My friend Melanie has been absolutely incredible. She came to pick me up in the middle of the night when I was nearly passed out on my parents' bathroom floor when I saw my chest for the first time unveiled. (Blackened nipples, and bloody stitches... My first post-op shower was not a success. I'm not even that squimish, but seeing that shit nearly made me hit the floor instantly.)
To my astonishment, Mel came by instantly despite being the middle of the night. She drove us back to her Mom's house so I could have some company to get me through. I took a bath, and then took a second look at my new chest. Without even being conscious of it, I started sobbing~some huge physiological release. I guess it was a mourning period, and I didn't even realize it.
She stayed up with me half the night to simply talk, and listen, and help me. It was so selfless.
In the midst of all of this, I realized that here I was, sitting infront of one of my best friends that I have known since we were 16 (now being 32.) She had seen me through so many of my many upsets in life. There she was right by me again.
I kept looking at the scars, my new chest, wondering how it would all turn out. I asked her if she would be willing to take some pictures to document this process. She took some medium format polaroids and some digital stills.
There I was, infront of my best friend, shirtless, and not even realizing that it would have been out of the question for me just one month ago, pre-op. I have always been paralyzed by insecurities about my body. For me being trans was an offshoot of body dysmorphic disorder, where I never felt like this body was my own. Therefore, it was always difficult for me to summons enough inhibition to simply open up and share what I hated most about my body.
Yet, on this particular night, I recognized that my life had changed. Not only did I try to make my body resemble the image that I have in my head, but I also lost that paralyzing fear of letting anyone else see these elements of myself that felt alien to me. Suddenly my chest was my own, it made sense, scars and all. And I was able to see it for what it was, and let it be seen. A radical notion for me.
Melanie touched my scars, and I couldn't even feel it, my skin was so numb. But it was huge. It was so symbolic that I had made this enormous shift in my life. There was no insecurity that persevered like when my breasts had still been there. It dissolved. It was liberating. Everything is different now.
(Pretty graphic, so take this as my warning... when they are posted within the next day..)
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Phantom limbs & granny bras
I'm watching bad cable at my parents' house in Connecticut, bored out of my mind. There is a commercial for some "ancient Chinese foot pad" that draws the toxins out of one's body. Could it draw out this pissy mood that has been developing in me?
What I have learned:
1. Running out of pain meds at the exact time nerve sensation returns is an excruciating experience. (Being numb and drugged up was much more acceptable.)
2. Two weeks ago I had no clue what my new chest looked like under this compression binder to prevent inflammation ("Where my nipples at~yo?") ~ where now I can "feel" the exact placement of the scars and stitches every time I turn my head, brush my teeth, put on my socks, walk up and down the stairs. Sleeping has been difficult as I spontaneously feel shooting pains under the surface of my skin that startle me in the middle of the night.
3. When people feel pain, it often makes them cranky and kind of annoying to be around. (These posts used to be "thank you for your support" and now it's "why I outta..." Pain management is important to survival and social acclimation.)
4. I feel like Elton John. I wear so many draped scarves to conceal my new flattened chest from my family that I feel like some 1970s emasculated pop star. ("ziggy dustbust-er?")
5. It is really humiliating to not be able to lift anything at all right now, when I have been very disciplined with weight lifting/training for hours every day for the past several months. I hate having people assist me with everything. My ego is as bruised as my impaired body.
6. To add insult to injury, apparently when one wants to get their breasts removed to have a more masculine looking chest they have to wear the nastiest grandma bra (compression vest) with 12 eyelet hooks down the front. (Only one more week to go!) I thought I'd be done with this shit, of wearing bras and such. Kill me!
7. Subtle fears are beginning to settle in... A fear that this pain/tightness in my chest will never subside. A fear that my scars will be freakish. A fear that I will need to be dependent on people to help more for a while longer. A fear that I will never find anyone to stand by me. A fear that I will never have enough facial hair for a big burly, grodie moustache.
8. Phantom limb syndrome totally exists. Despite having pretty much nothing left on top, and wearing that compression vest to mash down the rest, when I lean over to put on shoes, or pick something up, I feel like I have 37 lbs breasts that are violently ripping off my torso as I move.
On that note~I'm off to bed with my invisible gynormo breasts concealed in this granny bra, to only be woken up by shooting pains in roughly one hour. Merry f'ing Christmas to me!
What I have learned:
1. Running out of pain meds at the exact time nerve sensation returns is an excruciating experience. (Being numb and drugged up was much more acceptable.)
2. Two weeks ago I had no clue what my new chest looked like under this compression binder to prevent inflammation ("Where my nipples at~yo?") ~ where now I can "feel" the exact placement of the scars and stitches every time I turn my head, brush my teeth, put on my socks, walk up and down the stairs. Sleeping has been difficult as I spontaneously feel shooting pains under the surface of my skin that startle me in the middle of the night.
3. When people feel pain, it often makes them cranky and kind of annoying to be around. (These posts used to be "thank you for your support" and now it's "why I outta..." Pain management is important to survival and social acclimation.)
4. I feel like Elton John. I wear so many draped scarves to conceal my new flattened chest from my family that I feel like some 1970s emasculated pop star. ("ziggy dustbust-er?")
5. It is really humiliating to not be able to lift anything at all right now, when I have been very disciplined with weight lifting/training for hours every day for the past several months. I hate having people assist me with everything. My ego is as bruised as my impaired body.
6. To add insult to injury, apparently when one wants to get their breasts removed to have a more masculine looking chest they have to wear the nastiest grandma bra (compression vest) with 12 eyelet hooks down the front. (Only one more week to go!) I thought I'd be done with this shit, of wearing bras and such. Kill me!
7. Subtle fears are beginning to settle in... A fear that this pain/tightness in my chest will never subside. A fear that my scars will be freakish. A fear that I will need to be dependent on people to help more for a while longer. A fear that I will never find anyone to stand by me. A fear that I will never have enough facial hair for a big burly, grodie moustache.
8. Phantom limb syndrome totally exists. Despite having pretty much nothing left on top, and wearing that compression vest to mash down the rest, when I lean over to put on shoes, or pick something up, I feel like I have 37 lbs breasts that are violently ripping off my torso as I move.
On that note~I'm off to bed with my invisible gynormo breasts concealed in this granny bra, to only be woken up by shooting pains in roughly one hour. Merry f'ing Christmas to me!
things to not say...
I am finding many things that I have said accidentally in emails, blogs, messages, etc that I wish I hadn't. Seems like my fleeting moments of "foot in mouth" syndrome (from being an unwieldy sagittarian) has only gotten worse while on pain meds.
Things to NOT say:
1. Don't tell people you care about that you want them to "feel badly" about asking you a simple question, when the word "don't" was omitted accidentally. I don't want you to feel badly... ugh~ Obviously, I am referring to something I said to someone important. Sometimes you can't take things back... (How did Rush Limbaugh get away with his oxycontin binges? Was he such a blathering dick before no one noticed the difference with his incoherent narcotic rants? damn it all!)
2. Please don't use the greeting: "Hey girl" with me. (My mother has taken a liking to using the term "girl" as a nickname for me. She has for years. Ironic, no?) It really doesn't fit anymore with my baritone voice and modified body. So, I'd like to ask that we all skip the "hey girl/lady/ms thang" kind of sentiments when directed my way. I can understand that the pronoun thing might be a bit more difficult to shift immediately, or when I finally change my name legally... But can we at least make this one omission from our venacular?
3. Please don't tell me that my shoulders look tense, and that I just need to relax. My family keeps saying this to me, and without wanting to get graphic, my stitches and sore muscles have me stuck in this semi-permanent "protective" stance. It has been frustrating to find a response to offer my father that doesn't dip into the increasingly pissed tone that I want to be delivering, as I wish I could show him my scars to get him to back off. It's not simply a matter of me relaxing my shoulders. I promise... So, if you see me, just accept that I am a little uncomfortable, and might be sitting awkwardly in the chair across from you...
4. And whatever you do, please don't ask "so when they removed the tissue from your chest, did they redeposit it in your abdomen and face? You look a little bloated." I haven't been able to take a coffee mug off the second shelf in the cabinet, let alone work out for three weeks, so I am feeling the effects of losing my "boyish" figure. My vanity will be the death of me. Hard to do sit ups when everything seems to surprisingly be connected to very sore chest/lat muscles. Even getting out of bed in the morning has become Olympic feat. Ouchie. I have seemingly created my very own veal pen. Looking forward to getting out to pasture.
Off to NYC tomorrow, then back down to DC later in the week. So, if you see me, please remember these guidelines. (Not like I can swing any punches, but I've found talking about the details of recent surgical procedures to be all the weapons I need... Don't make me bust out the pics...)
Things to NOT say:
1. Don't tell people you care about that you want them to "feel badly" about asking you a simple question, when the word "don't" was omitted accidentally. I don't want you to feel badly... ugh~ Obviously, I am referring to something I said to someone important. Sometimes you can't take things back... (How did Rush Limbaugh get away with his oxycontin binges? Was he such a blathering dick before no one noticed the difference with his incoherent narcotic rants? damn it all!)
2. Please don't use the greeting: "Hey girl" with me. (My mother has taken a liking to using the term "girl" as a nickname for me. She has for years. Ironic, no?) It really doesn't fit anymore with my baritone voice and modified body. So, I'd like to ask that we all skip the "hey girl/lady/ms thang" kind of sentiments when directed my way. I can understand that the pronoun thing might be a bit more difficult to shift immediately, or when I finally change my name legally... But can we at least make this one omission from our venacular?
3. Please don't tell me that my shoulders look tense, and that I just need to relax. My family keeps saying this to me, and without wanting to get graphic, my stitches and sore muscles have me stuck in this semi-permanent "protective" stance. It has been frustrating to find a response to offer my father that doesn't dip into the increasingly pissed tone that I want to be delivering, as I wish I could show him my scars to get him to back off. It's not simply a matter of me relaxing my shoulders. I promise... So, if you see me, just accept that I am a little uncomfortable, and might be sitting awkwardly in the chair across from you...
4. And whatever you do, please don't ask "so when they removed the tissue from your chest, did they redeposit it in your abdomen and face? You look a little bloated." I haven't been able to take a coffee mug off the second shelf in the cabinet, let alone work out for three weeks, so I am feeling the effects of losing my "boyish" figure. My vanity will be the death of me. Hard to do sit ups when everything seems to surprisingly be connected to very sore chest/lat muscles. Even getting out of bed in the morning has become Olympic feat. Ouchie. I have seemingly created my very own veal pen. Looking forward to getting out to pasture.
