Further Revelations Since My Sex Change

The pizza place you had been excited about ordering from all week that your friend had prepaid for you at will – at the last moment – decide they can’t deliver to you and this will, fucking slay you. You will be dead, a corpse that no longer knows life. All you wanted was some pizza, man.

Dilating is about as pleasurable and fun as replacing an earring, yet takes about three to five times as long and involves more mess than justifiable. The surgeons directions are crazy and you will do your best to find a compromise instead.

You will procrastinate on dilating, especially when you’re tired.

The pain will remain at a steady background hum that you will begin to suspect isn’t from healing but from dissolving stitches that have yet to dissolve. The internet will confirm your suspicions.

Mushroom, ale and vegetable pies suck and are no replacement for a four cheese pizza.

Fuckin Froot Loops man.

You will be better at installing condoms now, on a fake plastic dilator dick, than you ever were on you own useless penis.

Condoms do not seem to come in any bulk variety outside of ‘flavoured and ribbed’.

Ribbing is really not for her, or anyone’s pleasure. Ribbing is to make the man feel better about being shit. The condomologist who invented ribbing must feel like the guy who sold the Brooklyn Bridge. Total scam.

Things I Have Learned After My Sex Change

Catheters fucking suck.

No seriously let me repeat that: catheters. fucking. suck. I experienced more discomfort and agony and day to fucking day pathos because of that horror tube than any other part of my recovery to date. I will never get urogenital surgery again if it means a catheter.

You can never be prepared enough, largely because the information booklet you were provided is incredibly out of date. When you bring this up with the surgeon there will be a subtle implication that this is your fault.

A pack has that lovely rotting smell of a pad left on too long and it will make you begin to hate yourself, literally from the inside out. If this is my only quasi-experience with menstruation then I was at least learned proper. I’m sorry cis women. I didn’t know.

Don’t try to assert the last of your failing masculinity and tell everyone you’ll be fine on your own and you don’t need help because fucking hell that is a lie. Loneliness will begin to grip you like the icy clutches of death around Sunday, and on Monday you’ll wish it was death.

You will miss your kitty more than you know, and simultaneously less than you thought. You will miss pizza more than most things, ever. A life without pizza is barely a life at all.

Hospital food is balls normally, but as a vegetarian it is triple balls. Prepare yourself for lots of mashed potato and wilted salads! Mmm. Love it. The best meal you’ll have all week is when you have the inspired idea of pouring the vegie laksa onto the mash. It was pretty great.

Just to reiterate, in case you had forgotten: catheters = bad. I cannot press this enough.

The irish nurse will be simultaneously the one you dislike most but appreciate the efforts of greatest. Where other nurses only do the bare minimum she will actively try to relieve your discomfort constantly. If only she could pronoun properly and make eye contact more often than never.

Pooping will take on a religious level of excitement. Man, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, right? Being able to poop regularly and without fear is a privilege so many people take for granted.

At no point in this horror week of pain and pathos and bruising and blood and odours will you miss your penis even for a second. Why would you? That thing is yesterday’s news. Penises suck.

Catheters? No good guys. Na-uh.

Poop Story

Pooping has been transformed for me. Where before it was a ho-hum occurrence I undertook grudgingly it has now become a celebration. Every successful pooping session is now a miracle. I call people when I manage to poop, brimming with excitement that they are sharing, and make outlines with them about future pooping sessions I wish to pursue. I love poop.

There are reasons, of course, me and my extended family have not all of a sudden become fecophiles; I have simply been completely and totally and utterly unable to poop. A mix of opiate painkillers, not wanting to strain and damage my new vagina and my pooping muscles just working physically differently now have guaranteed that up to today I was living a life bereft of waste. Now I am beginning to learn how the poop muscles work and I’ve been steadily doped on poop-enabling concotions things are beginning to move again. My future is a future full of shit! I couldn’t be happier.

Not a Rolemodel

I thought when I finally had my sex change I would have some incredible insight to blog about, like, my output would miraculously increase in both scope and depth and I would become a veritable fount of wisdom. This has not happened. The thing about my transition is that it was, at every point and from most every angle, incredibly dull. Taken as a whole and described in broad strokes I suppose it could seem much more than it was but down here, living through the seconds and minutes of every day, my transition was just a series of pre-planned medical appointments that all tended to give me the results I expected of them. My sex change ended up being no different – apart from the incredible, stomach churning stress generated by my private health fund’s inability to make up their mind about whether they would cover the hospital stay everything was pretty mundane. I waited in a waiting room with other people undergoing surgeries. I was prepped by a lovely lady who looked like she should have retired many years ago. I woke up in a general anaesthetic fugue state that reduced hours to minutes. General surgical shit. Ya-awn.

Being robbed of my independence by necessity nearly broke my fucking head the first few days of recovery but now they’ve removed the drip from me and I can walk around (albeit lugging a catheter and a bag full of pee) I feel much more relaxed about the situation. All I’ve got left do is alternate between laying in bed and sitting on chair while eating junk and shitty hospital food. The swelling is going day in my new vagina and I am starting to see the shape it will eventually take and I am very impressed, if I don’t say so myself. Who knew having a big penis could ever help me for anything? The surgeon, apparently. Lots of lovely raw material to work with I guess. It will be a wonder of medical science by the time it is healed, you mark my words.

I began using the term ‘sex change’ a while ago even though it is technically inaccurate because it is much more succinct and easier for a laymen to understand than gender reassignment surgery. If I was to tell someone I was getting a sex change they would understand immediately what was going on; if I told them I was getting mouth full of marbles gender reassignment surgery they’d look at me like I’d grown an extra head. I also like the bluntness of the statement as well, like, it tells you everything you need to know and nothing else in exactly two fucking syllables. GRS? Less so. I know there are politics and whatever surrounded the naming of these procedures and hey, if you want me to call your operation gender reassignment surgery I will do that, but for me ‘sex change’ is fine. It’s quick and it’s dirty and it gets the job done, like drinking Red Bull and Vodka.

Next week I start dilating, and that promises to be scary and exciting. Until then? Hospital recovering. Joy.

let me tell you about how much i hate catheters

I had a mini major breakdown this morning, lots of tears and frustration and throwing of things…I haven’t cried like that in a really long time, but it seems to have run its course now. I’m in a clean bed and they’ve turned off the fucking leg compressor machine that reminds me of eldritch horrors sucking at flesh and the windows are open. I’m allowed some mobility too but the first time I tried to make good on that latitude I almost fell over so like, not moving a great deal yet. The catheter is still inside me and that is awful.

Mum comes to the hospital today, and on Tuesday I get all the stuff removed from me and am freed. After that I don’t know, I’m yet to decide if I should stay in Sydney for a few days or not. Mum will help with that though…she’s pretty darn clever. For now I rest ooze bleed feed. Fun stuff.

© 2014 Molly Speechley