Hannah’s story

We found out we were expecting our second child a week before Christmas, our hearts so full of joy. 2025 was going to be our year, and our family would be complete.

January normally feels like a long month, but add in the anxiety of getting to that 12-week scan, and it felt like a lifetime.

We attended our scan and saw our little baby, heart beating and legs kicking, but the sonographer was unable to get the measurements needed for NT. We had a wander round and tried again, but our baby wasn’t playing ball, so we booked to go back the following week.

We went home so happy and started telling colleagues, friends and family. We had no reason to think anything was untoward; the same thing happened with our daughter, so why would this be any different? When we returned the following week, our lives changed forever. I’ll never forget the words “I’ll be really surprised if there’s nothing wrong with this baby”. We were told to be prepared for there to be no heartbeat next time.

A few days later, on Valentine’s Day, we got the results of my blood tests, which revealed a greater than 1 in 2 chance of Down’s syndrome and 1 in 49 chance of Edwards’ and Patau’s.

After a conversation with the screening team, we decided the next step was an amniocentesis, which couldn’t be conducted until 15 weeks. The wait between our scan and the amnio was like nothing I can explain – life as you know it hangs in the balance, and all you can do is wait and hope.

I cried throughout my amnio, desperate to know what was wrong with our baby but petrified of what might happen next.

We had our 16-week midwife appointment, one which was so full of excitement in my first pregnancy, but felt like torment the second time around. I wanted to hear the heartbeat, but equally prayed for this decision to be taken out of my hands. I cried when I heard it, relieved, after all, there was still a chance it would all be okay.

A few days later, we got the results of the amnio, our baby boy had T21 – Down’s syndrome. I can’t really describe how I felt in that moment – I feel like my mind left my body and hasn’t ever returned.

Whilst we didn’t know for sure, we had discussed at length over the last 4-5 weeks what we would do. An endless amount of research into what a diagnosis would mean for our baby and family.

The conversations were unbearable – what happens if we die? Would our daughter become a carer? What happens if he dies – how will that impact our daughter? Will our daughter resent us? Resent him? How much will he suffer? What if he was taken advantage of in the future – abused, cuckooed? Ultimately, can we give both children the lives they deserve? We felt the answer to that question was no.

I had never heard of TFMR before I had one – something I now hear all the time. A few days after receiving the phone call I was in the hospital to begin the process. I never thought it would happen that quickly. There was a whole part of the delivery ward I never knew existed. I mean, why would I? Secluded from the joy was a garden of lost children, letters to babies who never got to live.

We went home and spent the next day preparing to go back to the hospital to birth our son. We printed pictures, bought teddies and books to leave with him.

I can still feel the wail I let out as Ethan was born, something I can never unhear and never unfeel. As he lay on my chest, I sobbed. Is he alive? What have I done?

We lay with him all night, held him, read to him, told him how much we loved him and how sorry we were. Our son – so loved, so wanted, why did it have to be this way?

Leaving the hospital with a memory box of footprints and photos, walking past those in labour, into a lobby of people where no one knows what has just happened, is like an out-of-body experience – your whole world has changed, and no one has a clue.

We returned to an empty home, ill-prepared for postpartum, and I had an overwhelming urge to be on my own – something which later became consuming.

Planning our son’s funeral was not the ending I envisaged when I saw the word ‘pregnant’ on that test.

I visited Ethan at the funeral directors, his coffin surrounded by teddies. I held him one final time before his send-off, “Mommy and Daddy will see you in the morning”. His coffin was so small, sprayed with blue and white flowers. My partner carried him in with the sun shining down. We said goodbye to the sound of Ocean Eyes; his eyes would have been blue just like ours and his sisters.

As I write this, six months post TFMR, I speak to those in the same position. When I frantically searched the internet for someone, anyone, I drew a blank. There were many harrowing stories, but few were willing to admit they terminated after a T21 diagnosis. As with any grey diagnosis, there is no way of knowing how severe the outcome would be; if we knew, our decision may have been different. You make the decision that you feel is best for you and your family at the time.

For me, the judgment cuts deep, and I seek constant reassurance that I did the right thing. The guilt and shame surrounding that decision is something I don’t think I’ll ever be at peace with.

We did it out of love for both of our children. We suffer so he didn’t have to. We carry him with us always and endeavour to honour his life every day.