Off to NYC tomorrow, then back down to DC later in the week. So, if you see me, please remember these guidelines. (Not like I can swing any punches, but I've found talking about the details of recent surgical procedures to be all the weapons I need... Don't make me bust out the pics...)
Monday, December 24, 2007
weening~
So, it is December 24th. Yesterday we went to my aunt's house to exchange gifts with the extended family. Again, I was fearing the worst, as I was not yet prepared for answering the slew of questions that might have surfaced about my surgery, and all that it represents. It became clear pretty early on that my family will be slow to making symbolic changes like referring to me with the masculine gender markers. (It will be awkward in public when I am passing more and more, and then will have them "she" me infront of strangers. It has happened with friends, and it can get weird. Waiters get tripped up, and suddenly think that I am underage and pulling many fast ones on them. ugh!)
Overall, it went fine. I had a great heart to heart with my cousin who is a few years older than me. She rolled with everything, and just wanted to know how I was feeling. My dad's sister caight me off guard when she made a point to corner me, and say:
"Well, since I haven't heard anyone else talk about it, I will break the silence and ask the awkward question. So, are you moving up here, or what?"
Riiiiiight. Apparently, she missed the family memo of potentially awkward family conversations, so that one was fine to answer. Phew~and we all exhaled a collective sigh of relief. After that, it was seemless. I did, however, get really exhausted from the drive up and back to Boston. For some reason car rides seem to completely sap my energy and resilence. I am trying to ween myself off of the pain meds, and save some for my longer trek back, so this middle ground feels a bit too long. We shall see.
So far, so good. Eating too many starches, watching really bad cable, and developing a beer gut sans beer. Sux. But I guess the holidays could be worse. And so it goes... Weening away.
Overall, it went fine. I had a great heart to heart with my cousin who is a few years older than me. She rolled with everything, and just wanted to know how I was feeling. My dad's sister caight me off guard when she made a point to corner me, and say:
"Well, since I haven't heard anyone else talk about it, I will break the silence and ask the awkward question. So, are you moving up here, or what?"
Riiiiiight. Apparently, she missed the family memo of potentially awkward family conversations, so that one was fine to answer. Phew~and we all exhaled a collective sigh of relief. After that, it was seemless. I did, however, get really exhausted from the drive up and back to Boston. For some reason car rides seem to completely sap my energy and resilence. I am trying to ween myself off of the pain meds, and save some for my longer trek back, so this middle ground feels a bit too long. We shall see.
So far, so good. Eating too many starches, watching really bad cable, and developing a beer gut sans beer. Sux. But I guess the holidays could be worse. And so it goes... Weening away.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
well...
things went well with my parents. i was at their house before they got back from work in an attempt to prepare myself for seeing them for the first time. it was good to see my mom, but i wasn't sure what to say. so i didn't say much of anything, which for those who know me ~ it's kind of rare for me to be at a loss for words. (clearly this blog shows that...)
we hung out as she did some stuff around the house, and we waited for my dad to come home. shockingly to me, he had more to say, more general questions to ask, and kept offering to get me tea, and the like. i can't complain...
after a life time of complicated ~ and even negative ~ exchanges with the guy, i am learning that things can always change for the better. i am seeing that despite all of the defense mechanisms that i have honed for just such instances, sometimes being open to things being okay, or even "good" can be its own revolution.
things are okay. defenses not needed, and i am at a loss. so many projections for things being horrible. so many times i have pulled myself away from potentially bad social situations in order to protect myself from the "what if's" that could have been damaging. and now see that despite those fears still lingering around, that i can still press on, and not only be okay, but find some comforting allies along the way. crazy...
i need to stay open to the possibilites~
we hung out as she did some stuff around the house, and we waited for my dad to come home. shockingly to me, he had more to say, more general questions to ask, and kept offering to get me tea, and the like. i can't complain...
after a life time of complicated ~ and even negative ~ exchanges with the guy, i am learning that things can always change for the better. i am seeing that despite all of the defense mechanisms that i have honed for just such instances, sometimes being open to things being okay, or even "good" can be its own revolution.
things are okay. defenses not needed, and i am at a loss. so many projections for things being horrible. so many times i have pulled myself away from potentially bad social situations in order to protect myself from the "what if's" that could have been damaging. and now see that despite those fears still lingering around, that i can still press on, and not only be okay, but find some comforting allies along the way. crazy...
i need to stay open to the possibilites~
he hated me...
...cuz i was doing so well...
* * * * * * * *
Jules had told me months ago that one of his new trans friends in Chicago was also getting top surgery from the same surgeon that I was going to on the very same day as me (Jules also went to this same dr last year). I later was bummed to receive the call when their office bumped me up one day earlier than my original scheduled date.
(Dawning on me now, I guess I haven't really talked much about my experiences directly with surgery. So here are some rambley stories:)
Last Tuesday was the newly scheduled date for my top surgery. We got to the plastic surgery clinic in Timonium, MD two hours early by accident, in an effort to by pass the two beltways' worth or morning rush hour traffic. While sitting in their parking lot outside their office's front door in some tiny discrete strip mall, nurse Betty came out, arms folded to yell at me. Turns out she meant to be yelling at another patient, who was now late. She mistook me for the late patient, and instead bumped me up two hours to the first appointment of the day, and moved that late guy back to my time slot. There was not enough time to be afraid. I dropped everything, and followed her in to the clinic, where I had met them before for my consultation.
She had me undress and put on a three sleeved (???) hospital gown, and she immediately snapped at me, commenting on how I put it on incorrectly. (So much for a good bedside manner!) She took me in to this tiny side room off of that examination room, to have me disrobe so she could take the pictures of my chest. (umm. awkward...) I tried to make some jokes, but for anyone reading this who might not have met her, Betty is not the jokester I would hope for under the circumstances. I "re-robed" and we returned to the exam room, where she called in my friend to go over the details of the post op care. I was tuning out, overwhelmed in a million fleeting thoughts that zipped through my mind without hesitation. My friend was taking notes on my behalf.
Dr. Fischer (who is amazing, and has the dreamiest bedside manner) entered the exam room with us, and had me disrobe again to "leave her marks" ~ meaning, a green sharpie to draw the dashes of where she wanted things to end up as the result of her "mad skillz." (It was awkward to have my friend sitting there through this part, as I am pretty modest about my body. Especially the parts that I disliked enough to get them removed from my body, but I digress...)
This great anesthesiologist came in, and we joked about that new movie "Alive" about the guy who wasn't fully sedated while overhearing his surgeon planning to kill him. It was just what I needed to take the edge off. Actually, what I needed, she provided in the form of a iv drip. She walked me to last room at the end of the hall within their clinic, and had me hop up on the surgical table. She comically remarked "A little nervous?" while I tried to play it off. Right~ I was hooked up to a blood pressure monitor, where she said my bp was 180/ over something I can't remember after freaking out over the 180 part. Whoa, I guess you can't lie to an anesthesiologist about being a little nervous. I was out.
I woke up approximately an hour and a half later, shivering on that same operating table. I was under an inflatable perforated hot air blanket, making me feel like I tipped an air hockey table on top of me in a drunken brawl. My shivers felt like full on convulsions to me, but apparently they were just tiny muscle twitches as the anesthesia wore off. The most excruciating part was when they took off the calf massaging sleeves that prevent blood clots. My hair was pressed in weird formations, and my shins were horrifically itchy to the point of extreme discomfort. And my nose was super itchy, and my recently released arms could not make their way to scratch it. The nurses propped me up, dressed me, and placed me in a wheelchair that then wheeled me out to my car, that my friend drove. My eyes weren't really opening, so I was hoping that I was in good hands as I was definitely out of it, and kind of bobbling around in my seat. We got back to the hotel and I instantly passed out in my double bed, only waking up to take sips of water with narcotics.
When I started to come to a few hours later, my friend Cayli's dad was talking on tv about the most stylish couples in Hollywood. It was very exciting to have as my first conscious image. I fumbled to find my cell phone laying next to me on my double bed to leave her a drug induced, incoherent message stating that fact. I then passed out again after snacking a bit on shaved turkey and triscuits. A few hours later I woke up in full force with an insane craving for barbecue ribs (which I never eat.) Thankfully, our hotel was next to a "Chili's" so my dream meal was brought to fruition instantly. BBQ ribs, a salmon fillet, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli. I was in heaven eating this super cheese ball meal that I would never eat sans narcotics. We made a bunch of calls to let everyone know I was alright, and I went back to sleep for the night.
The next morning we had to wake up early to get back to the surgeon's office by 8am for my post op check up. We snagged some food from the continental breakfast, although it looked as if I filled my sweatshirt with two dozen bagels, despite it actually being the flasks of the drains and the coiled drainage tubes concealed from embarrassment under my clothing.
I was sad when we got to the office, as I was remembering how Jules' friend "Red" was still having his surgery on Wednesday. I lost that sense of camaraderie when they split us up, and move my surgery to Tuesday. Then next thing I knew, Red and his girlfriends walked through the door. Without knowing who they were, or what they looked like, instantly, I recognized them, and that sense of camaraderie came rushing back.
We all sat there gabbing away, laughing, joking (as Jessica asked if she was going to need to wipe his ass... ooof.) Red asked what time I was going in to surgery, not having a clue that I was already done, and that my drains were tucked away inside my shirt. They were amazed that I had enough energy to laugh and joke, as we were all anticipating that I would need to be carried in on a stretcher. I was up and around like nothing had happened. If you looked closely you could tell that the compression vest that we have to wear post op was pinching slightly, as my shoulders were raised a tiny bit~but other than that, there were no clues that I had endured surgery like than 24 hours prior. It was kind of amazing.
They called me in to check on my results, and they said there was virtually no swelling. The amount of drained fluid was lower than they expected, in a good way. Dr. Fischer commented on how it was always such a pleasure to see me, since I was always in such a great, cheerful mood. (Nurse Betty was in the room, and shot her such a look, as Dr Fischer joked on how nice it was to be around such happy-go-lucky people...) I thanked them both profusely, and said that I would return in a week to get my drains removed at their office.
