Number 164

The Hospital Chronicles (part II)

The Great 'Nothing'

I am a woman of many sedentary pleasures. Reading and writing, surfing the net, coloring, computer/phone games, watching quality TV shows and movies, and listening to and trying to discover new music among other things. I was told I would be in the hospital for an entire week, so I made sure to pack an "entertainment" bag so that I would have plenty to do while I was stuck in my hospital bed. I was rather pleasedwith myself. I'd have a little bit of fun, and, heck, I might even accomplish something useful during my recovery week.

Nope.

After surgery, when I was in pain (or on serious narcotics to combat that pain), doing nothing quickly became my favorite activity. To be fair, the first 48 hours after surgery was a cycle of short periods of being awake followed by short periods of napping. I tried to watch a few of my Netflix shows, but after about ten minutes, I'd usually close up my laptop. I just wasn't interested. I didn't pick up one of the three (3!) books that I thought I would read. Didn't color once, and I barely played any video games. Towards the end, I did listen to a lot of music, but that was about it. Even though it doesn't look like much from the outside, recovery takes up a lot of energy - it totally zapped my ability to focus mentally.

Mostly, I just stared out the window. 

The Call Button

"If you need anything, just push the call button." They say, as they leave you all alone. The "they" being referred to here are nurses. Now, before continuing, I think it's important for me to be completely honest: I love nurses. Heck, I married one. I've also worked with nurses closely in the hospital setting, so when I tell you that I understand how challenging their job is, I'm not just blowing smoke. In AtRP #160, I wrote an entire blog entry on the wonderful care I received during my recent hospital stay. I meant every single word, and, in no way, am I attempting to mitigate my opinion.

So there I would be, laying in my hospital bed, contemplating on whether I should push the call button or not. There's a couple of reasons why. "How serious is my need?" is a question I would start with. "I don't want to be a bother," would come next, followed quickly by "I don't want to get a reputation as a 'high maintenance' patient." Then there was the other concern: "What if I push the button, and no one comes?" There was one time where I was in serious need of a bedpan, and it seemed as if the nurse didn't come for a 1/2 hour. I wasn't supposed to get out of my bed on my own yet, but I had a bedside commode, and finally decided I couldn't wait any longer. I apologized a few minutes later when my nurse came in, and she said she understood because it had taken her 12 minutes to get there. Proof that time is relative when it's time to poop.

The nurses are sincere when they tell you to use the call button, and as the week went on, I became more comfortable using it. But, boy! There's a lot of head games you can play on yourself as you contemplate that sucker. I think a big part of it is realizing that you really are too weak to do small tasks that, under normal circumstances, you would easily take care of for yourself. The feeling of being dependent upon others, (as opposed to being independent), is an unsettling thing.

Cindy Watched Golf

"What the hell does golf have to do with being in the hospital?" I can hear some of you exclaiming. Let me explain. I kinda like golf. At least I used to. Then I slowly came to realize that professional golfers were some of the most privileged whiners in the world. After that I came to think of golf courses as horrible uses of urban land - a haven for the elite, at the expense of the poor. The icing on the cake was 45's love affair with the game - the modern equivalent of Nero fiddling while Rome burned. So I don't actually like golf anymore. Except for the Masters, which is really funny, because if there is one golf tournament that is the epitome of everything I just said I hated about golf, it would be the Masters. I get it, it's a large, indefensible contradiction.

As it turned out, The Masters was being contested while I was in the hospital. I've already admitted to being mindless during this time, and I just admitted I liked watching the Masters, so serendipity. It was the perfect entertainment for my foggy and tired brain.

You know who really hates golf? That's right - Cindy. But she felt bad for me, didn't ask to switch the channel, and quietly held my hand while the tournament played on the TV. She left on Sunday before it ended, in part because she wanted to get home and talk with her brother (whom she suspected might be watching the tournament from his home in Oklahoma). I smiled a small smile when she relayed that she was actually curious to find out from her brother what had happened at the end of the tournament.

