Issue 28: The costs are out of control
Saturday December 22 2018
Mr B is nothing if not organised. It’s one of the character quirks that makes him a keeper — as does being a hot-sauce aficionado. In a concerted effort to protect me from some of the difficulties around this whole journey, he is treating this as the project of his life. In a way I’m doing it too, here, but his is more of the practical, spreadsheet kind of record-keeping. He knows when every milestone or appointment is happening, when every penny is spent. This is crucial and complicated — and I didn’t realise how much I appreciated not having to worry about it all until I really had to worry about it.
Mr B had been tracking every payment, big or small (who am I kidding? There is no such thing as a small payment where American surrogacy is concerned), when he called me in the middle of a press dinner. I could hear his sweat dripping on to the receiver.
“Babe. I’ve put all the different costs into my spreadsheet and it’s coming way over budget. Either I’ve accidentally put a zero on the end of several lines or this mob is taking us to the cleaners.”
I put down my spoonful of pea velouté and excused myself to the toilet, where it threatened to make a reappearance.
“How?” (My first thought was more expletive, but “how?” is more practical.)
We went in hard when we started researching the costs of surrogacy in the US. We knew it would be painful, we knew we had the equity in our house and we reasoned that it was worth gambling our future on our future.
The first thing we did was Skype with Zoe, the chief executive of the surrogacy agency, and she went through the costs and the timeline. We asked for the worst-case scenario (it not working first time, complications etc), then we added contingency to the contingency and went to sweet-talk our financial adviser.
In a nutshell, our costs have already gone way over what we were initially quoted and agreed with the bank for the whole thing. About 60 per cent over.
We are now staring down the barrel of a situation that is escalating with every unexpected email and payment request.
Mr B got Zoe on the phone there and then and shared his Motherproject spreadsheet with her while I watched via Facetime. It was an uncomfortable two-hour conversation that started with Zoe looking at his final figure and reassuring us: “Well, no, that can’t be right. Let’s go over everything.”
I won’t subject you to every detail, but, to give an idea of how all this spirals, compare it to a wedding where you factor in the big things — venue, catering, dress — but the little details and surprising extras catch you out. At my winter wedding in a barn in the Cotswolds, I agreed I would supply candles for the four lanterns outside, but they would be lit by the venue staff. The charge for the privilege? A hundred and ninety pounds. Eff that shiz, I did it myself before I walked up the aisle.
We knew we needed to pay the surrogate fee, the agency, the doctor and medical package, the legal stuff and the insurance and medication. Once we had all that figured out, however, we kept getting little unhappy surprises.
For example, an email from the agency: “Hi guys, please find Melissa’s extra fees attached.”
Extra fees? Turns out there’s a compensation cost associated with every step of the process and Melissa can choose what she asks for. Compensation for starting to take the medication is $500. Compensation for having an embryo transfer is $500. Compensation for having the caesarean section she has already requested, $5,000. There are various others, but the kicker? Compensation for having a miscarriage is $500. We would lose everything in that terrible instance, but we’d have to pay extra for the pain.
The phone call is wrapping up and Zoe is beginning to realise that Mr B’s spreadsheet is 100 per cent bulletproof. He points her back to that final figure and reiterates what she had initially quoted, versus the cost we’re at now. Her response?
“Well gee, guys, I’m so sorry. I guess it’s more expensive than I thought.” Verbatim. From the chief executive of a surrogacy agency that recruits international clients.
Stunned silence from our end.
“Don’t worry, though. I’ll make sure we take another look at our quotes going forward so this doesn’t happen to anyone else.”
Drop the mike, Zoe. No really, please, drop it. I’m going to need to stabilise my blood pressure and work out where we are going to find the funds to try to finish what we’ve barely even started.
Is this normal? Acceptable? We have no frame of reference, but we remind ourselves that we chose this agency because of the strong initial connection we felt and the kindness of the staff. We’ve come this far, we need to try to trust, but we also need to take control of the situation and come up with a contingency plan.
I can hear Mr B muttering to himself with a calculator in his hand even as I type this “. . . three, three, three . . . so ten months. . . hang on, so her lost earnings. IF that happens, right. . .”
He’s straight back to the spreadsheet drawing board, giving me room to process another huge disappointment. I so badly wanted our experience to be nothing but positive. I wanted to rebuild all the trust I’ve lost along the way — with the medical professionals, with the people we’ve enlisted to help us, with my own body. I want to feel excitement for my new normal. It’s going to be difficult, but as long as there is a plan there is hope, and Mr B is working ours out right now. Put that in your spreadsheet and smoke it.