I went back out to say goodbye to my new friends from Chicago still waiting in the lobby, and wish them the best for a speedy recovery. It felt so perfectly synchronized to catch them when I did. They were all so great, and we instantly connected without even knowing each other. So perfect. We had been texting each other a little bit over the past week to check in on each other, and promised to hang out when I would have to come back to have my drains taken out one week post op.
So my appointment was set for this past Tuesday ~ one week after my surgery ~ and Jules drove us up to the clinic. Everything went fine, as it took two minutes to take the drains out. (What a weird physical feeling that was-to feel a cord moving through my chest under the skin! Like some bad sci fi film I would never watch.)
The most surreal part was to see my newly masculinized chest when they took off the compression vest that I have had on the entire past week. They removed the padding under the vest, and I could see the surgical tape covering the delicate stitches at the bottom of my pecs and around my aureoles. So, my chest was still a little camouflaged, but still visible none the less. It was surreal. It looked great, and I was happy with the results themselves. Tough to believe that it was really my chest, but I know after the next few weeks of still having to wear this compression vest to prevent swelling, that I will get used to the idea of this new feature of my body. (I must admit that I was a bit disappointed that after all my work outs that my pecs weren't super huge and rippling after surgery, my vanity will be the death of me!) But it was great, and Jules called Red and his friends still in the Baltimore area recovering. We got to see them after my appointment.
We caught up with Red, Jessica and Geral (sp?) in their super cute colonial style row house that they rented for several weeks in Baltimore proper while he recuperated. We all asked how Red was feeling post surgery. He looked straight at me, and said that he had a really reaction to the Oxycontin, and that it kind of threw him off. He continued by saying that when he saw me that day post op, he was excited to see someone doing so well, and thought other guys had maybe exaggerated about their negative experiences after surgery. But when he then had a rough recovery he said he was really mad at me, and said that he "kind of hated me" for a day, thinking: "Great, now I am going to look like some wuss because I am not doing as well as Lani. Not running around, shaking hands in the lobby the next day, laughing and joking." With a twinkle in his eye, and a half grin on his face he said that he kind of hated me for doing so well. He was joking of course, but I never thought about that~about comparing how we were doing, so it was kind of strange to hear. I didn't take offense, but felt badly that he had a rough bout. I also felt luckier still to see my experiences have gone so smoothly thus far.
I had been taking a sh!t ton of homeopathic meds and immune boosters for months before hand, working out for and hour and a half every other day for four months prior to surgery, and and hour every day for several weeks leading up to surgery. (With the exception of the week before surgery that was filled more with celebratory cocktail toasts and panini presses, rather than whole wheat toast and bench presses. Oh well...) I tried to keep myself in check, and I guess maybe it worked.
The 12 hours of traveling yesterday after getting my drains out stressed my body more than I anticipated. Other than that, I have been feeling absolutely great. The pain that I felt in my chest region was more of a muscle pull, and every so often a tightness around the stitches themselves if I moved my arms a bit too high or wide. Yesterday and today I feel these weird shooting pains that feel more like mini-electrical storms under the skin, which I have been told are great signs~meaning it is nerve sensation returning. Weird. We shall see how this all goes, but so far so good!
I just got to my parents' house, and they are still at work. A bit nervous to see how that reunion will go, so please still keep your fingers crossed for me, and as always~huge thanks for all of the well wishing!
(And thanks for Mel's family's support! Like a second family to me, and I am lucky to have you guys in my life!)
Off to take my first official shower post op (after a week's worth of sponge bathing. ugh~) God, think of how much money I'll save on soap now that there is less surface area to wash! ;)
Much love... always~
* * * * * * * *
Jules had told me months ago that one of his new trans friends in Chicago was also getting top surgery from the same surgeon that I was going to on the very same day as me (Jules also went to this same dr last year). I later was bummed to receive the call when their office bumped me up one day earlier than my original scheduled date.
(Dawning on me now, I guess I haven't really talked much about my experiences directly with surgery. So here are some rambley stories:)
Last Tuesday was the newly scheduled date for my top surgery. We got to the plastic surgery clinic in Timonium, MD two hours early by accident, in an effort to by pass the two beltways' worth or morning rush hour traffic. While sitting in their parking lot outside their office's front door in some tiny discrete strip mall, nurse Betty came out, arms folded to yell at me. Turns out she meant to be yelling at another patient, who was now late. She mistook me for the late patient, and instead bumped me up two hours to the first appointment of the day, and moved that late guy back to my time slot. There was not enough time to be afraid. I dropped everything, and followed her in to the clinic, where I had met them before for my consultation.
She had me undress and put on a three sleeved (???) hospital gown, and she immediately snapped at me, commenting on how I put it on incorrectly. (So much for a good bedside manner!) She took me in to this tiny side room off of that examination room, to have me disrobe so she could take the pictures of my chest. (umm. awkward...) I tried to make some jokes, but for anyone reading this who might not have met her, Betty is not the jokester I would hope for under the circumstances. I "re-robed" and we returned to the exam room, where she called in my friend to go over the details of the post op care. I was tuning out, overwhelmed in a million fleeting thoughts that zipped through my mind without hesitation. My friend was taking notes on my behalf.
Dr. Fischer (who is amazing, and has the dreamiest bedside manner) entered the exam room with us, and had me disrobe again to "leave her marks" ~ meaning, a green sharpie to draw the dashes of where she wanted things to end up as the result of her "mad skillz." (It was awkward to have my friend sitting there through this part, as I am pretty modest about my body. Especially the parts that I disliked enough to get them removed from my body, but I digress...)
This great anesthesiologist came in, and we joked about that new movie "Alive" about the guy who wasn't fully sedated while overhearing his surgeon planning to kill him. It was just what I needed to take the edge off. Actually, what I needed, she provided in the form of a iv drip. She walked me to last room at the end of the hall within their clinic, and had me hop up on the surgical table. She comically remarked "A little nervous?" while I tried to play it off. Right~ I was hooked up to a blood pressure monitor, where she said my bp was 180/ over something I can't remember after freaking out over the 180 part. Whoa, I guess you can't lie to an anesthesiologist about being a little nervous. I was out.
I woke up approximately an hour and a half later, shivering on that same operating table. I was under an inflatable perforated hot air blanket, making me feel like I tipped an air hockey table on top of me in a drunken brawl. My shivers felt like full on convulsions to me, but apparently they were just tiny muscle twitches as the anesthesia wore off. The most excruciating part was when they took off the calf massaging sleeves that prevent blood clots. My hair was pressed in weird formations, and my shins were horrifically itchy to the point of extreme discomfort. And my nose was super itchy, and my recently released arms could not make their way to scratch it. The nurses propped me up, dressed me, and placed me in a wheelchair that then wheeled me out to my car, that my friend drove. My eyes weren't really opening, so I was hoping that I was in good hands as I was definitely out of it, and kind of bobbling around in my seat. We got back to the hotel and I instantly passed out in my double bed, only waking up to take sips of water with narcotics.
When I started to come to a few hours later, my friend Cayli's dad was talking on tv about the most stylish couples in Hollywood. It was very exciting to have as my first conscious image. I fumbled to find my cell phone laying next to me on my double bed to leave her a drug induced, incoherent message stating that fact. I then passed out again after snacking a bit on shaved turkey and triscuits. A few hours later I woke up in full force with an insane craving for barbecue ribs (which I never eat.) Thankfully, our hotel was next to a "Chili's" so my dream meal was brought to fruition instantly. BBQ ribs, a salmon fillet, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli. I was in heaven eating this super cheese ball meal that I would never eat sans narcotics. We made a bunch of calls to let everyone know I was alright, and I went back to sleep for the night.
The next morning we had to wake up early to get back to the surgeon's office by 8am for my post op check up. We snagged some food from the continental breakfast, although it looked as if I filled my sweatshirt with two dozen bagels, despite it actually being the flasks of the drains and the coiled drainage tubes concealed from embarrassment under my clothing.
I was sad when we got to the office, as I was remembering how Jules' friend "Red" was still having his surgery on Wednesday. I lost that sense of camaraderie when they split us up, and move my surgery to Tuesday. Then next thing I knew, Red and his girlfriends walked through the door. Without knowing who they were, or what they looked like, instantly, I recognized them, and that sense of camaraderie came rushing back.
We all sat there gabbing away, laughing, joking (as Jessica asked if she was going to need to wipe his ass... ooof.) Red asked what time I was going in to surgery, not having a clue that I was already done, and that my drains were tucked away inside my shirt. They were amazed that I had enough energy to laugh and joke, as we were all anticipating that I would need to be carried in on a stretcher. I was up and around like nothing had happened. If you looked closely you could tell that the compression vest that we have to wear post op was pinching slightly, as my shoulders were raised a tiny bit~but other than that, there were no clues that I had endured surgery like than 24 hours prior. It was kind of amazing.
They called me in to check on my results, and they said there was virtually no swelling. The amount of drained fluid was lower than they expected, in a good way. Dr. Fischer commented on how it was always such a pleasure to see me, since I was always in such a great, cheerful mood. (Nurse Betty was in the room, and shot her such a look, as Dr Fischer joked on how nice it was to be around such happy-go-lucky people...) I thanked them both profusely, and said that I would return in a week to get my drains removed at their office.
I went back out to say goodbye to my new friends from Chicago still waiting in the lobby, and wish them the best for a speedy recovery. It felt so perfectly synchronized to catch them when I did. They were all so great, and we instantly connected without even knowing each other. So perfect. We had been texting each other a little bit over the past week to check in on each other, and promised to hang out when I would have to come back to have my drains taken out one week post op.
So my appointment was set for this past Tuesday ~ one week after my surgery ~ and Jules drove us up to the clinic. Everything went fine, as it took two minutes to take the drains out. (What a weird physical feeling that was-to feel a cord moving through my chest under the skin! Like some bad sci fi film I would never watch.)
The most surreal part was to see my newly masculinized chest when they took off the compression vest that I have had on the entire past week. They removed the padding under the vest, and I could see the surgical tape covering the delicate stitches at the bottom of my pecs and around my aureoles. So, my chest was still a little camouflaged, but still visible none the less. It was surreal. It looked great, and I was happy with the results themselves. Tough to believe that it was really my chest, but I know after the next few weeks of still having to wear this compression vest to prevent swelling, that I will get used to the idea of this new feature of my body. (I must admit that I was a bit disappointed that after all my work outs that my pecs weren't super huge and rippling after surgery, my vanity will be the death of me!) But it was great, and Jules called Red and his friends still in the Baltimore area recovering. We got to see them after my appointment.
