ZARA DAWSON was told she had no choice but to terminate her pregnancy

So miraculous are 3D pregnancy scans that my husband and I almost forgot why we were there. As we watched our unborn son on the screen in such incredible detail, we fell in love with his perfect little face, button nose and the way he waved and danced about.

There was even a moment when, lying back on the chair, I coughed and we all laughed as Jesse — yes, we’d already named him — kicked wildly. In such moments, maternal delight cloaks grim reality.

Then it hit me like a sledgehammer: this was the last time we would ever see our beloved second son.

The reason for the high-quality scan was to show us the extent of Jesse’s problems; to explain why he was ‘not compatible with life’, as the doctors put it. To underline why I would have to terminate the pregnancy for medical reasons.

The whole punishing ordeal would prove the most difficult time of my life. My husband Lex was with me throughout, but I’ve never felt so isolated and full of shame.

Having to ‘choose’ to end your baby’s life is the most harrowing thing that can ever happen to a woman. Yet mothers like me are left to cradle our sadness in the shadows. Our grief is too complex for society to validate. In my darkest hour, I vowed I would one day speak out in an attempt to smash the stigma. I am a former actress (I appeared in Holby City and Down To Earth, among other things) and now run a concierge service in the film industry, so I know that using your power to publicise such things is the only way to get people to rethink their views.

I hope that by sharing my story it will help others, including healthcare staff, gain a degree of empathy for women like me. This is something which, so far, seems to be lacking.

Zara said she had always longed for a family of her own. She met Lex, now 41, when they were both acting in a West End musical 

Last week, a study acknowledged that one woman in six who loses a baby in early pregnancy experiences long-term symptoms of post-traumatic stress. I read this with interest, hoping for some comfort. But it stated that most had suffered early miscarriage; the rest were ectopic pregnancies. There was no mention of Termination For Medical Reasons (TFMR).

The word termination, or indeed abortion, triggers ferocious judgment. It is associated with choosing to end an unwanted pregnancy and all sympathy promptly evaporates.

Enraged at feeling ostracised by the study, the next day I tapped out a rant on my Instagram page — and received more than a thousand messages from women who had been through something similar. All felt similarly silenced by a deep sense of shame.

Many confessed they had never told anyone but their partner. Some said their marriages had collapsed under the strain.

The website of the baby loss research charity Tommy’s says there were 2,943 stillbirths in 2018. The Department of Health and Social Care says there were 3,269 terminations for medical reasons in the same period. According to the charity ARC (Antenatal Results and Choices), this number is thought to be 2,000 short because if the termination takes place in an abortion clinic, it tends not to be noted as TFMR but simply as an abortion.

So there may be 5,000 women enduring a TFMR every year. That’s 14 babies lost in this way every day; nearly twice as many as stillborns.

This is not to belittle the pain of miscarriage and stillbirth — I myself have suffered two miscarriages within the past year — but termination can incur guilt, shame and feelings of isolation on top of all the grief. We women require as much support as the others, if not more.

I had always longed for a family of my own. I met Lex, now 41, when we were both acting in a West End musical. I was 18 and he was 23.

It wasn’t until I turned 30 that we started trying for a baby. I wasn’t surprised when a year later it hadn’t happened. I have severe endometriosis and doctors had warned me it would be hard to conceive naturally.

So we tried IVF and were fortunate enough to conceive first time. However, the pregnancy lurched from one drama to the next.

I suffered five incidents of ovarian torsion, when the ovaries, swollen from the IVF drugs, twist round, causing excruciating pain. Once, this led to fluid leaking from my ovaries into my abdomen and lungs, requiring emergency surgery.

Jaxson was born at 36 weeks, with breathing issues, and spent the first ten days of his life in intensive care. Even when we were home, he had trouble gaining weight, so we were in and out of hospital.

It wasn’t until he was eight months old that we finally found our footing as a family.

That said, I adored being a mum and loved nothing more than days spent taking Jax to classes and for long walks in Greenwich Park near our home. He was the happiest boy.

We always knew we would try for another child because we had frozen six embryos. Again, we were successful with the first cycle, but initially there was some doubt over whether it was an ectopic pregnancy.

By nine weeks, my bump had begun to show so I’d started telling people when they asked.

Then came the news that changed everything. I don’t wish to say how many weeks we were — I’d like to keep one tiny detail about Jesse private — but we were at a routine scan. The jelly was rubbed on my belly and there was our darling little boy, waving, kicking and having a boogie, as we told ourselves. At 12.07, I texted my mum and sister: ‘Scan fine. He’s VERY active!’

At 12.25, however, I sent them another message: ‘They’ve just told me they’ve found a pouch of fluid on his stomach which means his stomach hasn’t closed. Devastated.’

Within those 18 minutes, my world had collapsed. Lex was downstairs with Jaxson when the sonographer called me back into the room.

