I’m getting ready to pick my midwife up from the pier.
It’s the last week of May as I write this, and I’m four and a half months pregnant. Morning sickness is still clinging on with surprising loyalty, and there’s the beginning of a wee bump beginning to form. It’s just about time to hop in the car - not for a delivery run or a dash to the bins, but to collect my midwife, who’s arriving by boat for our first in-person appointment.
We’ve spoken over the phone more times than I can count, and our WhatsApp chat is a saga of nausea updates, scan results, and the occasional panicked message about mysterious cramps. It’s safe to say we’ve gotten to know each other fairly well, despite never having met face to face until today.
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Healthcare on an island as small as Rum takes a bit of adjusting to. I wrote in one of my early columns about my first ever GP appointment here, complete with the frenzied tidying of the living room before the doctor arrived for a home visit. That appointment was actually the “I’m pregnant, what now?!” moment, which my keen-eyed sister-in-law immediately clocked.
Since sharing the news publicly last week, one of the most common questions I’ve had from readers is: “But where will you actually have the baby?” It’s a good question, and the short answer is: almost 150 miles away. When the time comes, I’ll travel by ferry (which will thankfully still be on its summer timetable) and drive to Inverness. I’ll do this at least two weeks before my due date, hoping to avoid an emergency helicopter ride at all costs.
That distance between home and hospital does raise eyebrows, understandably. It’s hard for people to picture labour pains and high wind cancellations in the same sentence. But the truth is, this is the reality for a lot of islanders, pregnant or otherwise, when it comes to accessing specialist care. Most of the time, I feel surprisingly calm about it. And on the days I don’t, I remind myself that people have been doing this here for generations, often with far fewer resources than I’m lucky enough to have now.
A few weeks ago, we travelled to Inverness for our first scan. It was one of those strange, out-of-body days, equal parts excitement, nerves, and “what if?” questions. We turned it into a mini-break, saw family and ate things that didn’t make me feel ill (spoiler: it wasn’t much). Hearing the heartbeat for the first time was overwhelming. I don’t think we expected to cry as much as we did when we saw its little arms reaching high, or laugh as much when I had to do a gymnastics routine to get the baby to lay flat for measurements.
Now, here we are, almost six months along. The morning sickness is finally easing, and the kicks have started. Little, persistent reminders that there is in fact a small person in there, usually choosing 11pm as his moment of great activity. He (yes, he!) definitely doesn’t respect my bedtime, and I can’t imagine that’ll change any time soon.
The path ahead has a few more twists than we’d hoped. I’ve recently been told I’m a high-risk pregnancy due to a rare skin condition I’ve had since I was a baby. It’s something I’ve lived with my whole life and have largely made peace with, but pregnancy adds a new layer of complexity, and someone to worry about other than myself. There’s a 50% chance the baby could inherit it, so we’re being watched a little more closely, and some extra appointments are being built in.
Being high-risk also means more detailed scans and consultant reviews, which means more trips to the mainland, and a few extra technicalities come labour. Still, I’m endlessly grateful for the care I’ve received. My midwife may need to cross open water to reach me, but she does so with warmth, humour, and a calm practicality I find incredibly reassuring.
And there’s something oddly comforting about preparing for parenthood here. I got a marketing email recently that said: “You’re 22 weeks pregnant - have you bought everything you need?”. And there was a brief panic - all I have are some onesies, a few pairs of socks, and a headache. There are no supermarkets here, nowhere to try out prams or size up car seats. It can be nerve-wracking, and easy to feel that you’re behind. But in reality, we are ready. We’ve got time on our hands, and a wealth of knowledge from mums who have danced the island-child dance many times before.
There’s so much we don’t know yet. But in a way, that’s part of the deal. It feels odd not being in total control, but really, the one holding the reins is the wee guy happily growing and keeping me up at night.
For now, though, my midwife is due back on the island next week - I’ll don my chauffeur hat once more and have a coffee waiting for her at home, ready with a list of questions and the latest updates on baby kicks, ferry anxieties, and whether it’s normal to cry at a perfect baked potato. And we’ll keep inching our way towards this new chapter, one boat trip, one heartbeat, one slightly-too-honest question at a time.
Elle Duffy is a former Herald journalist who lives and works on Rum
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