This afternoon, I was tap-tap-tapping away at my keyboard, when my phone buzzed with a text message from Adam.
ADAM: Honey, I’m sorry, but can you help me clarify something about fertility stuff? Is the $5,000 cap for ALL fertility drugs? I thought the financial aid person at the clinic said it was just for IVF.
ME: She did, but she was wrong. The nurse at the insurance company told me that it all comes out of the same allowance. Why, is it crazy expensive?
ADAM: We reached the cap, so the copay for FSH is $600.
For reference, we have done ONE other cycle so far. ONE. And it required $120 worth of fertility drugs, because we did Clomid, which is so old, it’s what Mary took to conceive Jesus. Just kidding, Mary was a teen, and everyone knows that the best way to get pregnant is to be totally financially unprepared to have a child. Which is excellent fucking news, because after we’re done burning through the rest of our cap for two entire cycles, we will have none dollars and none cents left, it appears. I assume I’ll be pregnant with octuplets by Halloween.
I mean, yeah, we can find 600 bucks, and I realize that we’re lucky that this is the case, but who knows what the next thing will be? “Oh, sorry, we only cover one actual IUI procedure. After that, we ask that you earn out the rest by dressing up in a chicken suit and standing at the corner of the street that runs past the clinic, holding a sign that says, ‘CLUCK, CLUCK. ARE YOUR EGGS WORTH A BUCK? INQUIRE WITHIN.'”
It’s just barely a stretch, I assure you.