Money to burn

A recent post over at Karen's (and the unmissable comments that followed) made me decide to share with you a certain key story from my childhood. It's one of those quintessential Mare family legends, referred to in hushed and reverent tones, even to this day.

It is the tale of the Burning of the $100 Bill.

It was just after Christmas. I was eleven years old. We had driven down to see my grandparents, and to endure the agony of the gift-giving ritual with them. I say agony, because my grandmother had extremely weird ideas about what constituted an acceptable present. Usually, what she would do is just look around the house to see if there was any stuff she no longer wanted. Then she'd wrap it up and stick it under the tree. One year, she gave me a grubby old softball.

But on this particular occasion, my grandfather (a real grumpy old coot) presented me with an envelope. Inside was a crisp new $100 bill. My jaw dropped. I have no idea what had come over him. I have since wondered if he had been at the bottle of port, because never before (and never again) was he ever so generous.

In today's terms, $100 may not seem like a lot of money. But for me, at eleven years old, it was an astonishing sum. I really don't know if I can convey to you how much it meant to me to be given this present. I put the envelope in my room, periodically slipping away from the festive merry-making to gaze at it. A $100 bill! All for me! From my mean grandfather! As a cautious little hoarder of money, I knew I was likely to thrill over it for a long time until finally, after much deliberation, I would blow it on some long-desired purchase.

When it came time to leave, somehow or other, the envelope was placed in a bag with a bunch of other stuff, including the old wrapping paper from some of the presents. In the general confusion of decanting ourselves from the car upon our arrival back home, that bag somehow got left in the trunk.

You'd think, given my fascination with the money, that I would have noticed sooner that the envelope was missing. But I didn't. There were lots of things to bring in, bags to unpack, all the other presents to stash away. And despite growing up to be a very organized and meticulous adult, I was a rather sloppy and distractable child.

Of course, I did remember, eventually. Where was the envelope? Where oh where? Not in my little purse, not in my suitcase, not with the other presents.

I wandered down to the kitchen to ask my mother if she'd seen it.

No, she said, preoccupied with getting dinner ready. Had I taken it out of the car?

I wasn't sure. It was in a bag, I recalled, with some other things...including the....old wrapping paper....

My mother turned around, suddenly, eyes wide.

"You'd better go ask your father," she said. "He's out back...burning the trash."

I never quite understood my father's fascination with burning the trash- most people I know just throw things away. I guess it was because we lived in a house in the middle of nowhere, away back a long gravel lane, and to haul all the rubbish out to the main road was a real pain. So my dad had a big old metal garbage can with holes cut in the bottom- and once a week or so, he would have a huge bonfire of the family's paper trash.

Oh god, my heart is beating faster just writing this, remembering. I went outside, and from a distance, I could see him tipping piles of papers into the bin. A flash of white, a sudden sprinkle of sparks. And everything went into super slow motion as I ran toward him, hand outstretched, screaming.

Stooooooooooooooooop!

Too late. He'd taken out the few presents and without checking further, dumped the bag with what he thought was just the remaining wrapping paper into the fire. By the time I reached it, the envelope- with the money still inside it- was going up in smoke.

As I stood there, horrified, a small piece of ash fluttered out and landed on the ground. I bent down and picked it up. All that remained of my grandfather's Christmas present- a tiny, charred green corner of the $100 bill.

The angry recriminations that followed are too unpleasant to recount. Let's just say there were tears, trauma and blame. Oh, how I sobbed that day. Why hadn't I looked after the envelope, or at least told somebody that the cash was in that bag? Why had my dad been so hasty to get on with burning the trash an hour after we got home? Why oh why oh why? From then on, we instituted a new rule about communicating, very clearly, as to the whereabouts of money or other important stuff- as in, I AM PUTTING THE CHECK BY THE DOOR, HERE, TO GO TO THE BANK IN THE MORNING. Over twenty years later, we're still doing that.

My dad felt so badly about the accidental incineration that he ended up quietly replacing the money on my desk later that week- a gesture for which he has my undying gratitude. But it wasn't the same, and we both knew it. And there was a part of me that never quite got over it.

I think I'm telling this story here and now (and I'm nearly finished, I promise) because I am well aware that we are on the brink of spending an awful lot of money for a medical treatment that may not work. Of course, compared to the price of IVF, $100 is a drop in the bucket- but that's not really the point. We could potentially end up throwing vast sums of cash on the bonfire of IVF, with absolutely nothing to show for it. And the very prospect stirs such a vivid and unhappy childhood memory.

