 2017

I meant to write earlier. 2017 has been a supreme blur and I meant to tell you all about the things - how I trained for my first half marathon, how I went to Iowa for the second time to see Dr. Stone, how I ran my first half marathon and how I cried when I crossed the finish line. I was going to write about seeing Hamilton in Chicago and how my daughter clasped my hand for the whole first act, just in complete awe that we were in that room where it happens, how tears rolled down my cheek during "Yorktown." How I stopped taking the stairs after I've been out for a walk during my lunch break because my eyes could never adjust to the dark of the stairwell and I kept tripping over stairs. How we went to California this summer and in the dark strange room, smashed my hip into a dresser and it ached for days. How I went to my first Usher Syndrome Conference in Chicago and I actually got the nerve to leave my hotel room and sit down in the audience and absorb it all, even though I was scared.

Some days, I'm still pretty scared.

Saturday, September 16 is Usher Syndrome Awareness Day.

I get scared all the time when I think of what I don't know or trying to anticipate what a future might look like.

But as Dr. Stone said this July in Chicago: We're close enough to walk.

He spoke a lot about hope, and I felt relieved the whole while to know that I have the advantage of having Dr. Stone and the amazing crew at Iowa on my team.

“I mean you can see it. You can walk three miles an hour. So if, if actually they would just  not let the car go anymore, okay, if the FDA showed up and would not let the car go anymore, you could simply get out of the car and walk downtown, and that is actually where we are on the development of cures for Usher Syndrome.”

Without taking this to a totally political place, I'll say that having a disease like Usher Syndrome - a disease with no treatments or cures - is terrifying in the age of this new president. I've been disappointed by a lot of what I've seen so far, and I've feared that the administration would cut essential funding to essential research and slow the progress that's got us so close we could maybe get out of the car... and walk.

We probably can't rely on politicians to do what's right for us (oh, that was a news flash, right?). Fortunately for those of us with Usher Syndrome, there are donors who are generous with their funds who are willing to support progress.. And I am so grateful.

For the past 26 days (y'all... that's a LONG time for an awareness campaign!), so many of us have been doing what we can to raise awareness. And when the Own The Equinox campaign is done, the Usher Challenge goes on. I'm throwing links to both of those in the bottom of this post - both benefit amazing organizations doing different work - for the same group of people just like me.

In the past year, my hearing seems to be essentially the same, as does my vision. I had a horrible experience with a stupid eye doctor this winter when I went to get contact lenses. I had to explain to him what retinitis pigmentosa is. And while I may not have actually uttered the words, "Are you SURE you are a real doctor?!" out loud, I sure was thinking them. And then bless his poor heart when he tried to upsell me with photos of my retinas! Nah, I'm good, man. I've seen 'em. They're broken. For now, anyway. (That janky eye exam is how I will happen to spend a portion of Usher Syndrome Awareness Day actually GETTING AN EYE EXAM - it's not just commitment to the cause, but a need for new contact lenses because I'm pretty sure the dude wrote me the wrong rx months ago, and well, I've been too busy to fix it but now I'm out of contacts and HEY RUN ON SENTENCE HOW ARE YOU?).

Admittedly, not experiencing a significant decline helps my frame of mind. It really is progressing slowly, at least for now, and that's a huge relief.

Research needs to keep moving faster than the loss of my vision. That's pretty much all there is to it. Research just needs to keep being faster.

And that's why these campaigns - as annoying as they may seem to some - are sooooo essential. Because they give Usher Syndrome, and those of us with this disease, a bit of a moment, if you will. Our chance to tell you about it, to ask you to read our stories, and encourage you to be aware of what this disease is. And sure, if you felt so inclined, maybe you could support one of those organizations below.

I'm training for my second half marathon - it takes place in about four weeks. I can do hard things, I can still reach goals. I'm still tough. In two months, I'm taking my mom to Chicago where once again, I plan to sit on the edge of my seat during "Yorktown" and realize yes, how lucky we are to be alive right now. Next year, I won't be in Iowa. Dr. Stone says I can come every two years... and that to me feels like a bit of a reason to breathe a moment and let go of some of the fear.

(I'm trying)

I barely remember my life before my Usher diagnosis and that seems a bit of a shame really. But you can't go back - only forward... so here I am, one foot in front of the other. Probably in running shoes.

Tis the season for the blues

The one thing I have noticed since my diagnosis is that my feelings are so much more...feelings-y. I've always been emotional, but since finding out about the RP and then Usher syndrome, not only do I feel ALL THE THINGS, I feel ALL THE THINGS on a massive and astronomical scale.