We caught up with Red, Jessica and Geral (sp?) in their super cute colonial style row house that they rented for several weeks in Baltimore proper while he recuperated. We all asked how Red was feeling post surgery. He looked straight at me, and said that he had a really reaction to the Oxycontin, and that it kind of threw him off. He continued by saying that when he saw me that day post op, he was excited to see someone doing so well, and thought other guys had maybe exaggerated about their negative experiences after surgery. But when he then had a rough recovery he said he was really mad at me, and said that he "kind of hated me" for a day, thinking: "Great, now I am going to look like some wuss because I am not doing as well as Lani. Not running around, shaking hands in the lobby the next day, laughing and joking." With a twinkle in his eye, and a half grin on his face he said that he kind of hated me for doing so well. He was joking of course, but I never thought about that~about comparing how we were doing, so it was kind of strange to hear. I didn't take offense, but felt badly that he had a rough bout. I also felt luckier still to see my experiences have gone so smoothly thus far.
I had been taking a sh!t ton of homeopathic meds and immune boosters for months before hand, working out for and hour and a half every other day for four months prior to surgery, and and hour every day for several weeks leading up to surgery. (With the exception of the week before surgery that was filled more with celebratory cocktail toasts and panini presses, rather than whole wheat toast and bench presses. Oh well...) I tried to keep myself in check, and I guess maybe it worked.
The 12 hours of traveling yesterday after getting my drains out stressed my body more than I anticipated. Other than that, I have been feeling absolutely great. The pain that I felt in my chest region was more of a muscle pull, and every so often a tightness around the stitches themselves if I moved my arms a bit too high or wide. Yesterday and today I feel these weird shooting pains that feel more like mini-electrical storms under the skin, which I have been told are great signs~meaning it is nerve sensation returning. Weird. We shall see how this all goes, but so far so good!
I just got to my parents' house, and they are still at work. A bit nervous to see how that reunion will go, so please still keep your fingers crossed for me, and as always~huge thanks for all of the well wishing!
(And thanks for Mel's family's support! Like a second family to me, and I am lucky to have you guys in my life!)
Off to take my first official shower post op (after a week's worth of sponge bathing. ugh~) God, think of how much money I'll save on soap now that there is less surface area to wash! ;)
Much love... always~
one week down:
So, yesterday was the one week anniversary of my top surgery. Ya-f'ing-hoo! I feel great. Jules and Mel tried to help me prepare for our trip up north. So, one week down, we had a "going away" party on our last evening in DC. (I got my friends tipsy in an attempt to thank them for their assistance. But instead of a "thank you," it ended up being a bit more cruel to one of our party attendees. Sorry Mel! I guess when we run out of bourbon next time, we should see that as a sign!)
We woke up Tuesday morning a bit slow and unwilling to crawl out of bed. Yet, Jules was peppy and cooking full gourmet meals to bring with us for the drive north. How endearing is he??? (for his amazing recipies, look to future blog entries! ;] )
I had my appointment to get my drains taken out at the surgeon's office out side of Baltimore. Because of the late celebratory night, I hand't fully packed my suitcases, and wasn't ready to roll. We kind of threw some stuff together and headed out. This was the first twinge of sadness I felt ~ knowing that the party was over. Knowing that I wouldn't see Jules again for a while... Knowing that I would have to leave the safety of my own home to branch out into the real world beyond my home city of DC.
(As I write this from my parents' home in Connecticut, the television is on mute in the corner. I turned to check out the picture on tv, as I learned to find that the Executive Office Building in DC has endured a considerable fire today. Feels odd as I am writing about my fears of leaving DC I turn to find a huge fire has errupted in my now vacated home city. Ironic.)
It wasn't that I was afraid to go elsewhere in the literal sense, like I would be beaten up or things like that. It was more of an understanding that this transition had now bridged the gap to the "other side." Having been on testosterone for well over a year, and most recently having had top surgery, there is this understanding that I have about the permanency of these actions. I am content in my choices, and have no regrets at all, but there are these slippery concepts that flash through my head.
The word "trans" means to span across two locations. Whether those be concrete locations such as east coast/west coast, oceans, or more metaphorical points, such as gender binaries. (Personally, I don't believe much in there being simply two genders, but that's another story.)
What I mean is: I see it more in my head as if there were these two cliffs, where I had one toe on each side, to put it comically. Being trans meant that I spanned these two points in this great divide. Where now after having surgery, I feel like I have been catapulted more to one side, the masculine side.
Quick side note: Mel and I stopped at a rest stop in CT last night, and it was the first time I have ever used a men's room at a rest stop (usually I used teh "family assistance" stalls). Walking in and seeing men at urinals, and knowing that I would still have to use a stall to cover up the fact that I can not "pee" standing up. Would they notice, would they care? And I caught a glimpse of my now flat chest in the mirror as I washed my hands, and it hit me how my formerly feminine chest that gave me away in the past no longer existed. There were no signs to "out me" anymore. My deeper voice, my broadened shoulders and smaller hips, my subtle blonde stubble on my unshaven chin, my hair receding ever so slightly above my temples...
As I walked back to the car to meet Melanie, this younger woman totally checked me out, and I knew it wasn't to "figure out what I was" like it had been in the past. It was a very strange sensation. This mixture of relief, that I wouldn't be something people would stare at to deduce "what" I was ~ and this simultaneous feeling of almost confusion. I am not used to living without that fear. The fear of being found out to be other than strangers imagined me to be upon first review. It was a reminder of where the anxiety _used_ to fit in my life. That space where the anxiety used to be has yet to be filled by something else. Despite the very real reminders of "Boys Don't Cry" and horrific stories of that nature, I don't want to carry that fear with me. I want to practice letting go of that anxiety and paralyzing fear. I don't want it to have a place here.
I have never wanted to do any of this to "become a man." I have always felt "in between" ~ trans, if you will. And I think I am feeling the internalized conflict of the ease of passing as a guy, and yet still wanting to affirm my identity as trans.
Ginger and I had talked candidly about this in the past, how if I did begin to pass as a guy without question, there might be a sense of frustration that might arise. She and I spoke about the very process of transitioning ~ not only my own physiological changes, but in essence, how those changes instigate others around me to shift their concepts of me, and the context of our relationships. Ginger and I could imagine how a sense of frustration could surface when maybe the layers and complexities would not always be acknowledged by outsiders. Not that I need guys at the urinal to high five me for the sense of courage it would take to join them in the men's room... (ugh~my ocd just kicked on when rereading that sentence. i think i just threw up in my mouth a little.) But, there is an odd sense of wanting certain people to understand that I am not this person by default. We would talk about how we would subconsciously want props for all of the mindful choices and hard work we had to do to arrive at this point safely, with whole hearted resolve.
I used to tell my good friend Emily that I just wanted to be the boy next door. I wanted to fly so far under the radar that no one would even notice me. To her, this was such a baffling concept, even saddening, that someone could want so little attention. To me, always getting unwelcomed attention, and often with a slightly intrusive and detremental spin was terrifying. Now, I guess I will have to see if I will be as excited about this disintrest as I imagined. Or if the narcissist in me will feel neglected! (Britney Spears and I do share a birthday after all...)
We woke up Tuesday morning a bit slow and unwilling to crawl out of bed. Yet, Jules was peppy and cooking full gourmet meals to bring with us for the drive north. How endearing is he??? (for his amazing recipies, look to future blog entries! ;] )
I had my appointment to get my drains taken out at the surgeon's office out side of Baltimore. Because of the late celebratory night, I hand't fully packed my suitcases, and wasn't ready to roll. We kind of threw some stuff together and headed out. This was the first twinge of sadness I felt ~ knowing that the party was over. Knowing that I wouldn't see Jules again for a while... Knowing that I would have to leave the safety of my own home to branch out into the real world beyond my home city of DC.
(As I write this from my parents' home in Connecticut, the television is on mute in the corner. I turned to check out the picture on tv, as I learned to find that the Executive Office Building in DC has endured a considerable fire today. Feels odd as I am writing about my fears of leaving DC I turn to find a huge fire has errupted in my now vacated home city. Ironic.)
It wasn't that I was afraid to go elsewhere in the literal sense, like I would be beaten up or things like that. It was more of an understanding that this transition had now bridged the gap to the "other side." Having been on testosterone for well over a year, and most recently having had top surgery, there is this understanding that I have about the permanency of these actions. I am content in my choices, and have no regrets at all, but there are these slippery concepts that flash through my head.
The word "trans" means to span across two locations. Whether those be concrete locations such as east coast/west coast, oceans, or more metaphorical points, such as gender binaries. (Personally, I don't believe much in there being simply two genders, but that's another story.)
What I mean is: I see it more in my head as if there were these two cliffs, where I had one toe on each side, to put it comically. Being trans meant that I spanned these two points in this great divide. Where now after having surgery, I feel like I have been catapulted more to one side, the masculine side.
Quick side note: Mel and I stopped at a rest stop in CT last night, and it was the first time I have ever used a men's room at a rest stop (usually I used teh "family assistance" stalls). Walking in and seeing men at urinals, and knowing that I would still have to use a stall to cover up the fact that I can not "pee" standing up. Would they notice, would they care? And I caught a glimpse of my now flat chest in the mirror as I washed my hands, and it hit me how my formerly feminine chest that gave me away in the past no longer existed. There were no signs to "out me" anymore. My deeper voice, my broadened shoulders and smaller hips, my subtle blonde stubble on my unshaven chin, my hair receding ever so slightly above my temples...
As I walked back to the car to meet Melanie, this younger woman totally checked me out, and I knew it wasn't to "figure out what I was" like it had been in the past. It was a very strange sensation. This mixture of relief, that I wouldn't be something people would stare at to deduce "what" I was ~ and this simultaneous feeling of almost confusion. I am not used to living without that fear. The fear of being found out to be other than strangers imagined me to be upon first review. It was a reminder of where the anxiety _used_ to fit in my life. That space where the anxiety used to be has yet to be filled by something else. Despite the very real reminders of "Boys Don't Cry" and horrific stories of that nature, I don't want to carry that fear with me. I want to practice letting go of that anxiety and paralyzing fear. I don't want it to have a place here.
I have never wanted to do any of this to "become a man." I have always felt "in between" ~ trans, if you will. And I think I am feeling the internalized conflict of the ease of passing as a guy, and yet still wanting to affirm my identity as trans.
