For one year and three months I have faithfully poured my heart into this blog on a weekly and at times twice-weekly basis. I have become acquainted with so many women far and wide who relate to the experience of losing a baby or to some form or reproductive dysfunction. I have made a wide range of dark jokes about my uterus and other things polite ladies don't discuss at tea. I have rushed to these virtual pages to share my tears, my anecdotes, my discoveries, my absurdity, my epiphanies, my confusion. The habit and structure of writing here every single Tuesday has been a life raft and an instrument of great personal and collective healing. 

For a long while I've been excited about the idea of transforming this blog into a book and then expanding these connections I've made into my practice as a Licensed Creative Arts Therapist. I've decided for a little while I am going to re-allocate some of my Tuesday blogging time slots to pulling together a draft of a book. I will still of course jump back in with a blog entry from time to time (like, for instance, I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seats to hear about how my much anticipated reunion with my OBGYN goes next week), but I am also energized at the prospect of taking the necessary time to transform the Ever Forward blog into something new that could potentially reach even more warrior mamas out there.

When I started this blog I was just looking for validation that I was not the only one who had an urge to throw an edition of Goodnight Moon through a cafe window and sob every time they saw a happily pregnant woman (and to in turn validate anyone else who was feeling the same, but was afraid to say so). What ended up happening has far exceeded my wildest dreams. It turns out that we're all just looking for creative ways to put back together the shattered pieces of our hearts and to keep our senses of humor while we do it. 

For those of you who have been reading every week (thankyouthankyouthankyou!!!!), I can't properly express my gratitude to you for sticking with me! This is not goodbye but rather just a heads up that entries perhaps won't be as frequent as I turn my attention toward pulling the book together (I didn't want you to wonder what the heck is going on). Feel free to keep checking back in for updates and continue to comment and email whenever you like because you know I love hearing from you! I wouldn't be living into the promise of "ever forward" if I didn't take this next step and I truly couldn't have made it here without you (yes, I'm talking to YOU, specifically). You're the best. Thanks for being a mess with me, sharing your stories with me, growing with me, and being my tribe! Stay tuned for info about the next chapter in the Ever Forward adventure!!!!

No matter how much time passes I am always surprised at how each experience of "coming out" to someone as a miscarriage survivor is completely unique. You would think after talking the ear off of the entire internet I would have come up with a really slick way to answer the tough questions by now. Nope, not particularly. I mean, in fairness, for a while there I think I hit my stride with a pretty professional stock response to the answer "when are you guys having kids?", but now that I have a fair amount of distance from the topic in question, those conversations have taken on a new quality. It has found a way to cycle back to being a little awkward again for all new reasons. 

The other night I was chatting with a co-worker who I am very friendly with, but do not know at all outside of the context of work. We were talking about our relationships and she asked if we were planning on kids soon.  Within the space of the split second pause between her asking and my answering, I had an entire internal dialogue with myself. Sure, some of the old conflicts are still present (will this make the other person uncomfortable? will this make me uncomfortable? how do I share this in a genuine yet non burdensome way?), but there was a brand new layer to it. The new layer, I think, has to do with the difference between being actively in crisis and being in the aftermath. The truth is that at this point when asked I could simply say "oh, we're thinking about trying" and it wouldn't be a lie. I could easily omit the miscarriage spiel from the dialogue. For that matter, I could pack up this blog now and start fresh as just another lady on the road to baby town. Because I am. But I find myself still engaging in the conversation. 

Instead of dodging the real reason we don't have kids right now, I chose to share that we had lost a pregnancy at the beginning of the year. The question isn't difficult to answer because I felt sad or didn't know how to answer, it was difficult because I find myself feeling a little self conscious in this new role. Basically I have circled back to the starting line in many ways. After what felt like scaling a mountain, I am back on ground level looking up with all the same hope and excitement, but also with a new trepidatious knowledge of the rocky crags and thinning atmospheres that are very real potential dangers. I'm back to square one, but this time I'm not a rookie. How is the advanced beginner supposed to answer these questions? Do I just treat it like a re-do? Do I change how I approach everything? A little of both? 

