Today C. had her baby.
C. and I got pregnant the same week in February. Mine was ectopic; hers was normal and, I presume, more enjoyably conceived.
I tried to be angry or jealous when my pregnancy went south and hers progressed, as I take my responsibility as an infertile crank very seriously, but it never felt right. All I could seem to summon was a vague melancholy, and I find that's still true now; my feeling about the malevolent little embryo that tried to kill me is, how you say, ambivalent.
Even if I had managed to summon up all those twisted, roiling emotions that are supposed to be the specialty of infertile cranks, her simple kindness to me when pregnancy #2 was failing would have bought her my good wishes she sent me a card, the only one of my friends who took the time to put stamp to envelope.
C.'s pregnancy was uncomplicated up until the last few weeks, when it became clear that the baby was breech and hadn't the slightest interest in turning. She was annoyed to learn she'd need a c-section only because she was afraid it would delay her return to the dojo, where she'd enthusiastically and vigorously kicked people in the face up until she was about 32 weeks along.
I predict that she was demanding a cocktail and a raft of sushi only minutes after the birth. Cheers to C. and her new baby.