And that includes stuff I had never had much experience with. Always I worrier, I never truly felt anxiety before my diagnosis. Now, I'm prone to waves of it. About stupid stuff. Far more frequently than I would care to admit.

Right now, I'm in the midst of one of those evenings. It's been, to quote Lin Manuel Miranda (a fave in our home) a "bit of a day" -- today is the day of the annual cookie decorating party that I've thrown for my daughters every year, for more years than I can remember. We bake dozens upon dozens of cookies, invite their friends over to decorate and take cookies home with them. Laughter and sugar buzzes ensue.

Like I said, we've done this for years.

This year, none of the friends my youngest daughter invited showed up. And only one RSVPd to say that they'd be unable to attend due to a familial holiday obligation. It's Christmas time and the week before Christmas no less - I know it's most certainly the season for calendars to fill up with other stuff... but damn, y'all. Pick up a phone, would ya?

THe look on her face when she realized no one was coming ripped my heart in half. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how I could make it any better. How could I make it right for my eleven year old when her fourteen year old sister's friends all showed up?

There's no other way to describe it, really - but HORRIBLE.

We eventually managed to have fun decorating (and eating) cookies, but I never stopped hurting for her.

Even now, hours later, tears sting my eyes and I just wish I could do something, ANYTHING, to make up for the fact that her friends were so careless with her feelings today.

It's HARD. And I'm tired of things being so difficult.

-

It's dark a lot at this time of year. It's dark when I go to work, it's dark when I come home. Often these days, it's snowy too. I don't want to drive in the dark and snow. I just want to stay home. A drive to Target this morning left me so tense, my arms and back hurt. Not because I couldn't see, but because I'm so afraid of hitting a patch of ice and crashing. (Turns out, the confidence of 20+ years of uneventful winter driving is wiped away with one patch of black ice and a telephone pole).

I get scared about my eyes and it's a weird thing to me sometimes, to be worried for my children and the hurt they feel at what's going on in their day to day life and to be scared by the fact that I'm losing my vision... because while that's always looming, at least that isn't happening today or tomorrow.

But still.

I sat on the floor of my daughter's room tonight. We were both feeling "smad" - our word for sad and mad. I couldn't say anything to fix it. We talked about it a little bit, about what made us feel sad and what made us feel mad. I told her I wanted to curl up in bed and have someone else take care of stuff for awhile and she said to me, "We need to invent something really cool and then we can hire a maid."

I can't fix any of it. That bothers me. All of it feels like it's out of my hands, and that's not great for me.

I found myself getting anxious about a work project. All of this other stuff is swirling around me - sadness for my daughter and anger at the sixth graders and their parents, stress about my eyes, exhaustion with winter and its shorter days. All of these emotions make it far too easy for anxiety to sneak in. I have no real coping skills for that; I've never really felt like this until now.

It doesn't seem fair. I don't know how to fix it. I'm so tired of ALL THE FEELINGS.

I know that a new year won't make it better on its own. That I probably have some work to do to change much of this, but right now it feels like an awful lot.

You don't have to see it the way I do.

In just over two weeks, I am going to be 40 years old. This is a fact that I'm having a difficult time warming up to and it's also causing me some distress because I never claimed I was going to age gracefully and I most assuredly am NOT.

I can run a lot further than I could at 30. I'm not changing diapers or chasing a toddler like I was at 30. But 40 is a different animal for a lot of reasons. Mostly because at 30, I thought I was just fine... and now I have to remind myself that I will be.

Last week, my employer handed me an insurance form and asked me to have my doctor at Iowa fill it out and return it. Again, it seems the insurance company saw my appointments and got a little freaked out: "Uh oh, this woman is gonna cost us money." They are now quoting my employer an astronomical hike in the cost of our company insurance plan. Affordable insurance for my employers to provide for us hinges a lot on this form.

I hate that feeling.

And while the folks at Iowa promptly filled out and returned the form, it is a reminder to me that no, I will not be costing the insurance company a bunch of money because there are currently no treatments for Usher.

It's an ugly feeling - this sadness about what is beyond my control blended with this irrational sense of responsibility for costing my company so much money (I didn't even hit my deductible this year. That's how much money I DIDN'T cost them).

I have been in a funk ever since.

-

Foundation Fighting Blindness has been running a campaigh - #HowISeeIt is supposed to drive awareness and raise funds. It's been pretty amazing to see celebs active on social media promoting FFB and driving awareness. It's no ice bucket challenge, but I'm not a fan of being cold, so I'm alright with that.

It's been a bit disheartening to see the backlash against the Foundation and against the campaign.

