Sleep was never going to be deep last night, nor were the moments I spent in my mind. The only comfort I had was my dear snoring pug and a heater blaring onto my back while I stared at the words in my book—taking in nothing, yet somehow soaking up the sheer devistation in George Orwell’s words within the ghost of 1984. I knew the day ahead was looming, just as I knew it would be a great waste of my precious time.
I wake at 4:29 a.m. with a similar haste to the bolts of lightning that had only just departed days ago. Electricity runs through my body, but not enough to power me into the state of consciousness I desire. I take a seat on my mat, close to the old electric heater, and beside my now-awake, yet curiously still-snorning pug, who is relentless in her demand for a morning walk.
Out we go on our daily adventure—our favourite time of the day—wandering the quiet, dark streets of Fremantle, my tiny Rose sniffing out the perfect spot for her morning poo. It’s a short walk this morning; I know my deadline is looming and my own evacuation must soon begin.
Like every morning, I roll out my yoga mat—though today with far less enthusiasm. I take my feet into my hands and rock side to side. The time spent on the floor never has a plan, but I find being upside down always brings a smile to my mind. Quickly, I practiced some simple balance work, touched my toes, and descended into a deep squat that, not long ago, was still impossible.
I break all the emailed procedure rules and have a small espresso. The anarchy of it alone makes me feel better, giving me just enough of a kick to get into the hot shower. Twisting and turning, staring at my white, hairy legs and chipped painted toes, I decide I’m clean enough for the long trip ahead.
Dressed and out the door, I find myself in an Uber with the most delicate and beautiful Indian woman. She tells me a story about why she only ferries women, and then—much to my delight—a long and wonderful tale about her arranged marriage at the tender age of 18. A week-long celebration of colour and ceremony, a peculiar yet touching way to fall in love. Through the mist on the highway, I find a momentary friend who, somehow, knows I need to get out of my head.
Abruptly, we arrive at Gate A, and all of a sudden the day is underway. I enter a waiting room not full of people, but of barcodes—numbers to be herded to appropriate beds. I hand over my details and sign myself over to whatever lies ahead. A tall, strong woman I am—this is my coat of formidable armour, towering over all who walk beside me.
We make our way to the day surgery unit, full of empty, clean, rather inviting-looking beds. The nurses are as kind as angels. Not much could be said for the male doctors; it’s as if all they see is a barcode stuck to your head. I’m ushered to my station, told to undress, and then left to wait for further instruction.
The endless paperwork and a merry-go-round of health questions follow. Obs and holes are punched into my worn, wrinkled skin for the drugs to flow through—ready to send me into a very aggressive, deep, tortured sleep.
It’s unfortunate that I’ve become accustomed to being wheeled into the cold-as-fuck operating room—a space free of soul, wires and cords wrapped around and through me. A team of surgical staff, hands pulling and pushing. As I’m rigged into place, I feel a deep, burning pain—like a fire starting in my poor, shaking right hand. My eyes widen as I look up at the doctor, seeking confirmation that this is indeed normal. The last thing I remember is a kind nod and the warmth of her hand on my tortured skin.
Then—darkness.
You can never truly grasp why your body begins to shake, but the fear feels like the lightning that has only just passed. My eyes dart from side to side, and a nurse—who looks like an angel—takes my hand.
“You’re okay. It’s okay. Everything is okay.”
I gasp for air. Then the pain sets in. I’ve been cut from deep within.
She stays with me until I’ve come to, then gently insists I eat a cheap chocolate biscuit with my watery black coffee. The pain is unbearable, but I know I have to get back on my feet—to prove that my own bed, and my perpetually snoring, black-faced dear pug, is absolutely the best place for me.
As I fall into bed at home, I come to realise—this is simply my life.
And with that thought, I drift into a restful, calm sleep next to my continually snoring baby pug.
By Marilyn Tuna 5/8/25
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