Challenge Accepted!. Celeste Barber

arrived she asked if I had had ‘a show’. I went straight into my default setting when I’m uncomfortable and started with some basic gags. Api knew what I was up to straightaway.

      Me: Well, depends on what kind of show you’re referring to.

      Nurse: What?

      Api: Oh, God.

      Me: Well, I’ve had a number of shows.

      Nurse: Pardon?

      Api: Please stop.

      Me: I’ve had sold-out shows and critically acclaimed shows, so I’ll need you to be a little more specific.

      Api: I hate you.

      Nurse: Has a big chunk of mucus come out in your undies? A mucus plug? A SHOW?

      Me: Oh … no.

      Nurse: OK, well I need to examine you, to see if you really are in labour.

      Me: I’m pretty sure I’m—

      And with that she jammed two gloved fingers deep inside me. She retracted them, presented her fingers to me covered in my dignity, self-esteem and what looked like an oyster and declared, ‘There’s your show.’ With that she walked out and closed the door behind her.

      I looked at Api and before I could even tell him to ‘Get me the fuck out of here’, he was already packing up my stuff. He helped me off the bed and begged me never to do gags in a hospital ever again, to which I declared, ‘I can’t make those kinds of promises, mate, I was just fisted by a woman named Brenda.’

      We went home, where my mum was pacing, picked up our bags and made our way to Drugs Hospital. It was a 353,837-hour drive to Drugs Hospital and everything was Api’s fault. The back seat wasn’t big enough, Api’s fault. My contractions hurt, Api’s fault. I was pregnant, Api’s fault. The crisis in Syria? Api’s. Fault.

      Once we got to Drugs Hospital it was cold and quiet. Jesus, what’s with all these cold and quiet hospitals?! We had to ring some sort of bell to get through a few doors, and as soon as we had passed through all of them and got to the birthing suite, it was like a fucking circus and I was so relieved. There were midwives rushing from room to room, men wandering around looking tired and confused, phones ringing and people talking really loudly. BAM! I was safe, I could totally do this. It still wasn’t as warm as I had hoped but I had to pick my battles – I was about to be ripped from arsehole to breakfast.

      We met our midwife, Wendy, and handed her our birth plan and she was totally on board with Calmbirth and was super-supportive of us wanting a water birth. I know this because she told us, ‘I’m totally on board with Calmbirth and am super-supportive of you wanting a water birth.’ I was not missing fisty Brenda, that’s for sure. Wendy was such an advocate that she started giving Api notes on what was required of him before we even got into the birthing suite.

      Wendy: OK, Dad, what Mum will need from you during this amazing process is your support, so during contractions there is to be no touching or talking to Mum, OK?

      Api: OK.

      Wendy: OK. And Mum, what I’ll need from you is—

      I could feel another contraction coming on, I was cold and was in no mood for Wendy’s anecdotes.

      Me: I’ll just stop you right there, Wendy, I know what is needed from me, and that’s a goddamned human to be vag-shat out of me, so please GIVE ME SOME SPACE!

      Contraction over. Possible lifelong friendship with Wendy in jeopardy.

      After another couple of contractions in the same vein, Wendy had to leave us for a while and tend a ward full of 15-year-olds who were also crowning. This was good. It gave Api and me a chance to be together and do what we needed to do, i.e. him sleep and me walk around the room like an elephant with something to prove.

      Over the next five hours I was walking, I was yelling, I was screaming, I was bouncing on the birthing ball, I was kicking the ball, I was in the shower, I was out of the shower, I broke the shower, I was back on the ball, and Api slept. Wendy had come back in a few times to check on me with the phone jammed between her ear and shoulder fielding calls from expectant teenage mothers. Turns out the Mid North Coast is a busy place for damaged hymens and ripening cervixes.

      After seven hours of contracting, Wendy came back in and I. Was. DONE.

      Me: Wendy, I can’t do this.

      Wendy: It sounds like you’re transitioning, love?

      Me: What are you talking about?

      Wendy: When it’s getting closer to the time to push, most woman say they can’t do it, but you can, you can, love.

      Me: Look, I understand that, I know that people say that they can’t do it but they can and they are just scared, but you need to understand that I can’t do it! So you need to pack your shit up, Wendy, we are going home. API, WAKE UP, WE’RE OUT!

      Turns out Wendy was right, funny that. I was actually in transition and about to meet my baby. Shit! This gave me no comfort at all. I knew that I was too far along to make the most of the hospital’s drug stash and I quickly realised that the only way I was going to get this baby from the inside to the outside was by way of vaginal exorcism.

      I wish I could say that the thought of holding my baby in my arms cancelled out any fear I was feeling and instead gave me strength to soldier on, confident and empowered, but it didn’t. I was petrified of the pain, the imminent burning ring of fire and the possibility that I might push so hard that my arse would explode!

      Wendy asked me to get on the bed so she could see how dilated I was. I quietly and considerately kicked Api to wake him the fuck up so I might be able to have a woman fist me for the second time that day. And yep, she was right, I was eight centimetres and ready to get into that lukewarm bath and start tearing.

      Wendy ran the bath, Api walked around a little dazed – but to be fair no one wakes up well from an afternoon sleep – and I tried to run out the door.

      I got into the bath and nothing changed. I thought that all my troubles would wash away when I got into that water, because that’s what the women in the birthing videos tell you. Then there’s the women who manage to orgasm during labour. Fuck those women. The water did nothing. I was still in pain, just as uncomfortable, and now I was wet, and not in the way that the orgasm ladies were wet.

      My water hadn’t broken yet and I was starting to freak out. The bath was in the corner of the bathroom and it had a red cord that hung above the centre of it in case there was an emergency. It was there to pull on to alert the authorities, then the cast of Grey’s Anatomy would come running.

      Wendy had yet again run out to tend to other cervixes, and I got a crazy amount of pressure in the areas where one would expect to experience crazy amounts of pressure during the transitioning stages of labour.

      Holy shit, he’s coming, my baby is about to tear out of me without me needing to push! Jesus, were those rumours that the school bitches made up about me being ‘loose’ right?!?!

      Then came this almighty surge. ‘Holy shit!’ I screamed at Api. ‘Get her, get Wendy, he’s coming, the baby is coming!’

      With that Api jumped up and yanked on the red cord above the bath so hard he pulled the goddamned thing out of the roof. While he was trying to untangle the cord from around his perfect face, I realised that it wasn’t in fact my baby coming out, it was my water breaking. YES! I’m not loose