I read the comments on Facebook (oh, silly girl, never read the comments) and I'm... frustrated. I'm angry.

There are some people who take issue with the #HowISeeItChallenge because they see it as fear mongering, they take issue because they feel it implies there's something wrong with being blind - as though that makes them "less than." The criticism of the Foundation has been harsh and it's been confusing to me because since my diagnosis, I have found the FFB to be tremendously supportive, helpful and committed to their cause.

Look: It says it in their name - Foundation FIGHTING Blindness.

It is their mission to end vision loss caused by retinal disease. To expect their mission focus to be anything less than trying to eradicate disease is ridiculous - as it's WHAT THEY DO.

No, it doesn't mean you're less than or inferior if you're blind.

It's just that NOT ALL OF US WANT TO LOSE OUR SIGHT.

(Let me say that again)

Some of us are TERRIFIED of losing our vision. Some of us DON'T WANT to lose any more sight. And some of us are going to fight like hell to support the people who are trying to find treatments and cures.

Why this came as a shock to me, I'm not sure. The same sort of culture is prevalent in the hearing impaired communities as well. But I've never had deaf pride. I've always hated not being able to hear well.

And you better believe that I will fight this vision loss as strongly as I can.

-

Fall is here and it's getting darker earlier and the sun is taking longer to rise in the morning. I love fall - the end of sweating every time I step outside. The darkness is already getting to me, though.

I may never regain what I've already lost but I don't want to lose anymore. Every time I start thinking I'm doing okay, I hit a patch of not-okay-ness. At 30, I had no idea any of this was coming and I'm staring down the barrel of 40, all too aware of how much has changed for me.

It's a tough pill to swallow, and I'm just not ready to accept it yet.

I'm not going to allow others to make me feel guilty for not accepting it. And that's how I see it.

spring forward

Lose an hour, gain an hour - I've always thought the act of sending the clock forward and then back during the year was a tedious one. While I'm sure there's a reason, my argumentative (and inconvenienced) side would say that the reason isn't a good one, and we're not farmers, so is there any REAL need or me to lose an hour of sleep?

And yet I am so excited that next Sunday I will lose an hour and we will "spring forward" and I'm so tired of darkness that to have more daylight will be good for my mood and good for my soul.

Winter is freaking hard.

It's been a mild winter, at that. As far as Michigan winters go, it could have been worse - and I'm fully aware that we've had winters that have damn near brought me to my knees with the constant snow fall and subzero temperatures. This winter, I praise El Nino and acknowledge climate change, and still send my internal gratitude for a winter that didn't have me on Travelocity seeking plane tickets anywhere and everywhere warmer.

It hasn't been brutally snowy or painfully cold - but it's been dark.

When your sense of night vision is diminishing, it becomes painfully apparent how dark winter is.

These days, it's light before I leave my house and daylight lingers after I get home. I am looking forward to days that stretch into night.

-

"Who are you going to see?" my primary doctor asked. I was telling her about my upcoming trip to the University of Iowa to see a doctor for my yearly appointment - really, it's only my second.

When I told her the doctor's name, she said, "Ohhhh, you're going to see THE guy."

Yes.

Usher Syndrome is rare, and so yes, I want to see the doctor who knows his stuff more than anyone. Also? I want to see the doctor who will treat me with kindness. My appointment last April is still etched in my head - a doctor who spoke to his medical students instead of to me, seemingly oblivious to the tears running down my face. Who is the one with vision problems here?

It left such a bad taste in my mouth, the way I felt when I left that day. I know, you can't really put a nice spin on a rotten diagnosis - but you can treat me like I'm human.

I'm both dreading and looking forward to Iowa. I don't anticipate good news - and since I'm not, I hope the bad is draped with kindness.

-

"If you're going through hell, keep going."
- Winston Churchill

-

The forecast for the week includes temperatures near 60 degrees, a remarkable March thaw. Muddy dog paws will mar the carpet, but the snow will be gone. Oh, how I can't wait for spring.

the way it all would go

I found myself singing a Garth Brooks song in the shower the other day - unusual not only because I don't often sing in the shower (someone might hear me!) and because I can't remember the last time I listened to a Garth Brooks song on purpose. But as the water beat down on me, I found myself singing the chorus, "And I'm glad I didn't know the way it all would end, the way it all would go…"

The song has nothing to do with retinas. It has nothing to do with not being able to hear. It has nothing to do with my life at all, really - it's Garth and a failed relationship and some steel guitar and a whole lotta feeling, and yet I found myself singing anyway and feeling it and finding this bit of understanding. 

