Babysitter Fees

After I got off the phone, I emailed J.

“Can you call me? I need to talk to you about the Bean.”

“Which one? Calling now…”

As I replied, “The ice ice baby,” the phone rang.

J: “What’s up?”

MB: “I talked to Rose at Dr. K’s. It was so sweet; because the first thing she did when I gave my name was to ask me how the girls were.”

My eyes began to well up immediately, as they did when she had asked me and I stammered a reply about how big and wonderful they have become. I don’t know if the women at that office experience this with all the patients that they treat, but whenever I have any interaction with them, my heart swells and my eyes brim with tears. They could just be asking how my day is, or sending me their new office information. They just have that sort of effect on me.

MB: “I told her that we discovered that both of our Flexible Spending Accounts covers the fee. She was happy to hear that but warned me that the fees are going up this year.”

J: “How much?”

MB: “Four hundred dollars.”

J: “Okay. How much were they before?”

MB: “Two hundred and fifty per year.”

J: “Pay it.”

MB: “Oooohhhkaaay….Pay it? And then what?”

J: “What do you mean? Pay it.”

MB: “It’s just…I mean…What are we doing here? What’s the plan?”

J: “I don’t know what the plan is but I know that I want us to keep paying it until we do.”

MB: “Okay. Okay.”

J: “I’ve got to go. Love you.”

I mumbled something and hung up the phone. This time, hot tears were spilling onto the desk and I couldn’t catch them with just a swipe of the hand.

You see, I technically have three Beans. On that day…January 13, 2005, I was asked to decide whether I wanted two or three. I chose three. J and Dr. K disagreed. Dr. K said that with my diagnosis, the chances of all three of them sticking around were better than most. And, because of my size, the chances of me having a smooth pregnancy with three were slim. All that I remember Jim saying was, “No, no, no…” And when Dr. K used the term, “selective reduction,” I began to fade.

Two then. I chose two. The “best” you could say, as these two looked to be the strongest and most developed of the three. They received an “A” on their report card, while the third Bean received a “B”. Still above average but not good enough? Not to me, but I went along with it. So, while the two As were being prepared to return to me, the B was sent back to the lab, to be frozen and labeled and stowed away to a day yet to be determined. For when my arms would begin aching again and my heart would resume longing for the fullness of a child’s body in my own.

Every year, when I receive the bill, I am reminded that I left one behind. And that I must make that decision eventually. The choices are these: to thaw it and hope that it survives the thaw and implants into my womb; to donate it to another couple; to donate it to science or to simply destroy it. Destroy. It’s such a cruel word and made even worse when I look into the eyes of my girls. Part of them. Conceived at the exact same time with all of the hope and the love that we had to give. Saved, just in case the first time didn’t work. And, now, in case we want another.

It’s a political matter, what to do with these frozen little ice cubes. One that, if I were another woman altogether, who didn’t go through what I have gone through to have my children, may be a simple matter. Destroy might not be as soul crushing a word. But I am not that woman. I am the woman that believes that the miracle that happened to us twice could still happen again. I am the mother that believes that my other child could still return to me.

And so, every year, when I receive the bill. I am reminded that I left one behind. And that one day it will be the right time for it to return to me.