by LUCY ORMONDE
About a month ago I was alone. And I was struggling.
I found out I needed to have a small operation on my back, and when I couldn’t get an appointment in Sydney (where I live) I decided to travel back to Melbourne (where I’m from.) I’ll usually use any excuse to get back to my ‘hood, but this time it made sense – mum would be able to drive me to and from the appointment and the clinic I’d go to already had my records on file.
The operation itself was no big deal. I’d never had anything cut into me before, but it was over in less than an hour and in the nurse’s own words, I was “almost too relaxed”.
I spent the next couple of days hanging out at Mum’s place, lying on my stomach with the TV remote, a stack of books and my laptop within reach. Mum fussed over me (like all mothers do).
My besties dropped in for cups of tea and made the most of a rare succession of days where there were no distractions, no people to meet and no places to be. For a moment it felt like I was 10 years old again and home from school with tonsillitis; a mix of vulnerability and comfort all at once.
And then suddenly it’s Monday morning and I’m on the 6am flight to Sydney. I’m curled up in the corner of my seat in the second back row, and I’m crying into the hood of my oversized made-for-a-Melbourne-winter jacket. The air hostess asks me what’s wrong… and I have nothing.