I recently got the results of my genetic testing back. Those results confirmed that yes, I have Usher Syndrome. The results confirmed that there are two changes (mutations) to the USH2A gene. The results confirmed that the hearing loss that I've had all of my life is related to these new vision symptoms I'm only just discovering.

Finding out has meant both everything and nothing at all - which feels like it makes no sense, but perhaps might to other people in my shoes. There are no cures, there are no treatments and there are currently no clinical trials for people with my particular type of Usher Syndrome. Having this answer isn't really an answer right now - it's just a little piece of information that leads absolutely nowhere and so I have found myself so completely relieved that I'm only just now finding out.

I think of what would have happened if I had known this for all of these years - had genetic tests been done years ago to determine the cause of my hearing loss we might have discovered these mutations to my USH2A gene long ago - what would life have been like if I spent my whole life waiting for my vision to fail, looking for clues, looking for symptoms and signs? Would I have been scared? Would I have gone down the same path? Would I have been more restrained? Would I have made different choices? Would I constantly monitor every nuance and every little thing - the way I find myself doing now?

My god, I'm so glad that I had all of those years of not knowing. 

Honestly? The hearing loss was bad enough. The hearing loss has always been a challenge and it's been a struggle - had I found out earlier, younger, that my vision could go too? I can't imagine.

-

So here I am. I am 38. I'm just a month and a few days shy of turning 39 and in this last year, instead of just fretting about hitting the big 4-0, I'm also dealing with a life changing diagnosis that I can't do anything about.

And I thought fine lines and my slowing metabolism were rough.

-

I can tell myself, "You know it could be worse," all day every day, until I'm blue in the face. I DO know it could be worse. And there are days when I truly believe that the worst case scenario WILL NOT apply to me because my vision is still pretty good so maybe, just maybe, I'll hang on to more of it. 

Who knows? Some people will say that blindness is a certainty, some say that's not necessarily the case and I still really don't know enough about it, really, to know one way or other.

And that's because it's so new to me.

And because I hate reading about it.

Had I spent my whole life knowing, I don't know… would that be the case? I don't think I could dwell in the same level of quasi-ignorance in which I currently reside. Surely time would fill in some of these informational holes - holes that I don't mind not having filled, really.

-

I wish i still didn't know, you know? That I could still just leave it at, well, my hearing is awful and just keep on not knowing about the other stuff, because not knowing was nice. Not knowing let me be fooled into thinking I was finally getting ahead - that everything was fine. 

I know that everything will be okay. Somehow. Some way. I do know that.

But I'm glad that I got to spend decades of my life not knowing what was coming. I'm forever grateful to not have had years of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Years of living the best life I could, playing the cards I'd been dealt. And now the game has changed a bit, I have new cards. I have to figure out how to play this hand.

(And that's where the card analogy ends because I hate playing cards and I don't even know if what I just said made any sense)

I'm a lottle* bit more of a pain in the butt than I've ever been.

I have never liked the unexpected. I don't like surprise parties, I am not spontaneous, I hate when my plans get changed at the last minute. I am not…entirely rigid, but yeah, I like to know what's what and when and why and no, I really don't much like flying by the seat of my pants.

It means that I'm virtually unbearable right now.

I know that it's normal. 

Last week, I read an e-book by a woman who has RP. In her book, Believing is Seeing, Laura Lawson describes the grief of this diagnosis - and it was almost a relief to see some of the feelings that have been bouncing around in my head expressed by someone else - a relief to have a shred of normalcy, that oh, feeling this way is probably a totally legit way to feel in this situation. (Note: Laura's blog is here. I'm so glad my friend told me about her and pointed me towards her blog - because a) what are the odds that a friend of mine knows two people with RP? and b) I'm a little less scared when I see all that she's doing - reassuring to know that I might be able to hang on to my camera, you know?)

We don't need permission to feel the way that we feel but when you're dealing with something unfamiliar, it's kind of a relief somehow to know that the set of emotions somehow does match the circumstances. The emotionally evolved side of me knows that whatever set of emotions I should happen to feel would also match my circumstances - because our feelings are our feelings and blah blah blah - you feel what you feel. But my gosh, sometimes I am sad and angry almost in the same breath and what do you even do with that?

In short: You go on. 

I go on.

On the toughest days, I know that I must radiate some kind of force field of emotion that repels those I encounter. I don't know that there's a "right thing" to say to me, but I have found a thousand wrong things. 

I am not easy these days. And I want to be. I want to be the strong person some people think that I am, but the reality is that the same person who hate surprise parties and hates not having a plan really hates this knowledge that my retinas are dying and are going to continue to die and what do you even do with that knowledge if you think about it too hard?

