In a parallel universe somewhere, there is a me that is almost 16 weeks pregnant now. Little Blueberry is still growing strong inside of her. She has made it past the Bermuda Triangle that is known to most as the first trimester. She has already heard the heartbeat, probably seen Blueberry doing mini acrobatics on the shadowy screen of the ultrasound. The belly swell cannot be hidden anymore, and she and the fiance have already told all of their family and friends.
In a few weeks, they may find out if Blueberry is a boy or a girl. The alternate universe me is seriously considering names now. She has actually bought some baby items, and is starting to find maternity clothing to get her through the summer months. They are probably researching doulas in the area, and starting to narrow down a few that they would like to interview...
Yesterday was 8 weeks to the day that I lost my Blueberry...
I had made it through most of yesterday without even giving a thought to what had happened to me, to Blueberry just 2 months before.
And then on the drive home from spending the day in the city, it hit me. Out of nowhere. I should be 16 weeks pregnant right now. And I am not.