Now to be sure, I still think Cindy hates golf, but I remain amused that she momentarily succumbed to the somnambulistic qualities of live golf TV coverage.

Number 163

 The Hospital Chronicles (part I)

I've thought a lot about whether I wanted to write a series of posts about my week in the hospital following my gender confirmation surgery in early April. The truth of the matter is, despite what religiously conservative politicians and their strange bedfellows, the TERFs (trans exclusionary radical feminists) would have you believe, the percentage of folks claiming to be trans/non-binary is still very small. (I'm not entirely sure why we're getting so much press lately, actually.) I finally concluded that there was enough universality to the things I wanted to say, as to make it worthwhile. Hospitals are probably not many peoples favorite place to visit, but most of us will park our fannies in a hospital bed once or twice in our lives at some point. Maybe when your time comes, you'll remember what I wrote, and shout out, "That's just like Nora explained it!" Probably not, but you never know.

Name, Rank, & Serial Number

Before entering the hospital, you better brush up on your name and birthday. A facetious comment, for sure, but true none-the-less, Nothing happens until you dutifully report that information every step of the way. You want to move from the registration counter to the admitting nurse?  "Name and birthday, please." You want to move from admitting to the pre-surgical staging area?  "Name and birthday, please." Once you make it to the OR, there's an extra question. "Name, birthday, and what are we doing today?" There's a brief moment where I thought, "Holy shit, if you don't know, I'm f*cked," but then I dutifully reply with my name, birthday, and the surgery (I hope), the medical professionals will be perpetrating upon my body.

The frequency of this question seems to increase once you've arrived in your hospital room. You can't get your meds without reciting it every time. You can't get your food until you recite it. You can't get your blood drawn until you recite it. (I hate getting my blood taken - I have horrible vasculature for such a chore. I'd be lying if I told you it didn't cross my mind to fib when the phlebotomist asked me that question each day.) They even ask the question before you can pee! Actually, I'm not sure if that's true since I was catheterized for my stay, but that's what I heard from the other inmates during our one hour of outdoor rec time in the yard each day.

Surgery

I was really looking forward to my surgery (oops, spoiler alert). If you know that, you probably know how petrified I was that it would never actually happen. I was using HUGE amounts of psychic energy hoping it would happen this time, while at the same time trying to protect myself against another cancellation. The entire 24 hour time period beforehand seemed surreal, because my brain had trouble processing the fact that it really was about to happen. It might have also been the clear liquid diet I was on, as well as the process of cleaning out my bowels, but whatever. Once at the hospital, as the time for surgery came closer and closer, I though to myself more than once, "This is really happening to me!" This surgery that had become almost the entire focus of my life.

Then "POOF!" It's magically eight hours later, and I'm up in my hospital room slowly grasping onto consciousness as the haze of anesthesia slowly lifts. This thing that had become a white whale to my Ahab was over and done with, and I didn't have a single effing memory about any of it. Bemused irony abounds (or ironic bemusement - I'm not sure which one fits best.)

(Coming soon: The Hospital Chronicles, part II)

Number 162

 Erectile Dysfunction

We've spent a lot of the last few years with me writing about my journey through Gender Dysphoria Land. My recent visit to the village of Hospital for gender confirmation surgery would certainly imply that there's no going back - that I'm finally on my way to Congruency Country. To be frank, from my perspective, I've already arrived to a heroine's welcome. The former anxiety produced by viewing my naked body has been replaced by contented affirmation. My soul sores at finally seeing what should have been there from the start. Which begs the question; What the f*ck is going on with this entry's title?

I have many times shared the story of how I, with great fear and reluctance, finally admitted to another person that I had a fetish for women's clothing. "So (what)." my therapist responded (the 'what' was implied in her tone). I have identified this as a transformational moment in my life, as it allowed me to begin exploring long suppressed thoughts and feelings. That was five and 1/2 years ago, and I still regard that as a pivotal moment in my life. However, I have also come to realize that this was probably not the moment where my life as a trans woman began.

