All I wanted to do was have this baby with the man I loved, but I was scared. Scared, emotional, and mean.
I don’t even remember what he said. I was hysterical. I slammed the phone down and made my way to the doctor’s appointment on my own, in a pair of Manolos.
When I got to the doctor, she pulled out a fancy Wheel of Pregnancy fortune wheel, spun it a few times, moved it back and forth, and as I waited for a new car with reclining seats to be handed to me by a woman named Jennifer in a red bikini, my palms started to sweat. There was no car, no Jennifer, and no red bikini. Instead, I was six weeks pregnant. I had no idea what this meant. She may as well have said I was crowning by the way I responded. I didn’t know what to do.
My doctor told me that I had options, and I knew exactly what that meant, and I was equal parts relieved and terrified by it. I left the doctor with two pieces of paper. One was a referral to an obstetrician and the other was a referral to an abortion clinic. An abortion clinic! Fuck, I didn’t want that, but I didn’t know if I wanted a baby. I loved Api so much and I knew what I didn’t want to do, but I had no idea what Api would want so I was freaking out.
NB I am pro choice, pro women, and pro people shutting the fuck up and leaving us to make our own informed decisions on what’s right for our own amazing bodies.
I’m pretty sure he was texting and calling me for the rest of the day, but I didn’t answer or respond. It’s all a blur. I was in the world of blurriness and didn’t have any idea how to find clarity.
Then clarity came in the form of my Maori Adonis.
The next morning, he turned up on my doorstep unannounced. This is not like Api at all, but he knew I needed him and he was there. Even after the way I told him about being pregnant, he still drove six hours to be with me because he knew that was what I needed. I didn’t even know what I needed.
I was still in bed, and Jo let him in. He opened my bedroom door with a bunch of wildflowers that he had randomly picked on the way over (classic Api) and a vegetable juice.
He kissed and kissed and kissed me until I couldn’t be kissed any longer and said how excited he was for us to have a baby together. Well, at least that’s what I think he said; it was the middle of summer, and he had his shirt off so I wasn’t really paying attention to his words. I could hear Jo sobbing outside my bedroom door, and I knew everything would be all right—better than all right. I knew everything would be fucking awesome.
He proposed to me when I was four months pregnant with our first boy. He cried, I cried, I called Jo straightaway, and she cried. Api and I had been together for ten years when he proposed, overlooking a beautiful beach on the Mid North Coast of New South Wales after watching Black Swan (confused face emoji).
Fourteen years together and he’s just getting hotter. It’s really annoying. Sometimes I set my alarm for the middle of the night just to wake up and look at him, not because I’m a hopeless romantic but more because I want to catch him off guard. I hope to roll over at 3:00 a.m. and see that he’s actually one of those people who sleeps with their eyes half-open, sporting a double chin, and has a nose covered in whiteheads along with an uneven jawline.
But no, he’s divine. He sleeps with his eyes closed, there are no secret nighttime pimples (he gets pimple breakouts BEHIND HIS EARS!), and he even has a small smile on his sleeping face. We don’t need to leave a light on in the house at night for the kids because my husband is a constant ray of fucking sunshine and he glows in his goddamned sleep.
The best part about being with someone so much hotter than me, aside from the crippling fear that he will leave me for a Hadid sister and the horrible insecurities that I wake up with every morning, is that people love to tell me just how hot he is and how lucky I am.
We were at a kids’ party, and I was sitting next to a well-dressed older lady who was looking longingly at my eldest son and husband in much the same way as I was looking at the lolly table.
“Your son is a handsome boy.”
“Thank you.”
“He really is a looker, isn’t he?”
“Well, I think so, but I’m a bit biased.”
(Polite laughter.)
“He’s the spitting image of his father. You didn’t get a look-in, love.”
“Well, I think there is a little bit of me in him.”
“No, I don’t think so at all. You must be happy he chose you to have children with. I’m going to have to tell the girls about him at bridge on Wednesday. Would you like some more cake, love?”
