Image: Image: Dr Antimony Deor (Supplied)
Three weeks and half an hour ago I was staring at a hospital ceiling in Queensland, trying to enjoy the final few minutes of my old genitals.
I鈥檇 come to Brisbane for a , a surgical procedure that rearranges the clitoris and labia into a new and scrotum. I was getting the simplest version, but was still nervous.
The week leading up to the surgery had been a whirlwind 鈥� literally, as Cyclone Alfred had upended all of our plans. Centrelink and my private health insurance had also in the days leading up to my surgery, which meant that I was already in a world of pain before anyone had even taken a knife to me.
Preparing for Metoidioplasty
People think of 鈥榮urgery鈥� as a bad few hours in a hospital theatre, but it鈥檚 actually an of forms and meetings and approvals and payment plans. The actual surgery itself is just one particularly pointy moment in a year-long stress parade.
In the months before the surgery I鈥檇 had two consultations with the surgeon, somehow $20,000, rushed to finish as many freelance projects as I could, had many frustrating conversations with my shambolic private health insurer, gone through the process with , found and booked appropriate accommodation for the recovery period, and asked my partner to book all of their annual and sick leave to help me.
This, to me, was much more worrisome than actually getting the chop. Having already gone through a hysterectomy and top surgery I was confident in my body鈥檚 ability to heal, but not so confident in my ability to deal with admin.
Despite this, I managed to make it to the hospital on time, on the right day, and after a long morning sitting in a waiting room, then sitting in another waiting room, then sitting in another waiting room, and then sitting around in the nud, I was finally ready to go in
The chop shop
I woke up in the late afternoon surrounded by beeping and looking like flotsam from the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
periodically squeezed my calves tight and then deflated, like halfhearted boa constrictors were trying to eat my legs. A catheter dangled off the edge of the bed while two drains siphoned mysterious terrible fluids out of my groin. A blood pressure monitor and a heart monitor pinged reassuringly, while a cannula delivered mysterious terrible fluids into my hand.
Over the course of 4 days, these devices were removed piece by piece until I could finally walk around without looking like a possessed cyberpunk Christmas tree.
Life in the hospital was characterised by random barging into my room to give me pills, give me injections, measure my vital signs, deliver baked beans, pick up empty plates, check on my wounds, or change my sheets. This happened at all hours, so by the end I was pretty wrecked from lack of sleep.
I wasn鈥檛 in any pain, but I was uncomfortable. An unexpected source of discomfort for me was 鈥� periods have always been a terrible source of physical and mental pain for me, and seeing blood around that area brought those feelings back. I鈥檓 not a squeamish person, so I was surprised to be upset by gore this time.
On day 5, I hobbled out of the hospital and into my Airbnb accommodation. I had a follow-up appointment in ten days, a partner to take care of me, and a hospital-themed showbag of spare dressings, but other than that I was on my own.
The pee machine
Stupidly, I鈥檇 packed for Melbourne weather, and so out of a scarf, 3 long-sleeved shirts, 2 tshirts, 1 singlet and a pair of trakky-daks, I only ended up wearing the singlet. After Cyclone Alfred the humidity was still 90% most days, so with strict instructions not to shower or get my dressings wet I felt like a swamp monster.
My partner, a disability care worker, was essential during this time 鈥� changing my gory dressings once or twice a day, pressing the buttons on ubereats, and reassuring me every few minutes that my bits weren鈥檛 about to fall off.
My nads looked like I鈥檇 tried to mate with a whipper-snipper, and I was simultaneously worrying about them constantly and trying not to think about them.
By the fourth day back I was getting by with panadol, but was still finding it hard to get in and out of chairs and limited in the distance I could walk.
I had a catheter tied to my leg which I could see fill up in real time. This not only made me realise how dehydrated I must have always been, but revealed my true nature as a pee machine who only incidentally writes essays or makes friends or pats cats as trivial side projects to the great work of producing wizz.
40 鈥� 90% of people have a bad time with catheters, but I was very lucky that it mostly felt ok for me. Nights were the most uncomfortable, but even worse was searching 鈥榟ow to deal with catheter discomfort鈥� and finding nothing but AI slop. In the mornings I appreciated being able to laze around in bed for hours without having to get up to use the bathroom.
Quality control at the sausage factory
By the time my checkup rolled around, I was sure I was doomed.
The difficulties of the cyclone, Centrelink and insurance had put me in a paranoid frame of mind, and I was just waiting for the next thing to go wrong. So when the nurse at the doctor鈥檚 office said 鈥淟ooks good!鈥� instead of 鈥淥h dear lord!鈥� I instantly felt a wave of relief.
Ten days from the surgery everything still looked very upset, but I could see my new nads were starting to take shape. I was given new dressing instructions and sent on my way.
With the catheter removed and permission to finally have a shower, I started to feel like a human again.
Getting away with it
It was only on the flight home a few days later that I started to feel like everything might be ok. I felt like I鈥檇 pulled off the biological equivalent of a high-stakes heist, and was walking away with the loot safely in my pants.
Three weeks on, I鈥檓 in no pain, can sleep on my side, sit cross-legged, bend over and pick things up, sit and stand with no problems, and walk to the nearby bakery without discomfort. My bits are still swollen and I change the dressings every day, but every day it looks a little better.
The doctor advises that it鈥檒l take six months to a year to settle, so I鈥檓 trying to keep my expectations tempered. This has been, objectively, the most effort I鈥檝e ever gone to for an extra inch. But it鈥檚 rad to look in a mirror and have everything look normal. Having a penis is so cool!
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