I admit, I have always been a bit of a pain.

"You're the worst kind; you're high maintenance but you think you're low maintenance."

"I don't see that."

"You don't see that? Waiter, I'll begin with a house salad, but I don't want the regular dressing. I'll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side. 'On the side' is a very big thing for you."

"Well, I just want it the way I want it."

"I know: high maintenance."

But these days? I'm probably a lottle bit worse. And I'm sorry. But. Forgive me? I'm hoping that time will give me a bit more of the strength I need.

*Lottle - More than a little, less than a lot

Sometimes perspective is the gigantic elephant standing on your foot.

My daughters and I stood at the outer edges of the circle as the pastor fumbled through well-meaning words that felt clumsy and wrong. Around us, hands clutched balloon strings and to the left of us, children played behind their parents, their shrieks of laughter out of place amidst the mourning.

A vigil for a five year old, gone too soon. An accident. No one we knew, but we attended just the same. That happens in small towns.

"He's in a better place," the pastor said, and inside I recoiled. Better place is not for healthy children ripped from their parents too soon. Better place is for extended illness, injury, for suffering. 

I've never really been one for the whole better place thing, anyway, really. But especially not now, not this, no way.

My oldest daughter cried into my shoulder. My youngest clutched my arm. 

I held them both, soaking them in.

Hands opened and balloons sailed into the sky. Candles lit, prayers whispered, heads bowed. 

My arms wrapped around my daughters.

I have spent a lot of time feeling scared - I am scared of so much. I am scared that one day I'll be deaf and blind and that I'll be cut off from the things and the people that I love. How will I get around in a community where driving is a necessity because public transportation doesn't exist? And sometimes my thoughts gravitate to wonder - if I go blind, who will make sure to tell me when my eyebrows are unruly and in need of waxing? Will anyone tell me when my hair has gone gray? (Okay, grayER). 

Fear will drive me crazy if I let it.

And I've been letting it.

Part of me knows that it's a natural thing - my life is changed by this news, and it's not changed at all. 

But I'm still here. 

My children are beautiful and healthy and strong. 

I love and I am so very loved.

I know the joy of tacos and margaritas and the perfect 65 degree sunny day and the excitement of the Fitbit buzz when I've reached my step goal. There is air moving through my lungs and when I hold the camera to my face, the world still looks exactly like it should.

And so.

What happens if i let go of the fear, open my hands and release the balloon strings and watch it fly away?

Maybe I should try.

There are days when I have a lot of hope and there are days when I want to dive face first into a box of Cheez Its.

A friend told me recently that since I wouldn't have known anything was wrong if I had not offhandedly mentioned it during a routine eye exam that perhaps I should just pretend that this thing doesn't exist - that I don't know about it. And she is so very very right except… that's not how my brain works. I am a glass half empty, assumes the worst, the sky is falling kind of person.

I can't pretend it doesn't exist because I'm too busy being scared of it.

And the thing is, I've been fortunate enough to have been given hope by people who care enough to inform me that listening to my brain may not be the best idea. There's a lot of research going on right now - some of it nearly ready for clinical trials - and who knows, maybe in ten years there will be a treatment that stops all of this before it gets too bad. Or brings back anything I lose.

I have been angry at the world. I have been scared. I have been hopeful. I have been loved. I have been heartbroken. I have a whole bunch of feelings - sometimes all at once - about this diagnosis.

One of the things I hadn't anticipated was how hard it would be to not truly know my diagnosis. I have currently been diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa - but my diagnosis is quite likely Usher Syndrome which would mean that the hearing loss that I've had all my life is tied to this vision thing I've only recently started experiencing.

Weird, right?

The onset of the vision stuff is fairly late for me, I'm told - which should bode well for me overall. This makes me hopeful in the moments when I dare feel hope. Sometimes I dare.

The statistics say that about 50,000 people in the United States have Usher Syndrome, which means that this is a pretty rare thing, because of course. 

And all of this is even more of a shock to the system because the things I love most to do - photography, reading - rely so heavily on my stupid eyes.

By the way, that's the name of the folder in my Gmail where I store all my messages with the genetic counselor, and other people relating to this eye hooey: "My Stupid Eyes." 

I've never really been one to let life kick me in the teeth though. I feel like I've been run over by this diagnosis, and I've probably cried a gallon or two of tears in the past several months, but the moments when I can let myself envision making a difference somehow, those are the moments I feel strong, the moments when I feel like maybe I still have a little bit of control here. 

Because I am still at the point where this is often sitting right in the front of my brain. I am told that I'll get to the point where it's not all that I think of, but right now - I'm just not there yet.