I’m a doula. Bear was my second child. My daughter Olive’s birth was straightforward. I was re-booked into the birth centre. I thought I knew what I was getting myself into.

I was wrong.

The pregnancy unexpectedly started with vomiting. It lasted an enjoyable 20 weeks. The highlight was throwing up into a park bin while holding my 2 year old’s hand and trying to convince her that I was fine. So far so good, right?

Around 19 weeks my breastfeeding aversion showed up. Whenever I would lie down to breastfeed my daughter to sleep – the only way she knew how to go to sleep at that point – I clawed my fingers into the pillow, wanting to run to the other side of the room away from her latch, while trying not to throw up, pretending I was also asleep. Luckily she only fed a few minutes each night. It was almost serene.

Then I was ‘diagnosed’ with Gestational Diabetes. Well, that was a joy too. I was only very slightly over the diagnostic criteria, but it was enough for them. I blame the stress of trying not to throw up after drinking the glucose drink.

So then what? Could I stay in the birth centre?

Yes, apparently. As long as my “diabetes” was diet controlled. Well, that’s one way to completely stress a mother out. I couldn’t sleep at night for the next week until the diabetes education class.

I arrived at the class, daughter in tow, bleary eyed and scared. Many of the women were not from an English speaking background. They looked scared too. On the table were empty food packets, so that we could be taught how to count carbs in order to determine what food was ‘good’ and what food was ‘bad’. Here’s where my anxiety peaked. Carbs ‘good’, gluten-free ‘bad’, aspartame ‘good’, bananas ‘bad’, dairy ‘good’. I left the room in a state of shock. I called my doctor and booked an appointment. I’m glad I did.

Her advice? Continue to eat a variety of plant-based fresh food, nuts and salads. Use apple-cider vinegar on salads. Don’t starve yourself. Perfect. I can do that! I felt lifted too, as I now had some digestible (hehe) information. Finally, I was in control.

Except, now I had this nagging voice in the back of my head. What about a home birth? There’s plenty of space for a birth pool in the lounge room. Olive could stay in her space and welcome baby with us. We don’t need to worry about driving anywhere in labour. It would be so calm. So wonderful. I could buy fairy lights like I’ve seen in homebirth photos. Then reality set in. An independent midwife is $5000. I don’t have $5000! I’ll just ask hubby anyway. He’s a birth advocate in his own way. He was very interested…until I mentioned the cost.

We borrowed our Doula’s fee from his mum. Freebirth was out of my comfort zone, as was taking out a loan to pay for a birth that could be free. Even though I dreamt of it every night before bed, up until when the early twinges of labour began, the dream wasn’t meant to be. It wasn’t ever going to be my birth. I let it go, sadly.

Yes…labour! I was shopping after a midwife appointment, looking for shoes for my daughter, up and down all of Westfield. I was a bit gassy. I stood rocking my pelvis a little bit in Shoes and Sox. The kind, motherly sales assistant asked me if I was in labour. I blushed and said “No.” Rocking stopped.

I took my daughter to my best friends house for dinner. I was still gassy, how frustrating. She also asked me if I was in labour. Don’t be ridiculous. I think I would tell you! At home I fed my daughter to sleep in bed. Held her tight, smelled her hair, and kissed her sweet chubby face all over. Aversion was not rearing its ugly head tonight. I was at peace with the world.

A few hours later I woke up with what I remembered as the beginning of labour. I got my husband’s phone, and used Facebook as a distraction for 5 or 6 contractions. Then I decided to have a shower, so at least my hair was clean in case this was it. I had a few contractions in the shower, nothing serious. ‘It’ll probably stop before morning anyway,’ I thought. I went back to bed and tried to sleep. In lieu of that, I downloaded a contraction app: Every 6 minutes. 30 seconds each. That’s a bit impressive. I went back to sleep. I woke what I assume was every 6 minutes to moan (loudly!- sorry surrounding apartments) through the waves.

