It felt like a cliche out of a medical drama. We huddled together in the ultrasound room, marvelling at the shadow of our baby moving on the screen in the darkness; behind us, the technician quietly left the room “just to check some numbers”. The wait stretched out; five, 10 minutes. When she finally returned, a more senior doctor in tow, we knew something was horribly wrong.

Several sleepless nights and tear-filled days later, we had our diagnosis. Our daughter had a genetic syndrome – not inherited from either of us but a completely random genetic error that occurred during cell division – that put her chance of living until birth at something close to 1%. Even if she were safely born, she could never have children of her own without drastic intervention and would require medical care throughout her life – care we could not afford to provide.

The choice that was presented to us was horrendous.

Those words are insufficient. We stared at the walls and moved through our days in a daze, in a fog of confusion and fear. The bright sun and beautiful weather became mocking, cruel. After fighting so long to become pregnant, we had been struck by a curse, a one-in-a-thousand fluke of nature, a bolt from the blue that destroyed our lives. But we had to face the reality of the situation: a week after the diagnosis, tearful and worn........

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