(Actually, I think my journey as a trans woman began when I was still in my mother's womb. One day, some enzyme should have flipped a switch that told some newly formed gene to do 'this' rather than 'that,' but the enzyme got distracted and the switch never got flipped and a few months later, at the time of delivery, a baby girl was assigned male at birth.)(#notjoking)

In any event, in my old life, I had a long history of ED. It's kind of a "No, duh." moment in retrospect, but in itself, it tells the story of my long journey to self-discovery. So, here goes. I was masquerading as a 20 year old male when I cashed in my V-card. It's really a very cute, romantic story that I am not going to tell you anything about. Except for the fact that my 'performance' was lousy. I could barely keep an erection long enough to consummate the act. I was a horny 20 year old in good physical shape. I should have been able to drive nails with that sucker. Instead I'm left with images of an inch worm haphazardly crossing a finish line long after all the other contestants have gone home.

From there, I got better (performance wise), but there was always a nagging voice in the back of my head warning me not to "dick around" (pun definitely intended), and finish the job. Not terribly romantic thoughts to be having when making love with your inamorata. And since I don't wish to painfully embarrass myself by providing even more examples of my doomed 'romantic' exploits, let us conclude this portion of the essay by stating that not only did the nagging little voice never go away; as I grew older it seemed to gain power. Another way of saying this is: "Thinking about an erection is the surest way to kill it."

And so began the embarrassed, stammering conversations with my doctors about how I might fix this problem. It didn't help in the least that, at the same time all this is going on, I was also trying to discover which anti-depressant medication would work best for me. Why was this a problem? Because every effing anti-depressant lists erectile dysfunction as a side-effect. What a brilliantly diabolical, medical catch-22. However, one thing working in my favor was that this was the age of Viagra, et al. Every third commercial starred some silver haired fox eyeing his female partner with that certain look in his eye. My favorite was the one that ended with his 'n hers claw footed tubs parked on some mountain ridge while the couple watched the sunset, holding hands over the tubs' edges, and sipping chardonnay. In any event, I tried 'em all, and none of them worked.

I went in for blood tests, and saw urologists to get to try and solve the issue. The first, "aha!" moment occurred when we discovered that my testosterone levels were borderline low. I started wearing T-patches that I had to keep away from my wife and daughters. They didn't help much and left a circular pattern on my ass when I swapped them out every third day. Just what was the fucking problem?

It was at about this time that I decided I probably should get back into therapy (for a few different reasons, but getting to the bottom of the ED issue was definitely in the mix). But this time, I wasn't going to pull my punches. I had been in therapy a few times before, but I had never been completely honest with myself (or the therapist). I had painful and shameful thoughts that I had never dared explore, let alone spoken aloud to another person...

So I did that. And you all know the story from that point forward . Looking back, so many things make sense now that seemed so bewildering back then. I was a female trying to love another person with the wrong parts. Of course things didn't work as well as they should. Same thing when it came to the "magic dick" pills. Of course they didn't work - they were intended for body parts that I shouldn't have had. And I'm absolutely tickled by the fact that, every three days, instead of T-patches, I  now put on estrogen patches. For the record, the estrogen patches have been much more effective;)

In the past, I have written about different things during my old life that should have tipped me off to my identity as a trans woman. I suppose this post is about one more 'clue' that managed to elude me in my old life. Who cares? It doesn't matter anymore. I finally got to my happy place a few days ago. And every struggle I endured over the years has only served to sweeten my arrival. I am content. I am satisfied. I am happy.

Number 161

 My Partner

All my life, I've pretty much taken care of myself. It's worth wondering why that is, but far beyond the scope of today's topic, so we'll just leave it at, "all my life I've pretty much taken care of myself." Sure Mom drove me to the dentist when I had my wisdom teeth out. Or maybe somebody would pick me up at an airport if I was flying in for a visit. When Rebecca and I married we certainly engaged in the normal quid pro quo assistances that most healthy couples engage in. When we became parents, we certainly swapped favors with other parents as most parents do, but I never really reached out for help when it was just me, myself , and I. The wisdom of age has made me realize the error of my ways, but once again, that's way beyond the scope of today' topic, so we'll just let it be.