When Olive got up for the day at 5am (#toddlerlyf) we called my friend who was going to drive us. She said she’d finish her yoga class then come over. I was completely bewildered that she was awake, and looked forward to seeing her in a couple of hours. My contractions were still 6 minutes apart. ‘This is going to take ages,’ I thought. I sat on the birth ball, and quickly hopped off after a contraction. That. Was. Painful. I played with Olive at her dollhouse then decided to go and get a coffee at 6am. I walked out the backdoor, had a contraction, had to stop, breathe through it, and hold onto something. Cool, I’ve got another six minutes. I got to the fence and had a more intense contraction, probably about 30 seconds, but it surprised me. I got 5 meters down the street and had another contraction, still 30 seconds. OK. I see what you did there, body. I sent Olive and Joel to grab some coffee and went back inside.

Things were moving slowly. I was being patient. I was drinking my coffee when my friend arrived. We had a lovely chat, except that about every 6 minutes, I had to hold on to the wall and breathe into my pain. We laughed and played with Olive. Olive decided that she would get the ice cube tray out of the freezer and apply it to my lower back to ease my pain. This was both adorable and hilarious because my husband had filled the tray with home made stock so it was a bit gross.

Joel took Olive to the shops at around 9am to look for a present for the baby. I kept going in 6-minute increments for 30 seconds. They felt more intense. I called my doula, and she was getting things organised at her end. At about 10am I called the birth centre and let them know what was going on. They said it was still early and to stay home. I hung up, had a massive contraction, called them back and told them I was on my way.

I hooked myself up to a tens machine for the car ride. Oh. My. Goodness. That thing was amazing. I could have kissed it. When I walked outside I realised just how out of it I really was. Everything felt surreal. A waitress from the café walked past and said “Hi” – I politely replied with a bewildered look followed by a contraction. All. Class.

In the car I had no idea where we were, except when we went over the bridge. I noticed we had taken a different route to my usual one. I was using my tens machine but the contractions were so much more intense. I was loosing my sanity a little. I looked my friend in the eye, distraught. “It’s the wrong way. We’re not going to make it. We are never going to get there!” She told me later that she was convinced that it was the end of our friendship, followed by my tears of laughter.

I was in the front seat of the car. We were in a 40km/hr zone, in roadworks. A particularly strong contraction came over me and I turned to face the back of the car, on my knees, holding onto the head rest, counting insanely to ten over and over again. Then I got really existential. We drove slowly past pedestrians at traffic lights. Don’t look at me. Who are you? Who am I? This is what your mother did. This is what everyone’s mothers did. I’m doing what everyone’s mothers everywhere did. Your mother too, Mr. Pedestrian. And then stared him down. Who even am I anymore? Just a crazy pregnant lady facing the wrong way in a car. I decided to call the birth centre and ask them to run the bath for when I arrive.

Much to my surprise, we arrived at the birth centre. It was 11am. I had a contraction in the doorway, like a champ. Then got to the room – yeesssss the big one that I birthed my daughter in. Then my favourite midwife walked in! I tore off the tens machine and jumped into the bath. Fuck. It was only half filled. And luke-warm. I was wet now and didn’t want to electrocute myself with the tens (I’m not even sure if that’s how that works). Anyway. I was predominantly naked and wet and out of the unforgiving bath. I had a contraction holding onto the chest of drawers.

My midwife said she thought it might still be a while. Great. “Actually. I want to know how far along I am. I know I wrote in my birth plan not to do any vaginal examinations. But I lied. Please check me.” In my mind I was thinking please over 4cm, please over 4cm. It was 6cm. Great. I’m actually doing it. I’m here. I’m doing it. And now the bath is full and I’m getting back in there.

Doula is on her way. Husband is on his way. Daughter is with mother-in-law. It’s all perfect. Well… except that I’ve lost all sense of anything. I get in the bath. Find comfort…that is, until the next contraction. Holy hell. What even was that? I stood up. Still naked. Looked my friend in the eye and told her “I’m leaving.” I got one leg out of the bath before she asked me where I was going. “Out.” She kept her face completely straight and asked me again, “Where to? You have no clothes on.” Alright, fine. I submitted and sat back down in the bath. Defeated by logic. “Then get the midwife and tell her to bring the gas.” I needed the gas.

