In 2015, Irish mother-of-two Claire Cullen-Delsol found out she was pregnant with her third child. It was an unplanned pregnancy, but Cullen-Delsol and her husband Wayne became excited about the prospect of another child.

This week, Ireland votes on whether it will repeal the Eighth Amendment, which denies women the right to an abortion in all circumstances except in cases where her life is in danger. I__n the run-up to this historic vote, Broadly will be giving a platform to the victims of this inhumane law and the activists fighting for change. You can follow our coverage ahead of Friday's vote here .

The midwife brings me into the room alone first to check the basics before bringing in everyone else. We make small talk for what seems like ages before I ask, offhandedly, if everything looks all right. “No," she responds matter-of-factly. "There are a few things I actually need to look at.”

It's a beautiful sunny day. I tear home from work to pick up Wayne, my mam, and the kids before heading to Waterford Hospital for my scan.

The following are extracts from the diary that she kept during her third pregnancy, and are reprinted with her permission.

"My greatest fear," Cullen-Delsol adds, "is that my daughter will have to experience what I went through, and this country will treat her as badly as it treated me."

"Campaigning for change for other women was something I did to come to terms with my loss," she told Broadly. "I can't heal while I know that every week two or three Irish couples have to travel to the UK to terminate a much wanted, but dying baby. And who knows how many more people are at home, suffering like I did?"

As a result of her traumatic experience, Cullen-Delsol became an ardent pro-choice activist. Today, she is the director of Terminations for Medical Reasons , a pro-choice campaign group she set up to lobby for change to Ireland's restrictive abortion laws.

Scans revealed that the fetus had a rare chromosomal disorder called Patau syndrome, meaning that it would not survive for long beyond birth; it would most likely to die in the womb. After receiving the diagnosis, Cullen-Delsol decided that she would rather have a termination rather than endure months of carrying a doomed pregnancy. However, Ireland's abortion law prohibits abortion in all circumstances except where the mother's life is in danger, meaning that even fetuses that will not survive birth must be carried to term .

Very long, stressful day. We're expecting the amniocentesis results to be back by now, but no one calls. At 4PM I start calling the midwife at the hospital. No news. We'll have to wait until Monday. I'm gutted. I'm so wrecked from it all now. I'm exhausted from not sleeping and I'm starting to see the pressure on Wayne's face too. it's going to be a tough weekend.

At the hospital, the doctor is forthright and matter-of-fact. He agrees with some of the midwife's first findings: the stomach, the cysts, the extent of the cleft lip. He reserves judgment on whether it's a chromosome disorder. I have an amniocentesis and we go home to wait. I cling to hope.

It's the day of our appointment at Holles Street. The past few days have been a blur of tears, anger, no sleep and no showers.

I want to die. I want to curl into a ball and be swallowed by the earth. My whole world is changed. Nothing feels real anymore. I don't know how to deal with this. My little person may not make it to this world and we may lose a child. I don't know how to cope or live with this. I want to keep this baby safe forever.

I listen in terror with tears running down my face. Eventually it finishes, and we leave with a referral to a fetal medicine specialist at Holles Street hospital. We walk back out into the sunshine. I'm shivering.

Wayne grips my hands as we sit in silence. As the midwife scans me, I study her face for a flicker of a smile or relief. There's none. She points out more things: bilateral clefts, overlapping digits, underdeveloped cerebellum, placental cysts, no observable stomach, kidney issues, and spots on the baby's heart.

After a few minutes she starts to gently and calmly point out huge cysts on the placenta, missing bones in the baby's face, and issues with brain development. We move into another room with a better machine and I ask her to fetch my husband. My mam brings the kids to the hospital cafe while we wait for the second scan.

24 August, 2015

I wake up positive and hopeful, even though I slept very little. I shower and even put on makeup. I distract myself by going shopping. At 3 PM I finally call the midwife. She calls back at 4.20 PM. It's not good. The baby has Patau syndrome, meaning that it has three copies of chromosome 13 in every cell in her body. It's not compatible with life and normal development in utero. The baby won't survive.

My whole life falls down around me. I grab Wayne's hand as he collapses. His head is in his hands. He's devastated. I feel my heart stop and my stomach drops. Cold dread seems to pour down my back and I cry immediately. After I've cried all I can, we sit there in stunned silence.

We start to let people know. I can't bear to hear my mam's voice as she hears her granddaughter will die, so Wayne calls her. I hear her heartbroken gasp over the phone and I'm crushed again. I text my brother. I can't bear to speak to anyone.

All of a sudden it hits me again. I can't describe it. The pain and grief are so complete it feels like a lead weight. I literally try to push it off me. It feel physical. I'm howling like an animal. "No," I scream. I'm clutching Wayne's shirt, begging. Eventually the howling pain passes to stillness. We hold each other for a little longer, then begin to prepare for the kids coming home. When they get back, we put our game faces on.

25 August, 2015

In the car, driving to Dublin, we eat breakfast rolls and make conversation. Wayne and I hold hands. The doctor very clearly and patiently explains the syndrome, its outcome, and our options. The baby will not live. It is unlikely to be born alive or survive beyond a few hours if she is. We can expect a late miscarriage or stillborn baby or, if the pregnancy goes to term, I'll deliver a baby who'll die in labour or soon after.