We recently paid an invoice for $215, being the annual storage fee for our daughter's umbilical cord blood that was harvested at her birth and is now held for us at CordBank's purpose-built cryopreservation facility in Auckland.
It's a weird bill to receive. We're paying for the storage of some biological matter we've never seen, we've (thankfully) never used, we hope never to need and, honestly, we don't quite understand.
From memory, in 2003 it cost about $1,800 to have this precious cord blood collected, couriered, tested and frozen. Now it's $2,900. The premise as pitched by CordBank is that "[y]our baby's cord blood provides a rich source of stem cells that are the only perfect DNA match for your baby, should he or she ever need a transplant."
I'll admit we didn't research this opportunity as well as we could have. I was otherwise engaged. I had to furnish a nursery, knit bootees and buy a crib. I sought labour advice from homeopaths, acupuncturists and breathing experts, hired a portable birthing pool - and went to Ponsonby-based weekly yoga classes for pregnant people in which we were asked to close our eyes and imagine our bodies opening up like a flower.
But the point is that pregnancy was a very busy time. In response to our casual enquiries about the new cord banking service, my obstetrician indicated that it probably wasn't a silly idea. Kevin and I then did our heads in with the what-ifs. What if our baby ended up needing the cord blood? What if we hadn't stored it? What if we never forgave ourselves? What if our short-sighted frugality turned into a decision we would regret forever? By the time we'd had this conversation more than twice it seemed easier just to sign up. At its essence it struck us as being a form of insurance - and, like many kinds of insurance, it was almost a grudge purchase rather than something we fully embraced.