(The Final Chapter of the Baby Lux Story)
The night before the surgery was the night we were admitted through the Emergency Room.
Everything had happened so quickly — the unexpected ultrasound results, the doctor’s explanation about a possible molar pregnancy, the sudden instruction to go straight to the hospital.
By the time we were finally settled into our room, all three of us were emotionally drained.
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That afternoon, I began quietly counting the minutes.
Around 1:30 p.m., I kept glancing at the clock. We had originally been told that I might be wheeled to the operating room around 2:00 p.m., but one of the resident doctors had also warned me earlier that my OB still had other patients scheduled before me.
So it might be 3:00 p.m.
Or even 4:00 p.m.
Still, the waiting made every minute feel longer.
Nurses came in and out of the room throughout the afternoon, checking my blood pressure, oxygen levels, and asking the usual questions. Each time the door opened, I wondered if it was finally time.
At 3:30 p.m., the gurney finally arrived.
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Part 1 ended with us entering the hospital not knowing exactly what the next hours would bring.
Morning came anyway.
And with it came the quiet understanding that the day ahead would ask us to let go of the life we had begun imagining.
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This is what happened next…
Today was quieter than yesterday.
Not calm exactly… but softer.
At around 3 p.m., Hanz and I went to the diagnostic center for the blood test. The one that would say, clearly and officially, whether this pregnancy was real or not. We waited, did what we had to do, and then decided not to hover. We went to a nearby restaurant for my first meal of the day.
It was a nice moment. Ordinary in the best way. Good food. Sitting across from my husband. Life continuing while something very big hovered in the background.
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This is a personal diary series written in real time.
It’s about pregnancy and perimenopause — not as medical advice, not as inspiration, and not as a lesson already learned — but as lived experience while it’s still unfolding.
I’m not writing this to explain myself, to perform gratitude, or to arrive at neat conclusions.
I’m writing to witness what it feels like to be here.
Some entries may hold uncertainty, grief, tenderness, or contradiction.
That doesn’t mean I’m lost — it means I’m present.
I’m not looking for advice, reassurance, or interpretation.
What I welcome instead is quiet witnessing.
If you’re reading because you’re curious, reflective, or simply human — thank you.
If you’re looking for certainty, answers, or conclusions — this may not be the place.
This is not an announcement.
It’s a diary.
MomTraNeur 