Issue 40: The (astronomical) cost of the loss

Saturday March 16 2019

As far as salt in the wound goes, when a surrogate falls through so late in the game the financial repercussions are like the Himalayan pink stuff. Extortionate. Actually, when I think about it, at times this whole process can feel especially unkind. And so, annoyingly, I can’t stop thinking about it.

Take this morning’s email. Healing time has gone by since we lost Melissa and found Lydia, and Mr B and I are innocently enjoying some avocado on toast at Soho House, smiling at the sun, having innocuous thoughts about non-stressful things. Then this: “Hi IPs (intended parents). You need to set up an escrow account for your new surrogate. The fee is $1,000 again.”

The fee is, I’m sorry, what now? We’ve already paid this once and balked then. For the uninitiated, an escrow account is like a holding account for your money overseas. So all the transactions come out of there. It incurs an admin fee (and a half) to set up and to manage.

“Thanks, but we’ll just keep using the old one,” we replied. “No point having two, totally unnecessary.”

“Hi IPs. For reasons of confidentiality we insist you set up a new account. We will offer a $100 discount as a gesture.”

Ironically, the chat over our avocado on toast had been whether or not we’d take advantage of the Soho House super-special rate when we go to Chicago for a friend’s wedding, because the tax adds another 17.4 per cent. We’d decided not to, saving ourselves $180 or so. And then BAM — $900 down the toilet.

If I tot up everything we’ve wasted already, I feel sick, so I try not to. Mr B, on the other hand, keeps inputting the costs into a spreadsheet. He carries a big burden of knowledge that explains his deepening worry lines.

Today I see frustration and anger written all over his face. You know what it’s like when you’re young and maybe catch your dad crying and your whole safety model goes out the window? Well, if my reliably rock-like husband is crying, what hope is there for the rest of us?

“It just feels so out of control. I don’t know how to control this.” The wobble in his voice is real. So I take the sensible reins and suggest we go somewhere cool and quiet and add everything up that we unfortunately wasted on the failed surrogacy. That way we will have a figure that we can try to wrap our heads around and then never think of again. (Until the next errant expense comes out the woodwork. We’ve had a few of those already.)

Want to know what it costs to find and lose a surrogate on embryo transfer day? It costs about six months of your life for a start, but then it also costs $22,000 of your hard-earned cash. Ooph. That comprises the medical, lawyers for contracts, medication, escrow fees, various insurances, medication for other medical issues, scans, bloodwork, childcare, petrol, missed work, the full works with cherries on top and extra whipped cream and . . .

. . . Sorry, just had to go and breathe into a brown paper bag. How can I rationalise this? How can I make this better? I feel the red mist descending and I hook my flailing frustration on the first thing that comes to mind. It’s retrospective upset. Argh. I don’t think I’m over it.

I feel like a first-dater with someone new who can’t stop going on about their ex. But I realise I just want an acknowledgement. Some emotional justice for this terrible waste. Maybe then I could feel closure, could come to terms with it and move on. It’s human nature to strive for meaning. The difficulty we’re experiencing, when I keep hearing of other smooth and successful surrogacies from well-meaning people who write to me, means I struggle to make sense of it.

This waste is equivalent to, at best, a Pret A Manger lunch every day for six years. At worst a family car we’ll hopefully need one day, but now can’t justify buying. I’ll just resolve to make my own sandwiches and try not to think of what we’ve lost. I know that one day, when we reach our precious goal, we’ll forget about all of this. It’s impossible to put a value on a family, the money really shouldn’t matter in the end. Only right now — as maddening as leaving a suitcase full of your savings on the bus — it really does.