I guess that's part of why I've chosen to continue to write every week when I could just as easily wrap up the conversation (aside from the general fact I feel that sharing stories is universally and mutually healing). I'm still writing because I still wish I had a guide through this. When I started this blog I needed someone to offer some real-talk about surviving a miscarriage and wanted to be one such voice for people who were looking for the same. Now I'd love someone to tell me what the heck comes next--so I'll keep trying to be that voice as well as I figure it out for myself as best I can. What does life look like after miscarriage? What does (here's hoping!) pregnancy look like after? What's the stuff that comes up that nobody talks about? A part of me longs to be that breezy, optimistic gal who is just trying to have a baby in a casual, natural way and part of me is a cynical old crone too jaded for words ...and somewhere in between lies this blog and my particular vantage point back here at the base of the mountain. 

This is my 40th post on The Ever Forward Blog. It is hard to even recognize the girl that let loose her pain onto the very first page of this blog with not a clue what would come of it. Over the last 40 gestational posts the following things have been brought miraculously into my life : I've been put into direct contact with thousands of you who I have never met, but who have been through the same indescribable pain. I have connected with old friends in a new way through the lens of this experience. I've been given the incredible opportunity to heal through processing my experience in writing. 

I'm very nearly feeling like a normal person again (whatever that is) here at the 40-post mark. Just yesterday a dear friend shared with me that she is expecting. Along with being overcome with excitement for her, I was overcome with a wave of gratitude that she was able to just tell me freely and not feel the need to tiptoe around me (you know who you are, that was a huge gift, thank you!). It was refreshing to notice in myself that I could receive this news with a genuinely open heart. There was no forced "oh i'm so haaaappy for you" with gritted teeth. I celebrate her joy with every ounce of my being because I pray that that same joy will come to me at some point regardless of what my journey has been so far. 

It's not over. It will never fully be over. This is the part I am still working on accepting. The day I found out I was pregnant my entire world tilted into a terrifyingly beautiful technicolor roller coaster and I can't un-feel the things I felt. Once you've experienced that connection to motherhood it rips open something inside you that never heals over completely. I am reminded of this at the most unexpected times.

For example, when my girlfriend told me about her pregnancy she also told me they were already able to tell her the sex of her baby. She is only half a week further along than I was when I was told there was no more heartbeat so I instantly took to the internet to Google : "earliest they can determine sex of baby" and learned that there is now a test that can determine the gender very early on. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me. To my total surprise I felt a sickeningly intense longing to know what my baby would have been. Regardless of whether this actually would have been an option in my case, the thought of it took hold of me ferociously. Emotion sprung forth with a magnitude that I hadn't felt in months regarding this topic. Why, I wondered? Where the heck is this coming from? I'm still processing it and I haven't fully cracked it yet.

I took an extremely informal poll (full disclosure, it was seven people--four women and three men--hardly going to win any scientific research awards). Three of the women said yes they would absolutely want to know and the other four I polled said no. This obviously doesn't highlight any major trend, but the one definite commonality was the definitiveness with which people answered. It was visceral. They either knew it was a yes or knew it was a no with zero second thinking. For me, maybe it's something about my voraciousness for knowledge regarding this entire experience and of my body in general. Perhaps it's also something to do with wanting to experience every part of that pregnancy for as long as it lasted. I have never shied away from the raw details of my lost pregnancy and this feels no different. It's not about the gender. I wouldn't have cared if it was a boy, a girl, a boy born in a biologically female body, a girl born in a biologically male body, or a unicorn. Perhaps if I am to lay myself bare here (and, really, what's new?), what it's really about is feeling one tiny, but extremely tangible, step closer to this child I wanted so desperately and lost. It would have been one more layer of realness. Yes, it might have been another layer of sadness too, but it was always going to be heartbreaking anyway. 

For some of the people I spoke to who said "no" they explained they didn't see what the benefit of knowing would be if the fetus was never meant to grow into a boy or a girl to begin with and I do understand that logically, but emotionally and illogically (and lets face it, that's where I generally live) I would have needed to know if I was given the option. The initial emotional impact has passed and now I am just curious to hear what you think out there--wether you have experienced this or not, what are your thoughts?  I've included an annoynymous survey below (how tech savvy am I?!) or you can write in comment section or to theeverforward@gmail.com.

The fact that this issue sparked an emotional reaction goes to show that even after 40 weeks, 40 posts, 40 months, 40 years, I am forever changed, but increasingly well equipped to grapple with the questions, learn about myself, and move forward. Thanks for sticking with me for the last 40, you have no idea what it means to me.  