Ginger and I had talked candidly about this in the past, how if I did begin to pass as a guy without question, there might be a sense of frustration that might arise. She and I spoke about the very process of transitioning ~ not only my own physiological changes, but in essence, how those changes instigate others around me to shift their concepts of me, and the context of our relationships. Ginger and I could imagine how a sense of frustration could surface when maybe the layers and complexities would not always be acknowledged by outsiders. Not that I need guys at the urinal to high five me for the sense of courage it would take to join them in the men's room... (ugh~my ocd just kicked on when rereading that sentence. i think i just threw up in my mouth a little.) But, there is an odd sense of wanting certain people to understand that I am not this person by default. We would talk about how we would subconsciously want props for all of the mindful choices and hard work we had to do to arrive at this point safely, with whole hearted resolve.
I used to tell my good friend Emily that I just wanted to be the boy next door. I wanted to fly so far under the radar that no one would even notice me. To her, this was such a baffling concept, even saddening, that someone could want so little attention. To me, always getting unwelcomed attention, and often with a slightly intrusive and detremental spin was terrifying. Now, I guess I will have to see if I will be as excited about this disintrest as I imagined. Or if the narcissist in me will feel neglected! (Britney Spears and I do share a birthday after all...)
Monday, December 17, 2007
"making tuesday feel like monday..."
everyday...
(this blog entry has been modified... melanie was the author of this last post, and frankly it was under the influence. side note: don't offer to get your caretakers drunk if care if still needed! ;] )
the pictures from this evening illustrate some of the fun we had during our last night in dc before we all headed northward. the last hurray, if you will. several friends came over later in the night. (even one who left her own anniversary celebration to see me off. now that is love!)
needless to say, i am relieved that melanie and jules got along as well as they did. it was great to have so many of my friends from the different corners of my life come together to help me with the details of my daily needs. friends from my home town that i have known since i was 17, friends from college, and people that i have met within this past year. it was incredible to see so many faces around me during my recuperation~all there for the sole purpose of making me feel as comfortable as i could sonsidering... everyone got along great, and meshed with the other personalities so seamlessly. it was really incredible to witness, and so humbling to absorb.
but i think we all anticipated that these well wishers would be sitting around restlessly while i was in and out of consciousness. instead, it was a week long party. maybe it was the oxicontin talking~but it was a f'ing blast! i was up and about since the evening of my surgery (craving ribs and mashed potatoes~oddly enough, for those who know me well enough.) and my energy levels and reserves made me only want to celebrate with all of those who came to share in this moment. people came to pour me tea and fluff my pillows, wipe the drool off of my chin as i dozed... instead, they were sipping knob creek, and watching "strangers with candy" and graham norton, as we all laughed are asses off. it was better to cry from the laughter of off-color humor than the pain we all imagined i'd be feeling.
so here's to nartcotic drugs and dear friends who make any recovery a celebration!
much love to all of those who sent their well wishing, and especially those who partook in the partying!
spa treatments for tough guys~
melanie gave jules and i spa treatments. don't we look tough???
is he looking at me? what the....
how cute is this?
and the chips are down.
do i look different yet?
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Hot Toddies.
In trying to think of things to say, I find that I am waking up slowly on this Sunday morning. Late last night I had all of these inspiring ideas for the blog, after hitting the town running (well, stammering, and trying to hide the grenade shaped flasks that the receive the drained blood, running down the extended tubes following the length of my torso.)
My friends Melanie and Ali took me out last night, since I was going a bit stir crazy. The cabin fever I feared most finally did kick in, and I got a bit antsy. So, I got all dolled up (unfortunately I tried to wear a uber soft navy blue button down shirt, and an equally soft black zip up cardigan~neither of which really fit me anymore, since my shoulders became so much more buff from working out over the past four months. Melanie kept teasing me as we tried to squeeze my swollen, tender body into these "fitted" articles, as we were curious of the "losses" would have evened out the muscle gain~but the shirt was still quite tight... I hadn't wore either since last year, when apparently I was much smaller through the shoulders, despite my now smaller chest. sigh~)
We then put on my dark, slightly whiskered jeans, my favorite boots, my herringbone grey jacket, and bright variegated striped cashmere scarf. I felt so dapper, as I tried to tuck away the disgusting blood tinged grenades in the back jean pockets. I looked great considering I am a few days post op, until the grenades slipped out of my pocket, and swung like an incriminating, creepy pendulum that sealed my fate. It was bad enough that they do keep falling off whatever item I have clipped them on to~but to have it happen in public is a bit more socially awkward. (Embarrassing to have anything suddenly fall off your body, and drop towards the floor. insert bad sight gag here ________.) Plus, the physiological feeling of the drop was a bit intense. As they would suddenly tug at the incisions under my arms, and inches from my stitched up wounds. Tugging in an area so sensitive is not so fun. Especially when I was excited about having so much nerve sensation, and then have it practically work against me. Ooooof.
So, Mel, Ali and I went to this bourgie diner in city, not too far from my house. By the time we had decided to rough it, it had begin to pour outside. Fitting somehow... As discrete as I wanted to be, feeling like I was wrapped like a mummy, and must have obviously been the target of many stares and questions, with my protected stance, and my tightened shoulders~I was sitting in the back of the restaurant, under this mini spotlight. Usually, I wouldn't have been cognizant of these types of lighting situations, but last night, I felt like everything about me was under a huge microscope.
Mel & Ali were very conscientious to ensure that my drains were tucked away out of sight, while others dined around us. God, can you imagine? I'm such a dork... We had a great time, as I have never felt happier. Both Mel and Ali remarked how I appeared to be beaming, as I passed it off as just the spotlight catching that twinkle in my green eyes, but I think they were right.
This was the first time that I got to experience my newly reshaped body in the real world. I got to see how it would be received~ how I would be received... And it was amazing. But it was more like the subtlety of how great we feel when we go in for a teeth cleaning, versus get the best hair cut we've ever had. It was subtle, and understated. My clothes were layered, and my chest still "bound" behind the gauze and compression vest. It was not so much about being noticed, as much as it was about the lack of spectators interested in stealing a glance. This has always been my fear~when people found something in my appearance to be incongruent with the rest of my body's disposition. Formerly, as they might have found "bumps"on this chest ~ in direct contradiction to my lower voice, and broad shoulders... It was so liberating to not have to worry about people even considering that "bumps" may have once resided there... It was fucking amazing...
We had the best dinner of my life, even though it was just dumb diner food. We walked around a bit after dinner, and I had them drive around a bit to show these guys my city. When we came home, we were so relieved to be out of the rain, and watched some bad tv under big blankets. They made Hot Toddies, and got almost tipsy in our slumber party-esque affairs.
It was our last hurray before Ali leaves today, and Jules comes to town. Changing of the guards.
My friends Melanie and Ali took me out last night, since I was going a bit stir crazy. The cabin fever I feared most finally did kick in, and I got a bit antsy. So, I got all dolled up (unfortunately I tried to wear a uber soft navy blue button down shirt, and an equally soft black zip up cardigan~neither of which really fit me anymore, since my shoulders became so much more buff from working out over the past four months. Melanie kept teasing me as we tried to squeeze my swollen, tender body into these "fitted" articles, as we were curious of the "losses" would have evened out the muscle gain~but the shirt was still quite tight... I hadn't wore either since last year, when apparently I was much smaller through the shoulders, despite my now smaller chest. sigh~)
We then put on my dark, slightly whiskered jeans, my favorite boots, my herringbone grey jacket, and bright variegated striped cashmere scarf. I felt so dapper, as I tried to tuck away the disgusting blood tinged grenades in the back jean pockets. I looked great considering I am a few days post op, until the grenades slipped out of my pocket, and swung like an incriminating, creepy pendulum that sealed my fate. It was bad enough that they do keep falling off whatever item I have clipped them on to~but to have it happen in public is a bit more socially awkward. (Embarrassing to have anything suddenly fall off your body, and drop towards the floor. insert bad sight gag here ________.) Plus, the physiological feeling of the drop was a bit intense. As they would suddenly tug at the incisions under my arms, and inches from my stitched up wounds. Tugging in an area so sensitive is not so fun. Especially when I was excited about having so much nerve sensation, and then have it practically work against me. Ooooof.
So, Mel, Ali and I went to this bourgie diner in city, not too far from my house. By the time we had decided to rough it, it had begin to pour outside. Fitting somehow... As discrete as I wanted to be, feeling like I was wrapped like a mummy, and must have obviously been the target of many stares and questions, with my protected stance, and my tightened shoulders~I was sitting in the back of the restaurant, under this mini spotlight. Usually, I wouldn't have been cognizant of these types of lighting situations, but last night, I felt like everything about me was under a huge microscope.
Mel & Ali were very conscientious to ensure that my drains were tucked away out of sight, while others dined around us. God, can you imagine? I'm such a dork... We had a great time, as I have never felt happier. Both Mel and Ali remarked how I appeared to be beaming, as I passed it off as just the spotlight catching that twinkle in my green eyes, but I think they were right.
This was the first time that I got to experience my newly reshaped body in the real world. I got to see how it would be received~ how I would be received... And it was amazing. But it was more like the subtlety of how great we feel when we go in for a teeth cleaning, versus get the best hair cut we've ever had. It was subtle, and understated. My clothes were layered, and my chest still "bound" behind the gauze and compression vest. It was not so much about being noticed, as much as it was about the lack of spectators interested in stealing a glance. This has always been my fear~when people found something in my appearance to be incongruent with the rest of my body's disposition. Formerly, as they might have found "bumps"on this chest ~ in direct contradiction to my lower voice, and broad shoulders... It was so liberating to not have to worry about people even considering that "bumps" may have once resided there... It was fucking amazing...
We had the best dinner of my life, even though it was just dumb diner food. We walked around a bit after dinner, and I had them drive around a bit to show these guys my city. When we came home, we were so relieved to be out of the rain, and watched some bad tv under big blankets. They made Hot Toddies, and got almost tipsy in our slumber party-esque affairs.
It was our last hurray before Ali leaves today, and Jules comes to town. Changing of the guards.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Funny new things...
As always, I want to thank all of you who have sent me messages to keep me entertained and feeling connected while I am recuperating. It's been great to feel those threads tethering me to my friends that I haven't talked to in a while...
