Flotsam

I just returned from SuperTarget, where I had a 15-minute conversation with a hugely pregnant woman who is due in 3 weeks, 4 days after my due date. It was a bit surreal, actually. She looked quite a lot like me (blond hair my length, green tanktop) except obviously much fatter (because still pregnant). I felt like we were two different endings of a Choose Your Own Adventure book.
We were at the checkout together, where she was buying pillows and lemonade and one of those crib aquarium things. As she was signing her credit card slip, here is what I was putting on the checkout conveyor behind her:

1 box tampons
1 box pantyliners
2 boxes “Heat Therapy” magical stick-on heating pads (brilliant invention, should be given in starter kit when diagnosed with endometriosis)
1 “Calming Lavender” aromatherapy pillow mist (nearly out of Ativan, will henceforth be relying upon PLANTS to stave off wee-hour panic attacks—very stupid idea, I am certain)
1 pair housepants

And here is the part I am ashamed of/sad/angry about. When we first started talking, after she told me she is due the 24th, I didn’t want her to think “Why is this strange woman talking to me about my pregnancy?” etc. but I also didn’t want to say “The 24th? Why I was due on the 19th!” (patting flat(ish) belly) “Baby died, unfortunately.” So I heard myself saying:
“My sister’s due the 19th.”
Now, I don’t even have a sister. And obviously I didn’t have to talk to this woman. But I wanted to—I wanted to commiserate about morning sickness (she and my sister both had it terribly!), wanted to put all those useless pregnancy books I read to good use. I wanted to see what it was like where I would be if things had worked out differently. Later, on my side of the world, I will have a huge vat of Martini and take a scalding bath. Perhaps fix myself a quiet dinner of unpasteurized cheese and sashimi.