I won’t be the first, and I won’t be the last woman to start her motherhood journey on a bouncy ball and birthing pool – and end it off her head on diamorphine and emergency C-section.

As hazy as it might be, I remember a few things vividly afterwards.

The pastel green hand-knit hat for my newborn made by volunteers and forever cherished; the buttered toast and sweet tea like nectar; a midwife’s kind smile when Monty was minutes old, and particularly what she said: two words I’d wager mean little unless you’re from Dundee.

“Stop plastering,” she said. I laughed.

She was talking to my newborn son, asking him to quit messing around and get the hang of breastfeeding, like he could understand her perfectly.

Maybe he did, for at that moment Monty latched on and never looked back.

The midwife was called Tracey Garden, and I’ve thought of her often.

All the staff at Ninewells were special and kind – yet it was the memory of Tracey that came to me most often.

I wished I’d sent her a thank you card.

It seemed sad I might never see my Ninewells midwife again

It seemed sad – in the way of so many people who fleet into our lives and make an impact........

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