Just now, I find myself in, as my British cousins might term, "a spot of bother." My mobility has been vastly limited, I tire easily, and I can't drive myself anywhere. I'm a little bit stuck. Now I have no doubt that if I needed to, I could probably fall back onto old habits and 'solve' my problems all by myself. Actually, that's not true. I have huge doubts about how I could handle any part of the recovery process by myself.

Now, quite by chance, my partner Cindy and I fell in love with each other about four years ago. Quite surprised ourselves, I think it's fair to say. She amazes me. For one thing, she didn't run for the hills when I first told her "Oh, by the way, I have gender dysphoria. I know it means something important - I'm just not sure yet." Well, most of you know how that turned out for me - that I recently completed the most extensive surgical procedure involved in the gender confirmation process. What many of you may not realize is that Cindy has been right beside me the whole way.

I could, if I wished, turn this post into one giant Hallmark card at this point. I could tell you how important her love and support have meant to me. How I couldn't have done this without her. How she has continuously supported me through the many hard times, when it was impossible to imagine a way forward.  About how she's looking after me right now with the deft touch of a nurse, coupled with the care of an angel. About how she'll let me cry on her shoulder one moment, and wipe my nose the next. I could write about her formidable strength of will and character that lets me know I will be okay, and that once I get through this recovery process she still be right there beside me. I could write and let you know blessed I am to have found a love for the ages not just once in my life, but twice. I could brag about how I get to spend the rest of my life with her, but I might embarrass her, and that would be the last thing I would want to do.

For simplicity's sake let's go with, "I have a partner, and that makes me the luckiest girl I know."

Number 160

A Blessing of Dependence  

I just returned home from being in the hospital for a week recovering from major surgery. As a person who has been blessed with excellent health almost my entire life, it was quite a shock, and very humbling to all of a sudden need other people to look after me. Also, it has never been in my nature to ask for assistance (especially at times when I probably should have!); perhaps sub-consciously feeling that I wasn't worthy of the help. During this last week, though, it didn't matter what fourth rate philosophical ideologies underpinned my tendencies towards looking after myself - if I was going to successfully recover, I had to become dependent on a whole group of strangers - Stat. ("stat" is hospital lingo I picked up during my stay - it means quickly. The more you know.)

I'm mainly talking about nurses, and other allied staff here, but not exclusively. There were occupational therapists, physical therapists, food workers, custodial staff, and even a few doctors who each had moments that made my stay just a little bit easier for the assistance they each extended to me. The only thing they all had in common were the masks they all wore. There were many different skin colors, accents, and nations of origin. I'm also willing to guess that these folks came from a variety of faith expressions; as well as sexual and gender identities; but there was no reason for those topics to come up, so they didn't.

Besides the masks, the other thing they all had in common was their dedication, perseverance, and ability to help other people (ie. me), at a point of extraordinary vulnerability while never losing sight of our (i.e my) basic humanity. To be sure, that means they're going to be dealing with a lot of piss, shit, vomit and other detritus that our bodies can exude. "Sure," someone might say, "that's their job - they get paid to do that." And I suppose to a certain extent, that's true - but that only goes so far. If you observe closely - and I did - you'll notice there's an extra little bit of light that surrounds these folks who have discovered they have both the desire and gift to care for other people. To be among the special glow of these people, even for a few short days as a patient was spiritually significant. Truly, I was being cared for by angels that walk among us. To be in a position where I had no choice but to be dependent on these people for those few days was nothing less than a blessing.

The only problem with this revelation is my utter inability to appropriately thank the wonderful staff of Unit 7C at the University of Minnesota Medical Center, East Bank. I owe so many people a level of thanks so profound it hurts my heart that I lack the ability to let them know how deeply I am in their debt.  I can only hope that those people with that little extra bit of light already know. In any event. I must try to use my words...

