A family friend is finally pregnant after seven failed attempts. That's seven miscarriages; not an intercourse count. She told me this news over some sausage rolls at a recent gathering. She was careful to provide her observations on the process losing seven of your unborn children against your will, and also vivid details of the oppressive psychosis she now experiences when ovulating.
I chewed my
hors d'oeuvres deliberately and unhurriedly, to give me time to formulate a response. Congratulations did not seem appropriate at all. Neither did any kind of well wishing, really. "I'm so happy for you," seemed like a trite dismissal of her near-decade of emotional devastation. But I didn't want to offer condolences either. "That blows" would probably have unintended consequences. Ditto, "I'm sorry." And I really didn't want to say a single thing that involved the word "finally." I knew that would be the worst thing to say.
That said, this wasn't really sausage roll talk and she probably knew it. But a pregnant chick is a lot like a homemade still. She's filled to the brim with volatile chemicals and her collapse into flames is not inconceiveable. As she unfolded her saga of procreation, I knew I had to be careful with my words. She was like any car in Lebanon: an explosion waiting to happen.
Why the hell am I talking to pregnant chicks in the first place? Where's that girl with the miniature Samosas? Should I change the subject? Not completely of course. I could talk about a friend of mine who's also pregnant. But that could backfire. I'm sure she hates thinking about the ease of other people's complication-free pregnancies. Should I talk about the weather? Everyone loves talking about the weather.
As they phyllo evaporated in my mouth, my friend had stopped speaking. It was my turn.
"Holy shit."
She nodded gently and smiled. Her eyes became slightly wet.
"Yeah," she said quietly.