I am still doing well. Trying to take it a bit easier as I think my restlessness has made me do a little too much around my house. (I tried to open my front door to retrieve a small package this afternoon, and my obese cat made a break for it. It was like a war of the wills. I went to reach for her, and felt the strain of the stitches. Ouchie. Bastard. Anyhway~)
Here is another set of video clips (with this new digital lisp I have developed... Ugh~) to keep everyone updated. I think the binder and the bandages to "prevent swelling" make my chest look a lot bigger than it actually is, but you get the idea.
Thanks for checking up on me and more in a bit!
I am still doing well. Trying to take it a bit easier as I think my restlessness has made me do a little too much around my house. (I tried to open my front door to retrieve a small package this afternoon, and my obese cat made a break for it. It was like a war of the wills. I went to reach for her, and felt the strain of the stitches. Ouchie. Bastard. Anyhway~)
Here is another set of video clips (with this new digital lisp I have developed... Ugh~) to keep everyone updated. I think the binder and the bandages to "prevent swelling" make my chest look a lot bigger than it actually is, but you get the idea.
Thanks for checking up on me and more in a bit!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
boo boo's and hairy stomachs
post op pics. bandages, boo boo's and compression vests. so, um, where do you think my nipples are now?
weird, right...
(hairy bellies, got hairier from the t, i swear it, yo~)
the night before surgery with a stuffed creature with bandaged tatas...
alive and kicking
Hey there,
I just want to thank everyone for all of their well wishing over the past few days. I feel great, and can't believe everything went so well with the surgery. I guess there is still time for some kind of "issue" to pop up, but otherwise, I am rocking out. For the last few months before the surgery, I had been taking a shit ton of homeopathic meds and working out obessively to try to prep my body for the potential shock that it might have to endure. I suppose that it may have helped, since I feel like I could host a break dancing party, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. Well, sort of...
My chest feels a bit tender, but after getting two whopping migraines in a row this past weekend, nothing could possible feel THAT bad. So, this is a cake walk. mmmm. cake... (My friend Cayli was wondering if the surgeon's request for me to stop taking testosterone for the last month leading up to surgery to prevent possible complications~if the absence of "t" threw my body into a downward spiral.) After surviving those migraines, feeling a tiny bit of swelling in my chest is completely managible.
I can't raise my arms that high, so for me, that has been a huge challenge, while I still wish that I could be totally independent and do everything myself. My ego keeps getting in the way, as I hate asking for assistance with things in general. Especially because I feel great, despite the lack of mobility in my arms. If I felt like shit, then maybe I could fathom having to ask someone else to pour me a glass of water, but now it just feels belittling. Ugh.
While we were leaving the hotel this morning, we passed the continental breakfast spread, and I feared that I looked like a lowbrow thief. My oversized sweatshirt hiding the grenade shaped balloons that catch the overflow of the drainage tubes installed under my arms. These reservoirs clip on to the bottom of the compression vest the nurses put on me while I was still under sedation. These grenade shaped "flasks" then rest against my belly, and while concealed under my oversized zip up sweatshirt~it appears as though I have stolen a half dozen bagels away from this Bacchanalean feast of stale breakfast starches. Awesome. My anxiety seems more imply more guilt than is really necessary.
So, I am home again, and now wondering what the hell will fill my time for the next week that I am in town. My friends are coming in from out of town to visit and pour that water for me. We all predicted that I was going to be bed ridden, and in and out of consciousness, where now I want to plan trips to Atlantic City or other such forbidden lands that I never have time to explore when I am well. My haggard, slightly hunched stance, as I keep my arms close to my chest would fit right in to the elders clutching their oxygen tanks on wheels.
Cable tv is already boring, and I suspended my Netflix queue thinking that I would be out cold. Trying to get caught up with friends who have been inquiring about my well being, and wanting to make those posts from the past few days that we couldn't upload as the hotel's wireless connection was down. Thanks for the patience as we try to get everything back in running order.
So, now the next phase in all of this is to figure out a new name. My surgeon was about to sign the paper work stating that she completed my SRS (sex reassignment surgery), but it gets complicated because I have not changed my name yet. It is tricky with having to figure out the correct chain of command with regards to which elements need to come before the others while trying to alter both gender markers and one's birth name. So much to learn, and still fumbling up! Jeez...
Anyone wanna help me pick a new name?
Aiiiight. Off to eat some dinner. Early bird special at my house, see, I'd fit right in with the blue hairs in Atlantic City...
XX
I just want to thank everyone for all of their well wishing over the past few days. I feel great, and can't believe everything went so well with the surgery. I guess there is still time for some kind of "issue" to pop up, but otherwise, I am rocking out. For the last few months before the surgery, I had been taking a shit ton of homeopathic meds and working out obessively to try to prep my body for the potential shock that it might have to endure. I suppose that it may have helped, since I feel like I could host a break dancing party, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. Well, sort of...
My chest feels a bit tender, but after getting two whopping migraines in a row this past weekend, nothing could possible feel THAT bad. So, this is a cake walk. mmmm. cake... (My friend Cayli was wondering if the surgeon's request for me to stop taking testosterone for the last month leading up to surgery to prevent possible complications~if the absence of "t" threw my body into a downward spiral.) After surviving those migraines, feeling a tiny bit of swelling in my chest is completely managible.
I can't raise my arms that high, so for me, that has been a huge challenge, while I still wish that I could be totally independent and do everything myself. My ego keeps getting in the way, as I hate asking for assistance with things in general. Especially because I feel great, despite the lack of mobility in my arms. If I felt like shit, then maybe I could fathom having to ask someone else to pour me a glass of water, but now it just feels belittling. Ugh.
While we were leaving the hotel this morning, we passed the continental breakfast spread, and I feared that I looked like a lowbrow thief. My oversized sweatshirt hiding the grenade shaped balloons that catch the overflow of the drainage tubes installed under my arms. These reservoirs clip on to the bottom of the compression vest the nurses put on me while I was still under sedation. These grenade shaped "flasks" then rest against my belly, and while concealed under my oversized zip up sweatshirt~it appears as though I have stolen a half dozen bagels away from this Bacchanalean feast of stale breakfast starches. Awesome. My anxiety seems more imply more guilt than is really necessary.
So, I am home again, and now wondering what the hell will fill my time for the next week that I am in town. My friends are coming in from out of town to visit and pour that water for me. We all predicted that I was going to be bed ridden, and in and out of consciousness, where now I want to plan trips to Atlantic City or other such forbidden lands that I never have time to explore when I am well. My haggard, slightly hunched stance, as I keep my arms close to my chest would fit right in to the elders clutching their oxygen tanks on wheels.
Cable tv is already boring, and I suspended my Netflix queue thinking that I would be out cold. Trying to get caught up with friends who have been inquiring about my well being, and wanting to make those posts from the past few days that we couldn't upload as the hotel's wireless connection was down. Thanks for the patience as we try to get everything back in running order.
So, now the next phase in all of this is to figure out a new name. My surgeon was about to sign the paper work stating that she completed my SRS (sex reassignment surgery), but it gets complicated because I have not changed my name yet. It is tricky with having to figure out the correct chain of command with regards to which elements need to come before the others while trying to alter both gender markers and one's birth name. So much to learn, and still fumbling up! Jeez...
Anyone wanna help me pick a new name?
Aiiiight. Off to eat some dinner. Early bird special at my house, see, I'd fit right in with the blue hairs in Atlantic City...
XX
(crooked) video a.d.d.
here are some rambling videos from my friend's camera phone post surgery. sadly, it was recorded sideways, um... we forgot that you can't turn it like the still pics. oh well. and somehow it spontaneously gave me a lisp that i never have, not even when it was recorded this morning. (why i outta...)
AND DONE!!!
Hey all~
Just wanted to let everyone know that surgery went perfectly! The surgeon kept saying how wonderful the procedure went by even her standards, so I look forward to just taking it easy and letting things heal.
For now, we are about to head out of the hotel to get back home, so I can veg out and watch some bad cable, and slouch. I have all of my energy, and have been feeling fine, so hopefully that will continue .
Thank you for helping me get here! Now, where's my bed?
Just wanted to let everyone know that surgery went perfectly! The surgeon kept saying how wonderful the procedure went by even her standards, so I look forward to just taking it easy and letting things heal.
For now, we are about to head out of the hotel to get back home, so I can veg out and watch some bad cable, and slouch. I have all of my energy, and have been feeling fine, so hopefully that will continue .
Thank you for helping me get here! Now, where's my bed?
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Hair Apparent
So, today I bit the bullet and got my very shaggy hair cut finally. I needed something shorter that would be "bed head" approved, as I will be resting for a while following next Tuesday's adventures under the knife. I went spontaneously to a different stylist than usual, one recommended by several friends. Since it was somewhat short notice I didn't have time to pull pictures of what I was looking for stylistically, so I knew that inevitably it would be a crap shoot of whether or not I liked the end result. But this could also be a fun adventure.
Her name is Anna, and she was born on Poland. I was sold. She has the most mild mannered hand shake to welcome me into the salon. While talking to me about my general life, and friends we have in common, we tried to size each other up about how far the other was going push this hairstyle that she was beginning to snip. We chatted the whole time, and got along great. But the entire time I kept wondering how I was being perceived. She asked me to take my red vintage ski half zip sweater, and I knew that my body would be revealed in my white fitted t shirt hiding underneath. I wasn't bothered by her possible revelation, but was curious about how it would be handled.
Anna was wonderful, gracious. We made each other laugh, and talked about businesses, and friends. And how mean people make all of the world work harder. She took off my shaggy curls, and told me that she was going to leave some random pieces of whispiness, while cutting it all back. I wanted to look tough and not too young in a weakling school boy stance on an icy playground at recess. Did she take off too much? Shit. Yet other parts still slightly curly here and there. I am confused.
Apparently I was not as confused about the haircut as she and the indie receptionist boy were about me. She slapped me her card on my way out, and helped me put on my vintage sweater and wooley wintery jacket. I thanked her, and watched her turn to walk back into the styling room. I then looked down to see the look of panic on the indie receptionist boy's face, as he had absolutely no clue what to charge me for my hair cut. Was I a boy (for the cheaper rate) ~ or was I a girl (for the more expensive rate)? As he scanned my face he felt even more pressured, and leapt out of his chair to tackle Anna and drag her into the shampoo area to discuss what was appropriate. They chatted and even laughed about it, which I know since when his eyes met mine while he was still smiling, he immediately looked down in shame.
