No, I’m not okay
But thanks for asking.
My post here should be a celebration of my coming out publicly. On Mastodon, no less. Two years ago today. Yay! I’m still so surprised at and so grateful for the positive reaction I received there. Those are good people.
But this is more than an anniversary party. It’s a vulgar rant. It’s catharsis. It’s a celebration of a different kind of triumph.
And it’s a long story. So, strap in and get uncomfortable. Just like I did.
We’ll set the wayback machine for November of 2024. No, before the expletive got re-elected.
As we entered the penultimate month of that year, I was racing to prepare for gender confirmation surgery. What we “transgenders” politely call “bottom surgery” so proper cis people don’t cringe at the term vaginoplasty.
Preparation requires hair removal. Via electrolysis. Downstairs. And, yeah, it’s about as painful as you can imagine.
But on the first day of November I wasn’t thinking about getting zapped. I discovered an issue of blood from near my rectum. That wasn’t stopping. Yikes!
A long and awkward visit to Urgent Care, which included a CT scan, determined the blood was likely coming from a fistula.
Any trans girl reading this knows that a fistula can be the kiss of death to the idea of ever getting vaginoplasty. Needless to say I felt my soul beginning to crush.
But it got worse. The doctors also discovered a “shadow” on my prostate. You can probably guess what was on my mind then. Yeah, cancer.
And just as a bonus to cap off a six-hour hospital visit, returning late at night to its now-locked parking garage, I found that my car had a flat tire.
Good times. Good times.
I scrambled to find a surgeon to tell me it wasn’t a fistula that I had, sticking in my ass like some inverted Sword of Damocles. And I did find a great surgeon. Who, unfortunately, told me it wasn’t just one fistula. It was two. And that I should have surgery to repair them as soon a possible.
Next, I had to find about that shadow. So my gender surgeon ordered an antigen test to screen for cancer. The test was negative but I was told that just meant is was inconclusive, as is often the case with trans women. So, she ordered an MRI to get more clarity than that earlier CT scan, which only inadvertently included my prostate.
You can probably understand that I was, uh, somewhat anxious during all of this medical drama. Especially with my gender surgeon explaining the risks of navigating a new vagina between Scylla and Charybdis, i.e. the fistula scar tissue and a prostate tumor.
Now set that against the backdrop of the orange-faced fascist returning to power.
Yeah. I spent most of December crying.
For those on Mastodon, do you recall me just sort of disappearing for several weeks of that month? You might have assumed I went on holiday. Unfortunately not. I couldn’t handle curating the news for you anymore. I’m sorry, but even I have a limit to how much stress I can bear.
I began to feel that my dream of “being a real girl” was over. And there was the distinct possibility of me actually dying. The existential dread was so strong it almost vibrated.
Things just got worse when I found out that the two fistulas might be connected. And that surgery would have to be in multiple stages. With the first being exploratory as well as for inserting painful drains.
At this point despair was a tempting retreat. Just collapse and let it take me.
But I didn’t retreat. I didn’t collapse.
Instead, I decided to focus on surviving, getting well and salvaging whatever was left of my transition.
Which is a good thing because some parts of this sob story started to change for the better.
First, the MRI results came back. It wasn’t cancer. Yay! It was just a “thickening” common to males-at-birth my age. A nothingburger unlikely to ever become a tumor. And do you know why? Because I’m on Estradiol. HRT FTW! Transition might just have saved my life.
So, that was a relief.
Second, surgery revealed that the two fistulas weren’t connected. Yay! They didn’t even know each other. However, they both intersected the sphincter so the second surgery might be more complicated. Which was still worrisome.
Third, I managed to convince my gender confirmation surgeon to hold off ruling out vaginoplasty since my prostate was no longer an issue and the fistulas had at least the potential of being less scary.
In the meantime, I had to work on recovering from the first fistula surgery and living with those damn drains. Imagine having a small pair of hoop earrings in your ass. Yeah, it was kinda like that. Sooooo comfortable. For almost three months.
That second fistula surgery couldn’t come soon enough.
I was told that my doctor had scheduled multiple hours for the procedure. Enough time for a complex grafting operation to avoid damaging my sphincter and risking fecal incontinence. Yikes!
But, in the end (pun intended), the whole thing (pun also intended) only took about 15 minutes. Drains removed and simple fistulotomies completed. Easy peasy.
Then it was hurry up and wait until I healed just enough for an examination of my progress. First by my fistula surgeon, who wrote that he didn’t see anything that would prevent vaginoplasty (Dog bless him!), and then by my gender surgeon.
And she agreed with his assessment! After a rigorous digital finger exam (something that didn’t even cause me to blink at this point), she only found surfacy scar tissue of little extent.
So, she made me deal. She would attempt vaginoplasty and fall back to vulvoplasty if she encountered anything risky internally.
And I agreed, of course.
But first I had to finish healing, get back to hair removal, and then wait four to six weeks after that was “complete” to evaluate whether I was ready to be scheduled for surgery.
In the end, I spent seven and a half months of my life treading water as far as my transition was concerned. Progress had essentially stopped at the beginning of November.
Since bottom surgery looked unlikely until the end of the year, I started looking around for a breast augmentation surgeon. And I finally found a good one who could complete the procedure at least three months (the minimum interval) before that bottom surgery. So, I’m now scheduled for bigger boobs in August!
And just this week, my gender confirmation surgeon has determined that hair removal is far enough along that she can now schedule me for vaginoplasty. I should have a date for that in the next week or so.
All good news!
So, you might want to ask me, “Lisa, why are you not okay? This sounds great.”
First, losing those seven and a half months when you’re my age is traumatic. That’s a non-trivial amount of time that I have left in this world. And the journey was painful, dammit. Physically and emotionally. You don’t get over that quickly or easily.
Second, there’s that orange background radiation I mentioned being emitted through it all. That continues as well. Even more dangerous and lethal than any of us expected.
I am not hysterical when I say that Cheeto Jesus and his goons are trying to exterminate me and every other trans person in this country. And while they’re at it, make sure no one else ever considers or attempts transition. Mind you, just that last plan will kill people.
One of the reasons I was racing towards bottom surgery last year is that I wanted to complete it if and when Shitler returned to the White House. Because I’m on Medicare and I wanted coverage before all trans health care support would inevitably be removed.
You know, like what’s happening now.
I’m fortunate that I may actually be able to pay out-of-pocket for such a procedure. But I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to have this life saving (!!) surgery even if I can afford it.
That’s where we are, folks. That’s how bad it is for trans people. Wake. The. Fuck. Up!
Am I angry and bitter about this? You’re goddamn right I am.
Now, I’m still going do my best to thrive, and not just survive, in spite of all of this horror. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.
You shouldn’t be either.
