I totally understand why most health insurance companies do not cover most fertility treatment. Why would they pay money in order to possibly end up paying even more to maintain the health of your offspring? Bad business all around, though frustrating to those of us who have to choose among a bunch of uncomfortable options to have the opportunity to go through with in vitro.
So far both my hubby and I have asked our parents for help. My mom’s answer deserves a post of its own, so I will save that for a day when I am in better spirits as it will make me cry if I am not emotionally in a place to laugh at it, which is the other choice. The in-laws have graciously agreed to help, but as of right now neither hubby nor I know exactly what that means. He has been trying to reach them for over a week (or so he says, this is so uncomfortable for him that I suspect he’s calling about half as often as he says he is) to no avail, so we’re pursuing a loan so we can go through with the procedure in early December.
I hate debt. Hate. I suspect I am violently allergic to it as it makes me nauseous and gives me headaches. I have never in my life carried a credit card balance. We have a small car payment and a modest mortgage that will be paid off ahead of when it is scheduled. I think I am the only person who looks forward to pay the mortgage day because it means one more payment checked off of the list.
Many years ago, in an effort to pay off my student loan as quickly as possible, I took a second job doing catering serving. It’s hard work, but they are very flexible with scheduling, so I’ve kept with it even after kissing that loan good bye, albeit with occasional six month breaks. But now, with the possibility of a huge loan hanging over us, I have agreed to more hours than I would like to work.
Tonight I get to work the opening of the Cleopatra exhibit at our local museum. There is nothing I enjoy more than being told I need to be exceptionally pleasant to the guests because they are museum benefactors. *forehead smack* And all along I thought my job was to be horrible to people. Guess I have to reserve that for people of modest means.
Then there is the fun of being nearly forty and working with a bunch of college kids. Most of them are fantastic and I enjoy them immensely, but there are a few that I want to pelt with left over dinner rolls when they’re not looking. Lazy, whiny, and more concerned with where they’re going drinking after work than filling water glasses, leaving me to tote load after load of plates of half eaten food to the kitchen.
The part I am most looking forward to (they really need to perfect that sarcastic font for statements like these) is finding out if I know any of the guests. Because that’s not awkward. No matter how cheery and confident I am as I explain why I am wearing and ugly tie and offering them a crab cake, they almost always look at me with pity. I have a good job, I can pay my bills, but I want something more. I guess I just have to know that I am there for good reasons and let them think what they want, even if high school me just wants to go crawl in a locker and hide.
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