I am completely over the hospital. I was certain I had put it behind me for quite some time and then I landed myself there again over the weekend. I have truly never been the person that gets sick, the person who needs repeat medical attention, or any of that. However my track record over the last year is forcing me to admit I have in fact been that person of late for reasons totally out of my control. I'm not into it. I didn't even want to write this blog post because I felt like everyone was shouting "SHUT UP about a hospital already!" (because that's certainly what I've been shouting to myself), but then Jeremy helped me realize that it's a pretty universal and hopefully relatable phenomenon to be bored silly with the cycles we find ourselves in ...so I wrote it anyway.

After calling my primary care doctor and visiting an urgent care clinic in my neighborhood and having both physicians sternly urge me to go to the ER, I (very unwillingly) conceded. The symptoms I was having coupled with recent surgery, a genetic clotting disorder, and having been put on post surgical estrogen patch all were too indicative of a pulmonary embolism to ignore I was told. So I went. I did the blue jammy dress thing, I got poked in the arm not once, not twice, but thrice (I can already tell I am headed for arm bruises that would make even the most consummate heroin addict blush), I submitted to test after test to rule out pulmonary embolism and visualized the dollars and cents draining from our bank account with every one.

In the end, everything came out clear. They can't fully explain some of my symptoms, which is uncomfortable to sit with, but they were able to rule out the life threatening things they were worried about and that is a relief. The whole thing got me thinking once again about how it's not so easy to leave the reproductive trauma of the last year behind (as if i needed more reminders, but they just keep on coming). It tends to follow you around in the most annoying and unexpected of fashions (just like all of our baggage does). Everything links to everything.  That experience lives inside me emotionally as well as physically and so I never know when it is going to emerge and stir up some trouble. 

The Universe likes to remind us that we are never fully in the driver's seat even when we begin to feel that we are. This can make us feel very stuck as it did to me as I sat there in the ER feeling stripped of my autonomy, but it can also be freeing depending on how you look at it. We're not so very powerful. We can work hard to move forward, we can bring as much positivity as possible into our lives, we can fiercely love the ones that are dear to us, but ultimately we can't control much else. As I laid there in that ER bed, I thought to myself, as unpleasant and annoying as this is, I feel lucky to have people in my life are that are continuously willing to wade through these rough moments with me. I know my support system loves me and they know I love them (I probably make that overly clear at times), and right now, that's the best remedy I can think of. There are going to be moments where we inevitably get stuck in the same old garbage and then all there is to do is fall back on that foundation--the work, the positivity, the love--to pull us out again. 

So, I joined a gym. This is not terribly characteristic of me as you may know (I'm one of those people for which running feels like the worst sort of torture and who doesn't believe in this supposed "runners high" that people speak of. Come on runners, just admit it, that's not a thing). 

I did it partially because I'm doing a play soon and I want my energy and stamina to be on point (and lets face it i'm also highly motivated by the thought of strangers sitting in a darkened room and staring at me). I also did it partially, and probably more significantly, because this whole year of being utterly out of control of my body has really done a number on me. My body and I are in a bit of a weird place. In some ways I feel more comfortable in my skin than ever because I'm proud of it for emerging from battle and still getting me from place to place on a daily basis. In other ways however, I think, without realizing it, somewhere along the way I lost a certain amount of faith in its ability. I counted on my body to perform what I thought of as a basic human function and it punked out on me. I know those are unfair expectations to put on my little body, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't internalized some of those negative messages.

Now that the dust has settled and all my medical interventions are for the most part behind me, I am left to look at what parts of me may have atrophied from lack of attention over the last 10 months. There are relationships that could use more nurturing, there are projects that could use energy breathed into them, and there are body parts that could use strengthening. This is something they don't really tell you about miscarriage and infertility (well, to be honest, "they" tell you very little don't they?) : that you will emerge stronger in so many ways, but also emerge with quite a bit of repair work to do in terms of your relationship to yourself.  For me, now is the time to take stock of what is left to do and one small step toward that is chugging my butt over to the gym as often as possible. Each time I walk out of there a sweaty mess (which, for me, at this point is the best part of going--the leaving bit), I remind myself that I even though I may not possess the most grace or agility from a physical fitness standpoint, I am more than strong enough to clean up the messes that the Universe left for me. 