Being married to someone universally hotter than I am has opened up a new form of communication with people who wouldn’t usually give me the time of day. I once had a lovely middle-aged woman named Brenda cross a busy street to congratulate me on how well I’ve done by “holding on to my husband.” The hardest part about it all is I’m not an insecure person, and certainly not a jealous one, but since Brenda’s congratulatory remark I question even the smallest activity he wants to undertake on his own, because I’ve started drinking the Kool-Aid and think I’m lucky that someone so attractive wants to be with me.
#hothusband: I’m going to get some milk.
Me: Why?
#HH: What?
Me: Why are you getting milk?
#HH: Because you asked me five minutes ago to go and get some milk.
Me: Oh, OK. Thanks.
(He starts to walk out the door.)
Me: Put a shirt on!
#HH: I have a shirt on.
Me: Well, put another one on. And take the kids.
#HH: I’m only going to get milk.
Me: I don’t care, take all the kids, and I’m pretty sure the snotty toothless kid from next door is playing out front, so take him as well.
#HH: Are you serious?
Me: Sure am! Oh, and Rollerblade there. No one wants to fuck someone who rollerblades!
#HH: Have you been drinking?
Me: No.
#HH: I’ll get you some wine.
Me: Thanks.
Have you ever had an argument with a pretty person? Not like when you have a full face of makeup on and argue with yourself in the mirror about whether Kim Kardashian is a bad influence on young girls or the new enhanced face of feminism.
No, not those arguments. I mean real arguments. The ones where the two of you go back and forth passionately debating your points of view, then when you’re about to make a point that will change the minds of people far and wide you get completely overwhelmed with how pretty your opponent is so you start a whole new argument based solely on the injustices of their perfect cheekbones. Yep, those arguments.
Well, I married those goddamned cheekbones.
I realized early on in our relationship that ground rules needed to be laid. It was only fair that we started off on the same page. We both have our strengths, and we need to play to them. Stick to our lanes.
I am funny. He is hot. These are very important conversations that need to be had in any relationship, and I think they need to be had early on. Around the same time as the “Are you serious about flannelette sheets all year-round?” and “Do you wee in the shower?” conversations. Nothing is worse than when one party feels they can do a crossover. Much like a model turned actor, it seems like a great idea but turns out to be kind of embarrassing and leaves people feeling betrayed.
I like that he makes others feel confident enough to tell me how lucky I am. I guess I should wear my tap shoes around more and really turn the tables on who’s the “lucky” one.
NB My husband is excellent. If I’d met him on Kiss Bang Love, I would have kissed him blindfolded and married him on the spot. He’s kind, smart, caring, and very, VERY patient. He’s a fun dad and has really thrown his back into tolerating me. I love him with all the wine in the fridge.
Dear Wine
Thank you.
Thank you for your understanding when I need you in my hand during all the witching hours.
Thank you for not being bitchy when I decide to have a “night of
f” from you.
Thank you for always, ALWAYS tasting exactly how I need you to after the ill-judged “night off.”
Thank you for helping me get through cooking risotto.
Thank you for making my son’s home reader so much easier.
Thank you for not being a desirable drink when I was in my twenties and making me wait until I was in my thirties to really appreciate you.
Thank you for being worth the wait.
Thank you for helping me deal with people who are mean to me online. Thank you.
If I had one criticism—well, it’s more of a request, and it’s not directed at you, because let’s face it, you’re perfect—it’s about your partner Hangover.
Remember when I was younger and you and I would hang out all the time without a care in the world?
There was a group of us—you, me, vodka, sometimes Frangelico would come to the party. Oh God, it was fun. Remember? I’d dance on tables, and you and vodka would make me feel like I was the most amazing person in the world, as true friends do.
I’ll never forget the warmth that Frangelico gave me on those cold nights. Have you spoken to Fran lately? I haven’t seen him in years. God, they were good times, just the Awesome Foursome.
I miss those days. It’s tricky now, because Hangover heard we were partying without him, and he’s being an arsehole.
Thanks, bae. I love you, I really do. See you at 5:00 p.m.
