Financing Infertility: "Hey, Buddy, Can You Spare $10,000?" (Friday)

(Start with "Tuesday" if you can.  I think it's humorous.  Of course, I had a  Memorial Day barbecue buzz when I read it.)   So what were we talking about? Oh right. The absurd prices of fertility treatments. I was telling you how I tried bartering with the bookkeeper at my fertility clinic. 

If you're old enough to remember the game show "Let's Make A Deal",  I was Monty Hall and she had no interest whatsoever in what was behind door #2. 

The most she ever went for was 3 Star Wars collectible glasses as payment for a box of SpongeBob bandaids. 

I also tried to con her into doing a reverse mortgage of sorts. Could I perhaps use my future kid's, future income to pay for fertility treatments? I promised her that he or she would be extremely well-educated and would secure a seven figure position right out of college. 

Of course while I was on my knees pleading my case, two things ran through my head: 1) I had no case;  2) If the fertility treatments worked, I'd be doing the same thing in 18 years in front of the college financial aid people. 

The "check-out" at the medical facility was always the worst part for me. The cashier would start with "The charge for today's visit is..." at which point I would suck in my breath, put my hands over my ears and try to read her lips. For some reason, I thought it would hurt less if I didn't have to hear it. 

The blood withdrawals were just a pinch to me. The bank withdrawals were excruciating. 

And the way the clinic was set up, there was no way to duck out of paying. No chance of slipping into the restroom and then running past the cashier waving a faux receipt;  maybe a prescription or a Taco Bell napkin. 

The cashier was strategically situated between the stairs and the elevator. You were cornered. She blocked the exits like a baseball catcher defending home plate. She was a 170 pound fire hazard.

Clearly feng-shui was not the guiding force in decorating this office. 

Heaven forbid the clinic was going up in a blaze. You were trapped into paying before you evacuated.  I'm sure the cashier's smock was fire retardant. The clinic wasn't going down without collecting every last fee.   

And the cashier was poker-faced. She never seemed fazed about asking anyone to fork over huge sums for brief visits. After-hours,  she probably moonlighted at the food kiosk at the airport.   

And let me tell you, that cash register didn't cool off for a second all day long. Well, you know what they say: "Every time someone is diagnosed with infertility, an angel get its wings".

Listen, I gotta go. I'm going to blow our whole tax refund this weekend on a spa treatment:  Soap on a rope and a callus scraper. I'll talk with ya on Monday.