I drove a minivan in high school. The kind with the fake wood paneling on the side. It was old and wreaked of stale McDonald’s cheesburgers, cigarettes and the bad strawberry air freshener that was working just a little too hard to try and cover up the cigarettes. It had a busted taillight from the time I let Nacho, the foreign exchange student from Mexico back it out of the driveway at a Halloween party. It was ugly as shit. But it was perfect. I could fit half the drill team in the back of that thing to cruise around town with our pom poms and Natty Lite. And I loved how at only 95 pounds, I felt like I ruled the road.
I always assumed there would come a stage in life when I’d drive a minivan again.
But minivans aren’t for people like me.
They’re for my sister-in-law who is about to have her (whoopsie) fourth baby, any hour now. That phone call is a-coming. They’re for those friends of mine who once rode in the back of my own minivan. Even the ones who swore back then they’d never drive one themselves. They’re for the woman in the elevator at my doctor’s office on the day I found out that this cycle, too, had failed. She had an adorable little girl and an equally-adorable 8-month bump and politely looked away as I struggled to hold back my tears.
Today will be my last appointment with the Dragon Lady. For a while at least. Not necessarily because she got my hopes up this time, only to be dashed again – though I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a small part of it. But because it’s starting to look like this ever-building mound of medical bills, prescription payments and IVIG infusion costs isn’t going away any time soon. And on top of that, it looks like we may need to throw on a round of self-funded IVF. And so something has to give.
So, no, minivans, they are not for me. At least not any time soon.