C x
The One Where My Heart Was Cut Open
Remember when you were twenty-five? What a time, right? Carefree. Skinny. Enjoying those awesome years of spending money you didn’t have. Having sex with people you didn’t like. Traveling to places with names you couldn’t pronounce.
Me? Well, funny you should ask. I decided twenty-five was a great age to really put my back into having emergency open-heart surgery.
And yes, it was as dramatic as it sounds.
Api and I were living in Balmain, and I was working on All Saints as a semiregular. I was also teaching dancing three afternoons a week in Rose Bay to privileged rich kids whose parents’ boozy lunches usually ran into the early evening, so they booked in a lot of extracurricular activities for their kids, as they didn’t want to seem like bad parents. Full disclosure: I totally respect this way of life, because some of those kids were pricks and I understand why drinking a bottle of prosecco while gazing at the harbor is more appealing than dealing with your attention-seeking middle child.
My classes would run from 4:00 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. in a dark hall filled with RSL chairs and trestle tables. I would get there early and put on Janet Jackson’s “I Get Lonely,” and we would dance flat out for an hour.
It was awesome. I thought it was a really healthy way to be, as I was exercising and hopefully starting to get fitter. I thought at the time I looked much like Beyoncé in her “Halo” music video, but on reflection I feel Peppa Pig jumping in muddy puddles would have been more of an accurate description.
On top of this thrice-weekly afternoon workout I was walking a lot. Api is an arborist, and most of his work was about a thirty-minute drive away, so he would be up and out of the house at 6:30 a.m., and I started getting up and out at this same time. I would like to say it was such a lovely routine to be in and that this time of the morning really is glorious, but I’d be lying. I wanted to stay in that warm bed because I DONT DO MORNINGS! Part of Api’s morning routine was to make himself a coffee at home, and the screaming and gurgling of the coffee machine would jolt me out of bed, and if I hadn’t gotten out of the house instantly, I would have killed him with frothy milk. Five days a week, I’d do the same routine and walk over the Anzac Bridge and back—a fifty-minute round trip.
I was really happy with my progress and thought I was getting fit. Only I wasn’t. I wasn’t getting my time down, and I wasn’t finding it easier or looking at a new, more challenging walk that included hills and stairs. Instead I was getting a sore left arm, tightness in my chest, and heart flutters. I know, sounds fun, right? Did I mention I was twenty-five?
I called my mum, telling her about my symptoms. She freaked out and said she would fly down from the Far North Coast and come to all the doctor’s appointments with me, but being the independent twenty-five-year-old I was I wanted to prove I was a big girl and do it on my own. Silly little girl.
I booked to see my GP. She listened to my heart, and I was told it was “all good,” but because of my symptoms she sent me off to see a fancy cardiologist. Still refusing my mum’s offers to fly down and attend the appointment with me, I booked myself in to see a cardiologist, Dr. Bruce Wilson. He was such a beautiful man, who replaced words like “temperature” with “sweat” and “MRI” with “overpriced photos of your insides.”
While I ignored texts and calls from my mum to see how I was doing—“Jeez, Mum, I’ve totally got this” (eye roll emoji)—Dr. Wilson told me I had a hole in my heart.
I wish my mum were here.
“Not only is it a hole—it’s a bloody big, gaping hole that is just over 2.5 centimeters in diameter.”
Right, OK, sure.
Dr. Wilson could see that I was upset; I think the snot streaming down my face and me screaming “I WANT MY MUM!” at the top of my lungs gave me away. He told me that it could be fixed with a stent, so I demanded to meet Stent immediately to find out what his plan was.
Well, it turned out Stent wasn’t a Wizard Doctor, it was a thing to go in my heart.
I have put together a detailed, accurate, and precise description, sourced from many creditable medical journals, of what exactly a stent is, and a clear outline as to how it needs to be inserted. Apologies to those of you who don’t understand medical jargon, as this description is full of it.
