Flotsam

Walking to my car in the morning, I tend to look fearfully over my shoulder and clutch my wrap about me. It is, after all, before sunrise, and the darkness, combined with living in what is known as a “transitional neighborhood” (meaning precariously perched between areas of impossible affluence and impassible poverty) brings out the coward in me.
But not today. This morning I ambled toward the rayless parking lot secure in the knowledge that in my hand I held the perfect weapon: a full liter of my own urine.
The hand-off at the clinic was uneventful, and not in a good way. Remember how I sternly requested a Repeat Pregnancy Loss Panel? Well, when I requested it, Nurse CC seemed not to know what I meant at first. I thought I explained it to her properly, but today a different nurse showed me the note Nurse CC had written on my chart, and all it said was “antiphospholipid antibody test?” which is only a part of the RPL, and really I am more concerned with the thrombophila panel, because women with PCOS/high insulin tend to produce elevated levels of PAI-1, which can lead to all kinds of unpleasantness.
This all seems to be moot at the moment, though, because according to the nurse, Dr. Doctor is not sure RPL testing is warranted in my case. She will further review my charts and get back to me. When she does get back to me, I shall remind her that the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists now recommends testing after only two miscarriages, and surely they have their reasons.

Now on to a pleasanter topic. The bloggers whose acquaintances I have made over fiber optic lines have made my hours happier ones. They have provided amusement, enlightenment, and support. They have allowed me to be a part of a community that has provided sustenance where before there was none. Still, as wonderful as my Internets are, it is lonely in the real world, sometimes.
I wish so badly that I could meet some of you in person—and not merely because of your infertility histories, but because how often does one come across women as whip-smart and hilarious and kind as my fellow bloggers? Probably you, my chickens, feel the same way. Unfortunately, if you live in Tallahassee or Kalamazoo, I cannot help you, because the only way I could afford to get there would be by postcard, as someone once said.
If, however, you live in the Midwest—and I know some of you do—I highly encourage you to attend the delightful dinner Molly and I are planning. Well, Molly is doing most of the planning, and I am mainly, as you can see, doing the groveling. Please come! There will be drinks, and food, and more drinks, and the very best company.
We are thinking sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, in Minneapolis. If you have a schlep to get to the Twin Cities from wherever you are, and would rather not drive home after the dinner, I humbly offer up my apartment couch, provided you are not allergic to cats or The Nearly. Or we could rent a hotel room and decimate the minibar. The point is, you should come—why should the bloggers clustered on the coasts, who seem to have genial soirees every fortnight, have all the fun?