Tears of a Clown

I had to cancel my first trimester ultrasound today, and it hit me harder than makes sense.  I was startled by my tears.  I felt like an idiot standing outside the doors of my law school, sniffling into a Kleenex as I call three places to assure it’s canceled.  I canceled it because my insurance sucks bilgewater, because we are poor people who are getting old and decided to plan our babies around our biological clocks rather than our bank accounts, and because we can’t throw hundreds of dollars out the door just so I can see my baby girl when she’s still a tadpole.

Surprisingly, I really really really was looking forward to this, and really wanted to meet her.  We call her "her" even though we can’t possibly know.  If she’s a he, I’ll be just as thrilled, as I’ve adored my boy so far.  Until I hit 20 weeks, we can only guess, and we’ve decided to guess girl.  Anyway, I was really thrilled about seeing her little blobby self on a screen.  I haven’t heard her heartbeat or anything yet, and I couldn’t wait to see proof (beyond the mild morning sickness and the greasy hair) that our next sweetie was in there and doing well.  Then we got a couple of bills for Jack’s well child exam and my well-prenatal care visit, and realized the depths of my student health insurance’s suckiness, and now we realize how much we have to pare down.  I’m half convinced I should just have the baby at home, for God’s sake.  It’s not good news when you’re calculating how many prenatal visits you can safely skip.  Preventative care should not run in the thousands, not when you’ve paid thousands in premiums already.

So now I’m back in the library, reading about products liability and wiping away tears, and hoping that nobody I know walks by because nobody I know even knows I’m pregnant.  I like our life here, but I am wearier than ever of being a poor person that nobody in the government, the insurance industry, or anywhere else seems to care about.  We need money.  I’m too old for this.