Stent
A stent is a bit of fabricky stuff that some fancy doctors whack into your heart to cover the dumb hole. They make a tiny cut in your thigh (as this is the obvious choice when thinking of accessing your heart) so they can shove the fabricky thing up through your femoral artery (that’s a vein that runs from your groin to your heart—gross). The fabricky stuff is attached with either a peg or a bull clip—depends on what is closest and has been warmed up—to a long bit of wiry, stringy stuff. It is then shoved in the vein. The fabricky stuff somehow gets stuck to the big, dumb, gaping hole in your heart that has prevented you from kissing, ahem, challenging Usain Bolt. It then dismounts from the peg/bull clip much like pole-vaulters dismount from their poles. Using a natural organic form of superglue, or Elmer’s glue for children, it gets stuck over the hole.
The whole process, including the totally invasive and highly uncomfortable shaving of the groin area by an in-your-face nurse named Heather, takes around ninety minutes, two hours if you have quite the bush. You then go back to your ward with other attractive patients who are also rocking the pale-blue hospital gown, eat all the jelly on offer, get food poisoning from the other nondescript hospital food, then head home that night via the pharmacist with a packet of anti-shit-your-pants medication.
You’re welcome.
After the news, I called my mum straightaway and screamed down the phone at her, “I’M GOING TO DIE!”
She screamed back at me, “YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME COME TO THE APPOINTMENT!”
“I KNOW, I’M SORRY, I’M DYING!!!!”
After the screaming, and realizing I wasn’t in fact dying, we devised a plan.
I booked in to have the procedure in a few months on a Friday at 11:00 a.m. I’d fast the day before, have it done, go home to rest over the weekend, and be back on set filming my freshly stitched heart out on Monday. BAM! Let’s do this!
So, Mum flew down as planned to hang out with Api while I was shaved, cut, dismounted in, and fixed.
We all went in, Dr. Wilson came and greeted us, Heather got busy with her disposable razor, I was knocked out with some sweet, sweet drugs, and Mum and Api went and got a coffee.
Great. I love a plan.
Here’s where it gets fun, super fun. After the t
iny incision in my groin, the fabric thing made its way to my heart. Tops. However, as it was setting up for the dismount, it kind of went, as they say in all the medical journals, tits up. It went completely fucking tits up.
The little fabric fucker didn’t dismount the way it was supposed to, and instead of attaching itself nicely to my heart hole and scoring a high 8.9 out of a possible 9, the little fucker made a half-arsed attempt and only connected to one section of the massive gaping hole in my heart.
WHAT. THE. FUCK?
Stupid little fabric thing! That isn’t what was supposed to happen. So it needed to be bloody pulled out. Annoying, all the shaving, cutting, FASTING, for nothing.
It needed to be pulled out, and I needed to be woken up to “chat about my options.” Fine, another plan. I mean it’s a definite plan B, but a plan nonetheless. I’m on board. As the Wizard Doctors were pulling the dodgy little fucker out, instead of it getting its shit together and realizing it hadn’t done anywhere nearly as much as it was expected to do so should just accept defeat and cooperate, it decided to not only be a failing little fucker but a stubborn one at that. It snapped off. THE STUPID, FAILING, STUBBORN LITTLE FABRIC FUCKER SNAPPED OFF IN MY HEART AND WAS JUST DANGLING THERE LIKE A LONELY HOEBAG. (I’ve had a lot of counseling about it. I’m good, you guys.) WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK?
Jump-cut to Api and Mum having an overpriced coffee in an unsterile hospital while they discuss, well, me.
Mum: So, what are your plans?
#hothusband: Well, I really love your daughter, and I can see a beautiful future with her.
Mum: No, not about her, about your hair. How long are you planning on keeping these dreadlocks?
#HH: Um, well, I haven’t really given much thought to it.
(Awkward pause.)
#HH: I think Celeste is really funny.
Mum: And pretty.
#HH: And kind.
Mum: Brave.
#HH: And smart.
(Look, I wasn’t there, but I’m pretty sure the way I’ve written this conversation is spot-on.)
Then Mum’s Nokia rang.
If this were an episode of 24 and we were filming it in real time, this scene would take place 1.5 hours after the Failing Stubborn Little Fucker scene (and I’d play Kiefer Sutherland’s role, goddamn it!).
Challenge Accepted! Page 11