I was told there was something wrong and it was one of three things. The first two would be fixable, but the last — body stalk anomaly —would mean our baby ‘simply wasn’t compatible with life’.

I was told to go home and return in two weeks, when they would do further scans. Two weeks? I felt I couldn’t wait two minutes.

Back home, I had no idea what to do or who to turn to. Was my baby in pain? Was I hurting him by walking? Was this something I’d done?

The next day, I booked a private scan at the Portland Hospital for a second opinion. After 20 minutes, the sonographer put down the scanner, placed his hand on my leg and said: ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

He confirmed body stalk anomaly, a severe defect in which the abdominal wall doesn’t develop, so the organs grow outside the body and attach to the placenta. ‘There is no way your baby would survive outside the womb,’ was the verdict.

The scan also showed that Jesse’s foot had started to protrude through the sac and it could rupture, causing a threat to me and any future pregnancies. I remained eerily silent while Lex sobbed beside me.

In the cab home, Lex continued crying and I went into practical mode, frantically researching the condition as much as I could.

I stayed up researching until 3.30 am. When I read that there were no recorded survivors of body stalk anomaly, I knew what we faced.

The next day, I returned to the hospital, armed with the Portland’s findings, to demand another scan. They agreed and the scan confirmed there wasn’t even a 1 per cent chance Jesse would ever live.

We could either do nothing and let Jesse die naturally, or terminate.

For me, there was no choice. Why would we put him through unnecessary pain? I was also worried about Jax bonding with my bump. And it wasn’t good for me, either.

They offered to do the hour-long 3D scan — and if we’d had any doubts, they were quashed then, as we saw the extent of Jesse’s problems with our own eyes.

Naively, I had assumed the hospital would take care of everything. They did offer a medical termination, but that meant going through labour to give birth. I couldn’t face that — besides, my consultant had advised a C-section on account of my previous complications.

The other option was a surgical termination, meaning I would be under general anaesthetic when it happened. This they refused to do in the hospital; instead, I would have to book my own appointment at an abortion clinic.

This was the first sign of society — and the NHS trust — washing its hands of ‘abortion’. I was sent on my way with a shattered heart and a couple of leaflets for Marie Stopes.

I was told the earliest the clinic could do was in six days’ time and that my husband would have to remain in the waiting room.

Most shocking, however, was that I would have to transport my baby’s body back to the hospital for genetic testing. This would determine the cause of the syndrome and whether my frozen embryos might be affected.

When I expressed shock that this fell to me, I was told cheerily that I’d be given the body to take away ‘on the day’ and the box wouldn’t be ‘see-through’. They could have been talking about a takeaway pizza rather than my beloved baby.

I refused to do that and returned to the hospital, insisting that they had a duty of care to let me have it done on site. For two long weeks I begged in person and via email.

The midwives and consultants were understanding, but said it wasn’t the NHS trust’s policy. Then, finally, the head of the gynaecology unit held my hand and said she would do everything in her power to make it happen.

They had to find a surgical team who were all willing to perform the procedure. They were missing an anaesthetist. Then suddenly, on a Thursday at 4pm, they phoned to tell me to be at the unit for 7.30am the next morning in October 2018.

For a moment, it felt like a victory. Then came the realisation that this was the date Jesse would die.

I prayed I would miscarry naturally beforehand to alleviate the guilt. I remember walking to the operating theatre sobbing, feeling my feet were made of stone.

The anaesthetist shed a tear, too, and I was given a tablet to relax the uterus. I sobbed my eyes out as I put it into my mouth, knowing full well it was the first step to losing Jesse. I was then put under general anaesthetic.

Lex was at my side as I came round. My hand moved to my stomach and recoiled in horror. It was totally flat.

I was on my way home by noon, having been told a bereavement midwife would call and Jesse’s body would be sent for genetic testing.

It seemed particularly thoughtless that I continued to receive the alerts about future antenatal scans. Each time, it sent me right back to square one.

The small, underfunded Antenatal Results and Choices charity was my lifeline. Without their help, I’m not sure I’d have got through.

I also had help from Petals, a baby loss charity, and a wonderful counsellor, whom I still see.

It has been a year and three months and I’ll never forget Jesse. We have since tried two further rounds of IVF — both ended in miscarriage. As sad as that was, nothing could ever hit as hard as the termination.

I often think back to that final 3D scan. The consultant had let us film Jesse on screen and we recorded his heartbeat, too.

Now, when I’m having a down day, I listen to the heartbeat and somehow it lifts me.

I doubt I’ll ever get over Jesse’s loss — or how we lost him.

It’s so important that women like me are given the support we need. Please include us when you talk about baby loss awareness.

We cared passionately about our babies, too. And it’s high time society offered us more sympathy and support.