Muscle memory is a thing. I feel pockets of emotion shake out of me as my legs tremble and old pains and fears sweat out through my pores, but I'm doing my best to stay with it so that in a few months I will be 5'10" and 100 pounds (Just kidding. That actually sounds truly terrifying to me). I'm trying to stay with it because I want to continuously reinforce that my body is capable, is adaptable, is resilient, is enough. I think if that is the energy with which I approach my physical being, then the rest will fall into place as it is meant to. It's worth a try. 

At the risk of being lumped in with the faceless masses of clichéd girls in oversized sweaters clutching pumpkin lattes to their chests at this time of year, I must say I do love Autumn. It's my favorite time of year. The leaves are starting to crisp up into oranges and ambers, the air smells delicious, and the skies are still bright blue (thank you for indulging me). The quality of light is shifting and that seems to have a ripple effect through everyone whether we directly notice it or not. 

I think what makes me really love this time of year has something to do with its relationship to change. This is the time of year when decay becomes beautiful and even though the end of summer is bittersweet there is an electric energy in the air of things to come. It's a time when Mother Nature holds our hand through an inevitable ending. And if you started reading this blog because you too lost a baby (or know someone who did), then you know that it certainly doesn't always feel like the Universe is holding your hand through an ending. So when this kind of seasonal coddling does occur, it feels noteworthy. All we need to do is look to the trees to be reminded that life is cyclical and that, like it or not, it ceases to cycle for no one. 

This time is steeped in nostalgia for me and leaves me feeling particularly reflective (Shocking, I know. I hear you thinking, "Does this girl ever stop with the reflection?" No. Not really. She doesn't). The fact that the Jewish New Year/high holidays fall at this time of year also kicks up this sense of contemplativeness. As I atoned for my undoubtedly multitudinous missed steps over the past year, I also got to thinking about what I want to carry with me forward into a fresh new year and what to leave behind. I've been feeling pretty positive since my surgery (punctuated by the occasional fun little wave of light weeping and panic of the "What am I doing with my life?!" and "Who am I?" variety. You know, just light stuff), so when taking stock of what I would "leave behind" as I step into a new year, it seemed the obvious and obtainable choice to finally drop some of my miscarriage baggage at the door. I don't ruminate about it on a daily basis anymore. I've looked at it from many angles and raked it all over the coals plenty over the last year. You would maybe think that putting it behind me would feel easier at this point. The seasonal endings and beginnings of Autumn remind me, however, that no matter how much I've healed, walking forward baggage-free is never really an option. The leaves that fall decompose under the snow and nourish the buds that will burst forth in Spring. Nothing truly gets "left behind". As much as I like forward moving motion, I am grateful for this. There is actually something sad about the very thought of "leaving it behind" because it implies loosening the connection to a moment in my life that was profound for many reasons.

I think the best we can hope for in this season of change is to be like the trees. We have to find ways to honor the scars that are carved deeply and permanently into our trunks and remember that cicatrices don't stop leaves from bursting into spectacular color, falling, and then starting to grow again. Over and over we cycle like this which means there is always a second chance right around the corner.

There's a new tiny member of our family. It wasn't something we were planning on. It was more of a spontaneous falling in love and subsequent adoption. A friend of a friend was looking for good homes for a litter of kittens and we went "just to look" (famous last words). Fast forward to finding myself the caretaker of the teeniest ball of fur who follows me like glue around the house and wants to snuggle endlessly. We didn't purposely do the kitten adoption thing to fill any kind of depressing hole in our collective heart, although I'd be lying if I said that nurturing a little-bitty creature doesn't feel good after the year we've had. We actually didn't really make the connection between our reproductively challenged adventures and this until we were driving home with her swaddled in a blanket. At that moment Chris and I burst into laughter because it became hilariously impossible to avoid the "coming home from the hospital" comparison. It is pretty funny to hear myself and Chris engage in conversations over the last couple days that could just as easily apply to a tiny person as to a tiny kitten. I'm seeing parenting styles emerge and actually finding the whole thing to be really fascinating and heartwarming. I didn't put this level of thought into it before we brought her home, but now that she's here I'm learning a lot (and not just that its next to impossible to empty a dishwasher when a kitten is obsessed with laying on top of your feet at all times). There isn't much more to say about the matter, but to let you know that my journey forward, to my surprise, includes a kitten named Munchie.