The midwife came in, and while she was setting up the gas I had a contraction. As it was just peaking I yelled at her, “I don’t want the baby anymore.” She informed me that she was done with babies and that I’d have to find someone else to give it to. Smooth lady, very smooth.

Hubby arrived…about time…I’ve been here for at least half an hour already.

I used the gas for the next contraction. The midwife was just about to leave to check on her other patient, then she decided she would actually stay. Whatever. Then I used the gas for another contraction. I smiled sheepishly and noted out loud that I was dizzy. I thought the gas was amazing. The midwife told me that I’m strong and I don’t need the gas, and to put it down for the next contraction. I did. I didn’t pick it up again.

Then my lovely doula walked in – 11.50am. I greeted her with an excited “Virginia!!!!”, half because it was really a birthday party now, half because I wanted the midwife to be chill that I had three support people with me. The very next contraction, my water broke. Shit. Literally shit. And a lot of it. “Uh oh,” I said in a ridiculously inappropriate sing song way, “Meconium. What do I do?”. She instructed me to get out of the bath. “Where to?” I asked. She pointed at a mat/beanbag setup by the bed. Before anyone could come around to try and help me I was out of the bath, I was on my knees leaning onto the beanbag. To this day my friend recounts my speed with incredulity.

“Ok. Now what?” The midwife let me know she had pushed the button for the paediatrician, and that I needed to get the baby out as quickly as I could. Game. On. The next contraction I pushed for the whole time. I felt the head move down significantly but was disappointed and scared that he wasn’t out. I wanted him healthy. I needed him to be ok. He needed to come out. The next contraction I pushed fiercely until the midwife yelled “STOP!” I was crowning. I had to breath fast and shallow to keep my perineum intact (which it kindly did). His head slipped past the widest point.

It wasn’t over. The midwife said, “OK. I’m going to try and pull the cord over his head; it’s wrapped around his neck.” She reached in, painfully, and managed to pull it over, but then told me it was wrapped around twice and she’d have to do it again. OK. Let’s do it, I thought, but could only nod. She pulled the second loop over his head and his body came out just as the paediatrician walked in. My head flicked up as I focused on him. He stopped in the doorway and the midwife instructed him to “wait outside, the baby is pink, I’ll come in a minute.” She then passed my sweet bundle up through my legs into my shaking hands and I rested him on my chest. We did it. I love you baby.

It was 12pm. We had only been there for an hour. What?!

I turned my baby over, and in the most excited and nerdy way turned to my husband and loudly acknowledged, “He has balls!” That’s right, the first words I said to my baby were “He has balls.” Could have been worse.

I rested back on the beanbag, baby ‘balls’ on my chest. Cameras clicked, and congratulations were offered. Then, annoyingly, I felt a contraction. I remembered the placenta and pushed that thing out. We had a couple more hugs and the midwife came back in. She said “OK, it’s time to think about the placenta.” Well…the surprise on her face when I said it was out. It had been less than 5 minutes and I had chosen no syntocin. I don’t think anyone realised I had done it actually, it was lying discretely under the sheet, still attached by the cord to my pinkest of pink babies. She clamped the cord. Joel cut it. “It looks healthy and intact” she said about the placenta, and popped it in the box we had brought so that we could take it home and bury it.

I was covered in meconium. Baby was covered in meconuim. We were happy. Healthy. Relieved. And hungry. Baby latched on beautifully. The rest was a bit of a fuzzy happy blur. We walked to the room where I would stay the night. Then my sweet Olive came in to meet her brother. I was relieved that she hadn’t been there for the birth, even though I had planned for her to come. We hugged and she held the baby. We were all so happy. My mum later pointed out that she had been waiting for this moment for almost half of her life! Well, it didn’t disappoint.

And that’s it! Baby Bear’s birth in a nutshell.

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Ellen Croucher is a Doula and mother of two on Sydney’s North Shore who has a passion for supporting and guiding women through their pregnancy journey: www.northshorelocaldoula.com

Doula and Birth Photography services at Bear’s birth by Virginia of www.naturalbeginnings.com.au/

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