I get it. It's weird. I'm weird. It's fine. Just let me know how much I fucking owe you for this haircut. A haircut with random whispy parts and sideburns too short. By the time he returned to the front desk, and I had put down my credit card, he said: "That will be $35."
They charged me for a guy's haircut. Will it work in the real world?
Her name is Anna, and she was born on Poland. I was sold. She has the most mild mannered hand shake to welcome me into the salon. While talking to me about my general life, and friends we have in common, we tried to size each other up about how far the other was going push this hairstyle that she was beginning to snip. We chatted the whole time, and got along great. But the entire time I kept wondering how I was being perceived. She asked me to take my red vintage ski half zip sweater, and I knew that my body would be revealed in my white fitted t shirt hiding underneath. I wasn't bothered by her possible revelation, but was curious about how it would be handled.
Anna was wonderful, gracious. We made each other laugh, and talked about businesses, and friends. And how mean people make all of the world work harder. She took off my shaggy curls, and told me that she was going to leave some random pieces of whispiness, while cutting it all back. I wanted to look tough and not too young in a weakling school boy stance on an icy playground at recess. Did she take off too much? Shit. Yet other parts still slightly curly here and there. I am confused.
Apparently I was not as confused about the haircut as she and the indie receptionist boy were about me. She slapped me her card on my way out, and helped me put on my vintage sweater and wooley wintery jacket. I thanked her, and watched her turn to walk back into the styling room. I then looked down to see the look of panic on the indie receptionist boy's face, as he had absolutely no clue what to charge me for my hair cut. Was I a boy (for the cheaper rate) ~ or was I a girl (for the more expensive rate)? As he scanned my face he felt even more pressured, and leapt out of his chair to tackle Anna and drag her into the shampoo area to discuss what was appropriate. They chatted and even laughed about it, which I know since when his eyes met mine while he was still smiling, he immediately looked down in shame.
I get it. It's weird. I'm weird. It's fine. Just let me know how much I fucking owe you for this haircut. A haircut with random whispy parts and sideburns too short. By the time he returned to the front desk, and I had put down my credit card, he said: "That will be $35."
They charged me for a guy's haircut. Will it work in the real world?
Response to response...
I want to thank everyone who sent me responses to the launch of the blog! Thanks for all of the words of encouragement and well wishing. There was one response in particular that made me laugh my ass off, so I was hoping to post it here, for some balance perhaps to my more serious entry yesterday:
Hey Lan,Wow, this is exciting, the countdown has begun! I know you are nervous and scared, but I think it's a routine surgery. I mean look at Pamela Anderson, that girl has had boobs put in and taken out as many times as she has died her hair, and really sleeping with Tommy Lee turned out to be WAAAAY more dangerous. I'm just saying....
~My sister-in-law Elizabeth. (Hope it's okay that I quoted you here...)
Thanks again to everyone, and more humorous writings again soon, I promise. It's been amazing to have such support from so many people. Very humbling, indeed. (I wonder if this is how Pamela feels before every surgery???)
Hey Lan,Wow, this is exciting, the countdown has begun! I know you are nervous and scared, but I think it's a routine surgery. I mean look at Pamela Anderson, that girl has had boobs put in and taken out as many times as she has died her hair, and really sleeping with Tommy Lee turned out to be WAAAAY more dangerous. I'm just saying....
~My sister-in-law Elizabeth. (Hope it's okay that I quoted you here...)
Thanks again to everyone, and more humorous writings again soon, I promise. It's been amazing to have such support from so many people. Very humbling, indeed. (I wonder if this is how Pamela feels before every surgery???)
Thursday, December 6, 2007
bumped up~
So, yesterday I was feeling totally ready for my upcoming surgery. I have lists of things to do everyday to ensure I am moving steadily along. (Email this Dr to contact that Dr for approval, check in with friends arriving from out of town to confirm arrival times, etc.) And then a call came in that I wasn't expecting. It was the surgeon's office asking if I could bump up the date of my surgery by one day.
I'm not sure how 22 hrs would feel that different, but somehow it does... Suddenly, I feel like I am completely under prepared. When will I have time to cut off my curly locks into a pro-sexy-bed head look to weather the next few weeks? When will I have time to repaint both of my bathrooms, or the front porch? Then getting sad that I ran out of time to plant the flowering bulbs for spring before the ground froze. Damn it! How can I feel ready when I forgot to plant the bulbs? Riiiiiight.
So, I think it is just a scary thing ~ to think about how this procedure will change the course of my life. Therefore, it becomes easier to freak out about everything else but the reality of that sentiment. With that said...
On to other things. I wanted to thank my friend JR for helping me construct this blog. I have been so swamped, and she jumped in to post a few things, and choose pictures to add. Thanks, J ~ and for everyone else, please pardon these self-indulgent ramblings... It feels kind of awkward to express things for me in this format, as opposed to emails, where I know who will be reading what I share. It's odd.
Okay, maybe enough time has passed where I can re-approach the fear factor.
There has been so much press about Kanye West losing his mother when she suffered from complications to plastic surgery. (And of course, there is the impeccably timed release of that new film Awake, also related to "surgeries gone wrong." Even if that one was intentionally malicious.) I can not help but wonder: will that be me?
There is an odd sense of irony that envelopes me while asking that question. I have spent a lifetime hating the fact that I felt so differently, and felt so incompetent not knowing how to negotiate how alien I felt because of my trans identity. A lifetime that has be tinged with a ever-present cloud of depression (and even suicidal thoughts), not knowing how to proceed with a life that I was unable to manage, staged within a body that never felt like my own. Somehow I have found a way to break through the paralysis, and just simply try. Trying everything I can muster, to see what might just work. And in that muddled confusion, a few things have worked. Then a few more... And a little over a year since I started taking "t," the depression has dissolved, as have most of my fears.
Slowly, I began to create the life that I wanted to live most actively, consciously, mindfully. This life suddenly became valuable to me. It was something that I did not want to piss away, or extinguish with every peak on the anxiety charts. What a twist of irony it would be, if don't get the chance to continue this new life when I most want it.
I am afraid.
Not of dying, but of just not having more time. More adventures. More explorations with this new perspective. More time to spend with those I love.
It has changed me, this whole experience. Last year, upon beginning "t" I felt like I had to face my demons that haunted me my entire life. I had to face the fact that I might lose family and friends because of the decisions that I needed to make for my own wellness. Through that process, I found my greatest allies. And most importantly, I found my courage to live honestly, and my desire to live well. These demons had no power over me anymore. Whether or not I would be abandoned seemed less important, when I found myself.
I have always had a somewhat fatalistic view of the world. I used to think that it was just the depression talking. This pessimism that resided within me, inducing thoughts about the world being a terrible place to be alone. Now, I guess I still have the same kernal of fatalism, but I use it to try to live more proactively.
Not to be Debbie Downer here, but if I don't make it through the surgery ~ could I say that I have lived well? Slowly, I am beginning to see that it is precisely what I hated most about my life (the challenges, deepest wounds, most frustrating inabilities) that have delievered me here, beyond what I could have ever anticipated for this humble, wobbley little life of mine.
I like that this process is called a "transition." It is simply a metaphor. For me it is not about having a "sex change" ~ it is about having the courage to change every other single element of my life. Namely, my perspective. That wasn't working for me, and the depression was a symptom of that. In psychology, there is a term used for the self-defining chatter we tell ourselves constantly. Things like: "I'm a mess, I never do anything right." Or, "I'm a genius, I can do anything." These self-affirmations are nicknamed "the tapes" since we replay them over and over in our heads. Once we can change the negative tapes, maybe that is where we find our reserve of courage and fortitude.
For me, my greatest transition had nothing to do with gender, but had everything to do with liberating myself from the fears that told me I could live no other way. Now that I have shed those negative anchors, the only fear that now surfaces is the one about not having more time to explore this new venture.
(So, if you are reading this, it probably means that you know me, or know of me. Can you do me a favor and cross your fingers for me on Tuesday, December 11th? I need all the well wishing I can get!)
Here's to waking up from the table... Anything else after that will be good to go.
I'm not sure how 22 hrs would feel that different, but somehow it does... Suddenly, I feel like I am completely under prepared. When will I have time to cut off my curly locks into a pro-sexy-bed head look to weather the next few weeks? When will I have time to repaint both of my bathrooms, or the front porch? Then getting sad that I ran out of time to plant the flowering bulbs for spring before the ground froze. Damn it! How can I feel ready when I forgot to plant the bulbs? Riiiiiight.
So, I think it is just a scary thing ~ to think about how this procedure will change the course of my life. Therefore, it becomes easier to freak out about everything else but the reality of that sentiment. With that said...
On to other things. I wanted to thank my friend JR for helping me construct this blog. I have been so swamped, and she jumped in to post a few things, and choose pictures to add. Thanks, J ~ and for everyone else, please pardon these self-indulgent ramblings... It feels kind of awkward to express things for me in this format, as opposed to emails, where I know who will be reading what I share. It's odd.
Okay, maybe enough time has passed where I can re-approach the fear factor.
There has been so much press about Kanye West losing his mother when she suffered from complications to plastic surgery. (And of course, there is the impeccably timed release of that new film Awake, also related to "surgeries gone wrong." Even if that one was intentionally malicious.) I can not help but wonder: will that be me?
There is an odd sense of irony that envelopes me while asking that question. I have spent a lifetime hating the fact that I felt so differently, and felt so incompetent not knowing how to negotiate how alien I felt because of my trans identity. A lifetime that has be tinged with a ever-present cloud of depression (and even suicidal thoughts), not knowing how to proceed with a life that I was unable to manage, staged within a body that never felt like my own. Somehow I have found a way to break through the paralysis, and just simply try. Trying everything I can muster, to see what might just work. And in that muddled confusion, a few things have worked. Then a few more... And a little over a year since I started taking "t," the depression has dissolved, as have most of my fears.
Slowly, I began to create the life that I wanted to live most actively, consciously, mindfully. This life suddenly became valuable to me. It was something that I did not want to piss away, or extinguish with every peak on the anxiety charts. What a twist of irony it would be, if don't get the chance to continue this new life when I most want it.
I am afraid.
Not of dying, but of just not having more time. More adventures. More explorations with this new perspective. More time to spend with those I love.
