The scan said my baby wouldn’t live. It was wrong

When my unborn baby was a five-month-old fetus, twisting about in the internal dark, he was given a death sentence by a man I shall call Anton.

We’d gone, my husband and I, for a 20-week scan at our local hospital. Anton was our designated sonographer; we arrived in his room bright-eyed and anxious, as even elderly first-time parents are. We looked to Anton for reassurance, but Anton looked only at his assistant, a sulky 19-year-old sexpot from Romania.

The sexpot tried seven times to dig into the vein in my right arm, then began on the left. ‘Don’t worry, good practice, try again,’ said Anton to her, kindly. ‘No, don’t worry at all!’ said I, pathetically.

During an ultrasound the sonographer runs a plastic scanner over the mother’s naked belly, and that classic grainy image of the fetus appears on screen. For Anton, this was a romantic opportunity. The hottie held the mouse — ‘She is learning the ropes’ — Anton placed his mitt over hers and together their hands glided over my belly, circling, swooping in the manner of Torvill and Dean.