Standing before the tinderbox of fertility treatment, I want to take the eleven year old girl within, and gently- very gently- cover her eyes.

Comments

[Suz]

Oh wow. Poor 11-year-old Mare. I don't think I've read a better explanation of what it feels to spend so much money on something that might not work.

[Molly]

Oh God. I would cry if that happened, even today. Hoping, hoping it works for you.

[Emily]

Sweetie, as someone who has spent a nest egg's worth and got nothing to show for it; I can attest that you will survive in the unlikely event that happens.

In your case, I'm certain that you'll be needing that money for other things -- such as a layette.

Thinking of you and sending much love your way as you embark.

[Amyesq]

ARGH! Poor 11-year old Mare! What an apropos story.

[LEB]

It really is terrifying isn't it - standing on the precipice not knowing how far down the ground is - I'm shitting myself atm.

[Louise]

My stomach dropped reading that. I know exactly what that devestation feels like. I see how fitting it is to your situation right now, and I hope you aren't made to feel like that 11-year old Mare again.

[Jane]

Hello Mare. New lurker here. I'm praying and crossing my fingers for you. I know a lot about how you feel. Your entry hit a nerve with me today. If you have time, please visit here and let me know whether my initial blinding anger was way out of line:

http://www.gutrumbles.com

[Scroll down to the entry called "Sorry" and read the comments].

I hope I'm not being rude, but thought ya'll might have something to say. Thanks.

[ManhattanAnne]

Hi Mare. I really hear you about fearing the burning costs of IVF. If I have my fourth miscarriage on schedule "as planned," we're thinking about surrogacy, i.e. trying IVF in the body of someone without a stealth autoimmune problem. But combined surrogacy/IVF would be really really expensive. Really really risky. Possibly to a self-incinerating degree? Part of me thinks, right, I should sign up for adoption. Cause even though that itself isn't cheap, at least you're all but guaranteed a baby at the end. And I don't know how many more dreams I can stand to see go up in smoke...

[ManhattanAnne]

Hi Mare. I really hear you about fearing the burning costs of IVF. If I have my fourth miscarriage on schedule "as planned," we're thinking about surrogacy, i.e. trying IVF in the body of someone without a stealth autoimmune problem. But combined surrogacy/IVF would be really really expensive. Really really risky. Possibly to a self-incinerating degree? Part of me thinks, right, I should sign up for adoption. Cause even though that itself isn't cheap, at least you're all but guaranteed a baby at the end. And I don't know how many more dreams I can stand to see go up in smoke...

[Kristin]

I hope you never have to experience the disillusionment that your 11 year old self went through.

[Lynnette]

I definitely identify with this one. First of all, Great Aunt Martha was an unused household items gift giver. Old sweaters, tea cozies, you name it! To this day, I always remember with fondness the c notes that infrequently came my way, from others in the family and how desperately they were always needed at the time. I just sent off two $100 checks to our niece and nephew graduating from high school, something I started a few years back for the first one. It's D's side of the family, and he always wants to know, "why so much?" I ask him how he felt when he got a nice monetary gift like that back then, and he quickly remembers. "Pretty darn good." And, I hate to say it but the longer you do progressively more expensive ART treatments, the easier it becomes to spend the money. $1000 becomes the equivalent of $100. It seems weird to me, that in the future we may be able to pay cash for a new car, instead of a payment plan. We're getting really good at saving up and driving old clunkers around!

[ovagirl]

Beautiful post.Such a great (and horrific) image. I'm still a little way up the gravel path from the IVF bonfire but by God I can see it burning in the distance. Courage.

[Shari]

In many countries, if you take a remnant of badly damaged currency to the bank, they will replace it. I once found a fifty dollar bill that had fallen in a puddle and been there so long half of it was just soggy goo which fell off the "good" half. The bank replaced it. I was 19 and in university and was so thrilled about that found $50! Maybe there's some kind of benevolent force in the universe which will be the bank to replace your money if IVF burns it. Maybe I should stop drinking and go to bed. (Just kidding. About the drinking, not going to bed). We're here for you.

[patricia]

It's scary isn't it? gut wrenchingly terrifying. I suppose it would be different if we were Brooke Shields and the money was never an issue. But even the emotional investment is a scary thing to lose.