It has changed me, this whole experience. Last year, upon beginning "t" I felt like I had to face my demons that haunted me my entire life. I had to face the fact that I might lose family and friends because of the decisions that I needed to make for my own wellness. Through that process, I found my greatest allies. And most importantly, I found my courage to live honestly, and my desire to live well. These demons had no power over me anymore. Whether or not I would be abandoned seemed less important, when I found myself.
I have always had a somewhat fatalistic view of the world. I used to think that it was just the depression talking. This pessimism that resided within me, inducing thoughts about the world being a terrible place to be alone. Now, I guess I still have the same kernal of fatalism, but I use it to try to live more proactively.
Not to be Debbie Downer here, but if I don't make it through the surgery ~ could I say that I have lived well? Slowly, I am beginning to see that it is precisely what I hated most about my life (the challenges, deepest wounds, most frustrating inabilities) that have delievered me here, beyond what I could have ever anticipated for this humble, wobbley little life of mine.
I like that this process is called a "transition." It is simply a metaphor. For me it is not about having a "sex change" ~ it is about having the courage to change every other single element of my life. Namely, my perspective. That wasn't working for me, and the depression was a symptom of that. In psychology, there is a term used for the self-defining chatter we tell ourselves constantly. Things like: "I'm a mess, I never do anything right." Or, "I'm a genius, I can do anything." These self-affirmations are nicknamed "the tapes" since we replay them over and over in our heads. Once we can change the negative tapes, maybe that is where we find our reserve of courage and fortitude.
For me, my greatest transition had nothing to do with gender, but had everything to do with liberating myself from the fears that told me I could live no other way. Now that I have shed those negative anchors, the only fear that now surfaces is the one about not having more time to explore this new venture.
(So, if you are reading this, it probably means that you know me, or know of me. Can you do me a favor and cross your fingers for me on Tuesday, December 11th? I need all the well wishing I can get!)
Here's to waking up from the table... Anything else after that will be good to go.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
wedding
i went with my friend jen to a
wedding.i'll explain later.
(and ironically, i don't even like corn. slightly allergic!)
one week
So, as of today, I am in the home stretch for my top surgery scheduled for December 12th, 2007. I paid the balance due for my surgery on Wednesday, had my blood work drawn, and then this morning had my pre-screening physical for surgical clearance. Unless something completely "wonky" shows up on my blood work results, I am all set to go!
Crazy, and exciting, and surreal... (Just breathe~ )
My doctor's appt this morning was somewhat comical. It was a walk in clinic in the business district of DC, that focuses primarily on clearance for international business travelers. I had an appointment for 10am, yet they didn't quite know what to do with me. I explained that I simply needed a routine physical for a surgical clearance. They immediately looked me up and down, as I am sure they began to wonder exactly what kind of surgery I would be having. Perhaps wondering if I was "sick" or chronically ill. So, they reviewed my medical history, and their eyes stopped when they saw that I was on testosterone. They simply assumed me to be a man (as they kept referring to me as "sir" and "Mr. Eye - a - cavaley").
It wasn't until the nurse called me into the examination room that she saw that the "female" box was checked on ALL of my paperwork. She apologized profusely for calling me sir ad nauseum in the waiting room. I cracked a joke, to ease the tension and make her feel relieved about the "mistake." It helped, as I think we were both a little nervous after that. (I mean, it's kind of weird to be sequestered in a small white room with a complete stranger, and wonder what they are thinking of you, and while feeling supremely vulnerable in that position~ to wonder if in some way this visit will somehow unravel, and deem me unfit for surgery. Will this stranger be my ally? Or will they be too "freaked out" and somehow throw a wrench in the works?)
* * *
In September of 2006, I began the what would become the routine dr's appts when I decided to start taking testosterone. We have to be monitored for a while afterwards to ensure our livers are not turning to mush, and inflating our cholesterol to dangerously high levels. My doctor said that I had literally the best cholesterol he had ever seen in his tenure, which would make me a great candidate for "t", since it monkeys with the levels instantly.
So, during this first visit last year, this super-model looking, tall-waify Ethiopian nurse weighed me for my charts. As she teetered the mobile components on the commercial scale, she erupted in a huge belly laugh as the final tally came in... Nice~ Horrified, I simply looked up, embarrassed, and asked: "What?" "Well, I didn't think you would weight THAT much... I mean, you don't look THAT heavy." Ugh~ Oh, well. I jokingly said that the additional weight must be from my signature army green knit hat that sat atop my head during my weigh in. She looked at me quizzically, and with a furrowed brow. She explained in all seriousness that it would most likely be my shoes, or often times winter coats, that I had already shed... So, I emphatically insisted that it must have been my knit hat, until she realized that I was joking with her, out of embarrassment that I apparently was made out of lead.
Leading me to the present day:
* * *
The nurse weighed me, and I nearly lost it. I weighed exactly 25 pounds more than I did over one year ago, when I first began this process. Yet, ironically, my pants were baggier than ever as my thighs, butt and hips have melted away from the testosterone and weigh lifting regiments. With that said though, I have lost 80% of my t shirts, and sweaters now that I sort of "over shot" my goal, with my shoulders and neck now having become enormous from working out. Twenty five pounds... It is baffling.
I wasn't sure if I should hi five myself with my new biceps, thinking is was "pure muscle mass" or whether I should have run the 10 miles back to work, to burn off the excess calories from the few pieces of pumpkin pie I had to celebrate the holidays. Shit~
The nurse gave me a paper gown, in the origami shape of a sandwich, and told me to take off my "very nice polo sweater" (as she said) and put on the robe. Wait, was I supposed to take off my jeans then, too? Or just my sweater? I stood up to unravel the flattened, folded up paper gown, as I wondered how undressed I should be. Perhaps the distraction was not good, because I accidentally tore the entire gown in half while trying to open it up. (So, my money is back on muscle mass, then! Phew!)
So, I crumpled it all up, and stuffed it in the bottom of the resealable trashcan in my examination room, to pretend like I never got it. I sat on the edge of the examine table in my white t shirt, and jeans, wondering how the next five minutes might change my life. Also, having to predict how this doctor my react to my reality.
This gorgeous female doctor, who appeared to only be a few years older than me came in while reading my chart. She asked what kind of surgery I was having. "Um, plastic surgery," I meekly responded. She then asked what kind. "Um, well... I, ah, I'm trans, and so I am having 'top surgery' ~ a double mastectomy."
She looked up at me, and while making direct eye contact said: "Wow, you must be really excited!" It was right then that I knew I would be safe. That this woman was going to be my ally. And mid way through my exam, she started asking me all sorts of personal questions about my experience, about working out, how it has been with my job, and even about my name. When I said that Lani is my given name, but that the state of CT forces people to change their names in order to change their gender markers on birth certificates (which most other offices need prior to changing any other documents...) She became incredibly enthusiastic that I should fight that rule. This doctor not only because my passive ally, but suddenly wanted to be a freedom fighter with me on the front lines, declaring that these law be more sympathetic towards trans people of all sorts. Amazing... (I kind of had a crush on her...) She wished me much success, and approved my status as being physically well enough to withstand surgery.
Now, I am just waiting to hear back about my blood work, and barring any unforeseen changes, I am all set for surgery.
Man, that feels crazy to say...
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
two weeks notice...
So, after much prompting from many friends, I have finally tried to get my arse in gear to create a way to keep people posted on my "transition." I put it in quotes because even as much as it is the official term for my experience right now, it feels much more like a metaphor. How shall I say... :
Trans: Across; over; beyond; to change.
Transgender: One whose primary sexual identification is with the opposite sex. One who has undergone a sex change.
Is that what this is? A sex change? For most people who know me, I would suppose there actually isn't too much changing going on in the most literal of senses. I mean, sure~my voice has dropped a few octaves, my shoulders have instantaneously become buff from working out, my curvy hips and thighs have dissolved somewhat to give me a more rugged, angular silhouette, my hairline has receded ever so slightly above my temples, giving me the long awaited debonair look my British grandfather carried off so well. My body has also become "fuzzier" all over, and my face sometimes displaying a whispering hint of my sandy blond five o'clock shadow.
With all of this said, am I really that different?
I mean, I didn't have some insane ZZ Top beard overnight. My voice might be slightly deeper, but I still have the same vocal intonations and speech patterns to make it recognizable. (Well, unless your my mother, and then sometimes she doesn't know it's me without caller ID... So sad, when your own mother can't always recognize your voice upon answering. Sigh~)
I was explaining to a friend of mine how this transition of mine seems more metaphorical than anything. (Thoughts of Yentl now coming to mind. We all still knew that it was just Barbra in a yarmulke, so how did Mandy miss all of the physiological cues-the absent beard, so forth? It was because there was a metaphorical shift, rather than a radical shift is physiology.)We are told, "Now we will refer to this person as ________. Now we will see them this way."
Many trans folks do have very tangible physical changes once they begin to transition (meaning the effects of taking hormones, obvious changes such as surgeries, but then more subtle changes such as mannerisms, clothing choices, and the like.) For me, my evolution has been steady, but perhaps more slower going. My voice did seem to change within a few weeks, but like a pubescent boy's voice, my voice would break, squeak, and get deeper. And deeper still. After one full year of being on testosterone, I think my voice has perhaps "leveled out" or plateaued at a semi-permanent deeper state. Thankfully, it is a voice a rather like. (Man, that would have sucked! To have a new voice I hated for most of eternity...)
Some people say that my facial features have been modified by the "t" (testosterone) in the past year. A few friends have commented that my jaw seems more square, which is tough to believe it could have become any more pronounced than it already was pre-t. Other has said that my eyebrows seem to also be more angular, and frame my face differently. I see myself everyday, so I can't tell those kinds of changes as much.Clothes fitting me differently is obviously a bit easier for me to spot. Not being able to button the top button on some of my past favorite dress shirts, now that my shoulders and neck have grown exponentially from fastitious work outs. Sad that I have seemingly lost most of my wardrobe by bulking up my upper half, and slimming down my lower half. It's easier to belt baggier pants, than it is to stretch out a sweater that is now super fitted. Ugh~ These more fitted shirts, sweaters, etc make my shoulders and upper arms look uber-fit, but also reveal the "girliness" of my chest, not as much fun in the end...
So it is now simply the days that I count until this will change. Within two weeks I will be having "top surgery" to modify the appearance of my chest to make it look more masculine. I am trying to see this as a way to focus, and get things in order before the big day. The "final countdown" ~ if you will...
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