After I had my second son, Charles, I almost didn't make it home. I had internal bleeding after my C-section that the nurses didn't catch until it was nearly too late — even though Tommy kept telling them something was wrong.
The dismissal we received from one nurse in particular, along with a review of my medical records in the hospital, prompted many of my friends in the medical field to ask if I was going to sue.
The details of all of that are a story for another day (and why having an advocate in the hospital is so critical, even for “routine” procedures), but it impacts today’s story, which is why I’m mentioning it.
After that experience, I was DONE having kids. DONE. DONE. DONE. I was in therapy for PTSD for months and had panic attacks watching medical shows or even driving by the hospital. I had to throw out the hospital bag that I lovingly packed in my third trimester because when I saw it on the laundry room floor, half emptied, it triggered a panic attack, complete with full-blown flashbacks, where I ended up on the floor and didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t even touch the pajamas I wore in the hospital for months. I’m so grateful for an incredible therapist (and medication) who helped me move past all of it.
Then, when Charles was 3 months old, I got my annual $800 embryo storage bill. Embryo - singular. We have just one sitting on ice. I must have thrown the bill away in a postpartum haze because I got a reminder about it being past due 3 months later. I paid it, mostly to get it off my desk, without wanting to give it much emotional thought when I was in the throes of the newborn stage.
The next year, just after his 1st birthday when the same annual bill arrived, I thought about the storage fee a little bit more. My husband agreed that we should postpone the decision a bit longer, but I told a friend that I wanted to donate it to science since I still wasn't even ready to think about using it.
And then this year, when I got the bill, I realized something had changed in me.
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