It's not every day someone tells you they've had "fun" in your uterus. This was exactly the sentiment of my (slightly disconcertingly) chipper surgeon at my follow up appointment. She said, "This case was just so cool, I loved it!!". I told her I was glad to provide her with some excitement. I had hoped that an ultrasound would be done to visually confirm that all went well, but my doc wants to wait until I'm off the post-surgical hormones to get a clear view of how my body is handling the procedure. Everything seems to have gone well though. All signs point to a success (can we all collectively knock some wood though please because you know how the Universe likes to have a giggle at my expense). 

I asked my doctor, assuming we confirm that the surgery was successful, when she thought we could try to conceive again. She said she would be comfortable with it much sooner than I expected! I stared at her holding by breath waiting for the catch. This year has not prepared me for a plan that doesn't come with significant detours, caveats, and compromises.  So I also inquired if any special precautions would be taken when I get pregnant again with regards to my newly renovated uterus. She replied "Not really". She said that she would pretty much be "downgrading me" to a "normal pregnant person". The idea of being "downgraded" to any sort of normality (whatever that means...pretty sure that's not a thing, but still...) gave me full body chills. It gave me a kind of concrete feeling of hope. Then just as she gave-eth she took-eth away a little by reminding me that there wasn't actually any guarantee that the uterine septum was the reason I miscarried in first place, but that the best we could do was remove the potential obstacle and hope for the best with my next one.  The crazy part is, I actually do feel capable of hoping for the best right now. 

Nine months ago the idea of a version of myself who could see the bright side of this would have felt like a fantasy (or a joke). Maybe you're out there reading and you just miscarried for the first time and it feels like that version of you will truly never exist. I wanted to share this little chapter of my journey because I felt the same way at many (and I mean many) stages along the way. Maybe you're not at a point where you can let yourself feel hopeful yet. That's okay. I think that's part of it. Just try to take my word (or store it in the back of your mind for later) that this day exists for you in a future you perhaps can't see yet. That applies to whatever you happen to be going through that feels never-ending or is plaguing you. Everything on Earth changes, and that goes for the pain too. 

I'm still on a road that doesn't have a clear end. There are still ups and downs and scars that I am driving away with. There are definitely so many more unknowns than knowns, but the quality of the journey keeps altering so I guess I'll just keep on driving forward and see what's next. 

Very rarely the Aurora Borealis can be seen in places as far reaching as New York. This last weekend was one of those times. On a whim, I drove an hour and half outside the city at one in the morning in hopes of catching a glimpse. 

Chris and I were having dinner with one of my oldest friends (scratch that, my oldest friend. my first friend, in fact) and his wife (you know that thing where a good friend finds a partner who is even more fabulous than you could have dreamed up for them? she’s like that). We were finishing up our meal and deciding where to head next. Chris threw out the idea that if we drove upstate outside the ambient lights of the city there was an off-chance we could view the Northern Lights. In the kind of fevered decision making process that either results in total greatness or utter disaster, we decided to go for it. Chris and I went home to fetch our car and a camera and in the meantime our friends gathered blankets and a stargazing picnic of Oreos, almonds, and bourbon. 

We let the city lights fade behind us with only a rough estimate of where we were heading and a map of dubious origins that supposedly indicated the best aurora borealis visibility areas. By the time we arrived in the little town upstate where the internet told us a stargazing club often meets, things weren’t looking incredibly promising. The moon was glaring like a spotlight (an enemy to viewing the ionospheric light show apparently...and don't be scared, I only know the term "ionospheric" in this context because I was just reading an article about the northern lights) and the sky was otherwise obscured by tree cover. The proper Jack Kerouac quotes to tattoo on our butts to memorialize this experience were being bandied about jokingly (as one does). When “My witness is the empty sky” came up as an option we all burst into laughter at the absurdity of this (what seemed to be, at that point, failed) mission. 

It was sometime after that (and following a very dark and winding drive through an increasingly wooded terrain) when we found the entrance to a park and reservoir. Within we came to a clearing in the trees and almost didn’t believe our eyes when we discovered a few other star chasers convened there as well. We looked up to see great wispy streaks scarring the sky above us and fell silent in astonishment that it appeared we had actually done it. We laid on our backs under piles of blankets and stared up at the celestial formations above and the shockingly bright veil of stars. The air was chilly and smelled like trees and in that moment there was no other place on Earth I would have rather been. One by one our fellow astronomy enthusiasts dispersed so that it was just us and the crickets and the stars. 