Dear ones of 7C, I offer up to you words of thanks for the many beautiful and graceful ways you cared for me during the week I was honored to be among you. Thank you.

Number 159

 Heading Down the TMI Highway

Today's Monday, April 12, 2021. Last Thursday I had the surgery that will allow my inside feelings about myself to match what I look like on the outside. As Alexis might say, "I love this look for me." Unfortunately, I was so focused on whether or not the surgery would actually happen or not, I didn't really spend a whole lot of time thinking about the surgery itself. Specifically, I didn't spend a lot of time considering that my groin was basically going to used as the sample piece from a Ginsu Knife advertisement. How many of you are surprised that I completely underestimated the physical demands  of recovery from major surgery?.... Anyone?.... You there in the back?... No?... Ok, so none of you are surprised. Me neither, to tell you the truth. 

Anyway, that's not really the point of this post. This last week has provided me so much blog fodder, and I can't wait to get started writing about it. One small issue, however, it is by it's very nature, kinda 'graphicky.' Now that's never really slowed my down, but I just thought I'd offer a blanket TMI/NSFW warning for all my upcoming hosptial posts. If these aren't your cup of tea, by alls means click away. But if you're game, so am I. So scroll on down and read about the true subject of this post... Satan's tampon.

Satan's Tampon

One of the last parts of vaginoplasty surgery is the insertion of something the surgery team call - and I can only approximate the name because I forget it as soon as they remind me - a "bulster." In technical terms it's a wad of thick surgical Bounty towel like material ("the quicker picker upper"), and pack as much of that shit (remember, these are technical terms), into my new vagina as they possibly can. In an overall sense, a big reason this is done relates to the main difference between neo/natal vaginas (and I'll get into the differences more later - basically think of self ovens versus the ones that need a little oven cleaner now and again), but for our purposes today the main gist is they want to protect the surgical suture sites. I have been on a perpetual "date" with with this eight inch long, impressively girthed hunk of gauze since last Thursday, (You just gotta know that Dr. Bulster was a man), but it's time for the ball to end. Tomorrow they come and take it out. I can only imagaine the "sccchhhhlllup!" sound it'll make when it's removed. TTFN.

Number 158

 Anyone Wanna Go Swimsuit Shopping?

It’s 5:12 AM in the morning, as I lie awake in my hospital bed. I ache something fierce, but I did manage to sleep in fits and starts throughout the night. But I have my very own vagina now, and I’m not giving it back!

Number 157

 Here's to New Beginnings

Here we are. If you've been following along for awhile, you're well aware of my journey through the gender confirmation process. It has been a bit of a challenging journey, hasn't it? I'm currently in a hotel room one block away from the University of Minnesota Hospital, Eastbank, choking down Mirilax laced Gatorade in an attempt to clear out my bowels. In less than 12 hours I will be a patient there, where a group of people that I've mostly never met will perform a surgical procedure to help me realize a wish I first dreamed about forty-five years ago: "Please, God, when I wake up - let me be a girl."

I understand now that I already was a girl. What God needed was a little more specificity. I wonder what would have happened had I wished to God to "make my outsides match my insides?" Alas, it's too late to know for sure.

I am doing my best to show the world how calm, cool, and collected I am, but fuck it! Here's the truth, I am giddy with anticipation! If I could turn cartwheels, I would. But then again, considering all this spiked Gatorade I've been drinking, physical exertion could be a big mistake. Sure, it's a serious surgical procedures, and there could certainly be unforeseen complications. From everything I've heard, I'll be in pain for a bit of time; and there's not a trans woman alive who gets excited about the post surgical dilation that needs to occur multiple times a day for, well, most of the rest of my life. There are consequences to this surgery that need to be considered and dealt with.

But I say "Bring 'em on!" Three years ago, I told my therapist I was "ready to jump up on the table," whenever they could schedule it. I was sure then, and my resolve/desire has only grown stronger since. So, finally, the time is at hand. My vagina and I will see you on the other side.