I’ve never been involved in politics or campaigned for anything. If you’d told me 10 years ago that I would one day be stepping up and speaking in public about liberalising abortion law in Ireland, I would have called you crazy. But all that changed on a warm autumn day in 2011.

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I was 20 weeks into my third pregnancy, and a little bit chuffed with myself. As an older mum (I was 35 when my first child was born), I was delighted to be on track to complete my three-child family shortly after turning 40, and that day I was looking forward to getting a first proper glimpse of my baby at the anomaly scan. But shortly after the sonographer started the scan, she went very quiet. Then she said: “I’m a little concerned – I can’t see the top of the baby’s head.”

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I’m a GP, so my medical brain took over as I tried to work out what she meant. It took a second but then the penny dropped. “Do you mean like anencephaly?” I heard myself say. “Oh, you’ve heard of it,” she said, with obvious relief. Relief that she didn’t need to explain that the top half of my baby’s head had never formed, that there was nothing above his eye level – no brain, no scalp, no skull, and that my baby would not survive outside the womb for long, if at all. In that moment my world was turned upside down. The future as I had planned it was gone. Wiped out in an instant. My husband hadn’t been able to attend the scan with me that day, so the consultant suggested we return to see him together to discuss what would happen next. Our options were to continue with the pregnancy and carry the baby to term, or travel abroad for a termination. I made my way across Dublin with my sister, who had been with me for the scan. The news was starting to sink in, and I realised I would have to let people know. My mother was texting to know how it had gone but I couldn’t answer her. I needed to let my husband know, but I couldn’t speak on the phone to him. I’d fill him in later, face to face.

We stumbled through that weekend trying to get used to our new reality. But I very quickly realised how difficult daily life was going to be, carrying this news around with me. I could foresee the same conversations happening everywhere I went, the questions that every pregnant person has about due dates and whether or not you know what you’re having.

Quick guide The Irish abortion referendum Show Hide The Irish abortion referendum Ireland is set to vote on abortion law reform on Friday 25 May. In a the referendum, voters will decide if they want to repeal an article in the republic’s constitution known as the eighth amendment. The amendment, or article 40.3.3 of the constitution, gives unborn foetuses and pregnant mothers an equal right to life – and is, in effect, a ban on abortion. Currently, terminations are allowed only when the life of the mother is at risk, with a penalty of up to 14 years in prison for breaking the law. The government in Dublin has promised to introduce legislation allowing for abortions during the first 12 weeks of pregnancy if the vote goes in favour of repeal. Photograph: Clodagh Kilcoyne/X03756

What would I tell people? Would I play along and pretend everything was normal, or would I tell them we’d be having a funeral instead of a christening? How would I continue to work as a doctor after a conversation like that with every patient who noticed I was pregnant? The distress, the torture of retelling the awful truth or denying it completely: I’d be in bits. Day-to-day living would be intolerable. Faced with this reality, we decided to travel out of Ireland. We booked flights and accommodation, arranged childcare and took the lonely early-morning departure to Liverpool surrounded by businessmen and hen parties. It was surreal to be going through the greatest tragedy of our lives hidden in plain sight, hoping no one would ask us where we were going or why.

Liverpool was a place I’d never been to. I had a picture in my head of a grey, industrial city, but Liverpool was the beacon of light in this story – a warm and vibrant place that took care of us. We went straight from the airport to Liverpool Women’s Hospital, where we were wrapped in a blanket of care and compassion. Everyone we met said they were so sorry we had to be there. They confirmed the diagnosis, talked us through what would happen over the following days, and then sat with us to discuss what we would like to do with our baby’s remains afterwards.

I was given the first dose of medication and we then had 48 hours before we had to return to the hospital. We checked into our hotel and wandered around the old docks, dining out and shopping. I’d read it was a good idea to bring a hat for a baby with anencephaly so we bought one to cover my baby’s head. To the outside world, we must have looked like tourists enjoying the Indian summer weather, but we carried our dark secret in our hearts.

We returned to the hospital on the Saturday, where I was admitted for a compassionate induction of labour, and late that night our little mite was delivered silent and still. We held him and named him TJ and, though we mourned the death of our son, there was a moment of peace as we sat there holding him. The cause of his death was clearly visible: we could see remnants of brain tissue and we knew we had made the right decision.

And then we had to leave him behind and return home to our family; to pick up the pieces of our lives and move on. About three weeks later, a courier arrived at my front door with a Jiffy bag containing the cremated remains of my child. That’s how my baby came home to me.

Time moved on and we began to heal. Good things happened in our lives again – we went on to have another baby. We are a happy family and we talk openly with our children about their brother TJ.

But I feel scarred by a constitutional amendment that says I should be punished because I could not continue with my crisis pregnancy. It doesn’t need to be this hard for people. Travelling abroad for a termination doesn’t make you think any harder about your decision, it just traumatises you and diverts your energies away from what you should be focusing on: the death of your baby.

On Friday 25 May, the people of Ireland will decide whether or not to remove from our constitution the amendment that means there is a near-total ban on abortion in the country. Introduced in 1983, the eighth amendment gives the unborn foetus the same protection as the life of the mother and makes legislating for abortion in cases like mine impossible.

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I know that for many voters this is a deeply difficult topic to think about, and something that they have not wanted to discuss openly. For many others, it is personal because they have been directly affected by its consequences, and I am one of the latter.

I wish TJ could have been delivered in Ireland. I wish his brother and sister and grandparents had met him. I wish my mum had been there to give me a hug. But mostly I wish that no other family has to endure what we went through.

We can help achieve that wish by voting yes to the repeal of the eighth amendment to the constitution. It is time we in Ireland brought compassion home.

• Siobhán Donohue is a GP based in Dublin