At one point my girlfriend said, “You should write about this in your blog”. Until then it hadn’t occurred to me to link the two things. Here I was focusing on what I could bring up and examine from the last few months when the very title of this blog implies the present and the future. It turns out that part of my ever forward includes relishing and honoring the spontaneity and the adventures that wouldn't have been available to me if I currently had a two week old. Life didn’t go the way I wanted it to or the way I had planned, but it marched forward without my consent and it continues to present precious opportunities to love the life I have. It continues to present opportunities to learn from the disappointments and the heartbreaks. I think I’m at a point where I can recognize and appreciate those opportunities again. I'm not saying that I am or will ever be "over" it. When your heart shatters and then gets glued back together it will never be exactly the same. However, gazing up at the Northern Lights with dear friends and considering the vastness and beauty of the galaxy of which we are just one tiny part did wonders for refocusing my perspective. 

Well, friends here I am. I made it through surgery. I made it through my due date. I made it through. There was laughter, there was Percocet, there were surprisingly few tears, there were neurotic panic moments, and there was an outpouring of love from family and friends. When I woke up the day after my surgery I felt the most intense sense of relief. The septum was no longer making my uterus a hostile environment, the due date was no longer looming, I was breathing. 

The surgical experience felt as alien and sci-fi as I had imagined (with a fun side or post-traumatic flashes from my d&c). This time they marched myself and six other people (who all happened to be men I offhandedly observed) from the first triage area to the pre-op area. I had to unceremoniously say goodbye to Chris in the hallway. Being in a solemn line up of patients in matching gowns and grippy socks made me uneasy. There was a very lambs-being-led-to-slaughter vibe as we were herded down the comfortless hospital hallways. Upon arriving I was assigned a curtained-off pod where I sat in a chair covered in a sheet and reflexively started to cry. My fellow lambs all seemed to have a doctor immediately sit down with them but mine was nowhere to be found. I sat alone with numb tears rolling down my cheeks. An orthopedic surgeon who can only be described as looking like a classic "dude" walked by and peered into my pod on the way to his patient. "Oh don't cry", he quipped glibly, "it's not that bad". Um hey, buddy, I was actually supposed to be in here having a baby today and instead I'm having part of my body surgically removed so how bout you let me be the judge of how bad it is, kaykay? Thaaanks.

The rest proceeded as expected -- the merciful curtain of anesthetized darkness, waking up shivering uncontrollably and being packed with blankets by every nurse that passed, the coming back into your body in the surreal way that modern medicine allows. They let Chris come into the post anesthesia care unit briefly and he stroked my hair and told me that the doctor said it went well and reported that Joan Rivers had been taken to the hospital (or I may have just overheard that from a passing nurse... I was heavily sedated). When I was more awake I went to another recovery room where mom, dad, and Chris took turns coming to sit with me. A nurse brought me tea. I was given instructions & prescriptions and shakily got into a wheelchair that was ultimately rolled out to the car by Jeremy who stopped by in an old fashioned candy striper uniform (again, that part could have been the drugs) to verify with his own eyes that I was still alive. 

I don't remember the car trip at all, but I got home. I laid down on the sofa and realized : It was over. And everything felt... different. In some ways I think I was waiting for this day to see if my heart could actually handle it and then when it did it was pretty unceremonious. I had to surrender the better part of this year to doctors, to the workings of my body that were out of my control, to processing the worst emotional pain I've ever felt, but here I was on the other side. And the clearest feelings I could zero in on were relief and readiness. Readiness to reclaim myself. It felt pretty euphoric to recognize that that's all I had left to do.

I took a week off from posting a blog entry last week not because I was so terribly physically laid up, but because I didn't want to reconnect with this journey quite yet. The distance that I feeling was really refreshing. Now I've dipped back in and it feels so good to talk to all of you from this new place and perspective. This blog was always about the ways we find to keep breathing and laughing and moving through the hostile environments life sends us through and this is part of that. I can't say I have any idea what ever forward means from here, but I will keep you posted as I figure it out...