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)