‘My poor daughter has been in there for hours and no one’s telling me what’s going on,’ she said loudly for the benefit of the labour ward receptionist. ‘I’m so worried. Ya Allah, protect my daughter! Ya Rab, deliver this baby safely! My Lord, listen to my prayers!’
I gulped. I had forgotten what Aunty Noura was like. But then I heard the most deafening, wretched wail coming from one of the closed doors. It sounded like Dina. Stricken, I turned to stare at Aunty Noura, who also began to moan.
‘Ya Allah! Ya Rab! My poor baby! Have mercy, Ya Arhamar Raahimeen!’
As Dina’s mum proceeded to call all her relatives and speak to them in loud, fast Arabic above the sounds of the screaming and moaning from the labour rooms, I snuck over to one of the midwives.
‘Is everything OK with my friend?’ I asked her quietly. ‘Dina Al Farawi? Are there any updates?’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ the midwife reassured me. ‘She’s doing great, there are no complications. It just took a while for her to dilate to the full ten centimetres, that’s why she’s been in there a while.’
‘But all the screaming . . . it’s really worrying,’ I managed to say, feeling faint as another long, primal moan pierced my ears.
‘All very normal. Your friend is incredibly brave, she didn’t want an epidural and is surviving on gas and air only. Don’t worry and be strong, OK?’
‘Shu? What did she say?’ Aunty Noura all but yelled at me as I approached her and I repeated what the midwife had told me.
‘Huh!’ she scoffed, folding her arms across her ample bosom. ‘These midwives have no clue. Babies should be delivered by doctors. Australia is much better than this God-awful country with its God-awful NHS!’
‘Don’t they have midwives in Australia, Aunty?’ I asked innocently.
‘Oh, be quiet, child, I can’t hear myself think!’
Three hours later, baby Sama entered the world at nine pounds and two ounces. She was beautiful like her mummy, with a head full of dark curls and the chubbiest, rosiest cheeks. Dina looked exhausted, but happy. She had to have a bunch of stitches after the delivery and I couldn’t fathom how she was managing to smile after all that.
‘Dina, you’re bloody amazing,’ I whispered as I stroked her damp, sweaty hair while the baby lay naked on her chest.
‘I’m not,’ she replied, barely able to speak. ‘It’s the baby who’s amazing. Isn’t she beautiful?’
After some cuddles and a cup of tea, I took my leave so she could rest and enjoy this time with her family. As I turned to go, I caught Dina staring in awe at her baby, like she was the most precious thing in the world, and a lump formed in my throat. I didn’t know why; I was truly thrilled for her. I guess I just hoped that one day, I would experience the same.
Later that night, after texting back and forth with Dina and making sure she was OK and didn’t need anything, I took out the notebook and flicked through the now worn pages and found number fifteen:
15. GO SKYDIVING 
AMAZING! BEST THING EVER!
It wasn’t the best thing ever. Holding a newborn baby that had grown inside of you was truly amazing, not jumping out of a stupid plane.
But I didn’t have a baby. Or even someone to make a baby with. And if there was one thing in this world that petrified me more than snakes, tarantulas and walking through Edmonton at night, it was the mere idea of throwing myself out of an aeroplane. Life in London was dangerous enough as it was. Every time I left my house, I was at risk of getting stabbed, raped or at the very least, mugged. I didn’t need to participate in thrill-seeking activities for a buzz.
But I had to do it. This was number fifteen, exactly halfway through the list. I had come so far. My comfort zone had been shed so long ago that I no longer knew where it was. I had grown with every task I had completed and I didn’t regret a single one, not even Ulysses. I HAD to do it, whether anyone wanted to do it with me or not.
But maybe there was someone – well, two people – who were crazy enough to join me:
MAYA: Who wants to go skydiving with me?
I posted into the group chat I shared with my twin cousins. Pinky’s response came instantly:
PINKY: Hell yes, I’m there. When and where?
Pretty’s took a while longer and when it came, I felt a massive grin spread across my face:
PRETTY: Only if it’s in Dubai.
Three weeks later, I was on a plane with the twins, on our way to an extra-long weekend in Dubai. I would have liked to have gone for longer, but Sheila wouldn’t let me take more than three days off because of the ‘short notice’. No one else had booked leave and Lucy was fine with me handing over my urgent tasks to her, but she still refused on ‘principle’. God, I hated her more and more each day.