I woke up with the lights on, from a dreamless sleep.
I made a point of reading one of these SRS papers every night. You kind of get used to it. You get used to the pictures and the complications and the descriptions of dealing with complications. You get used to the complication rate – always a solid 14 to 17 percent. Why is it so steady? Across surgeons? Across groups?
Would it matter if there were no risk of complications? Would it matter to my decision to pursue surgery? The results are underwhelming, acceptable. The post-op transgedered women, they are satisfied with their decision.
If I woke up with an honest-to-God vagina, I wouldn’t be satisfied. I would be elated. I would be many things. And I probably wouldn’t be quiet about it. The post-op transgedered women, they are very quiet, most of them. Maybe it’s out of necessity. I hope it’s out of necessity.
I’ve never not been able to decide something, but I can’t decide this.
I decide not to pursue surgery, but that’s unacceptable. I decide to pursue surgery, but that’s too crazy.
This isn’t like the decision to transition, I can’t see an overwhelmingly positive outcome from either course of action. And I can’t decide.
At first it was tearing me apart. Now it’s just another thing that is out of my control, like the weather. Something will happen eventually.
So I adhere to a fairly straightforward course of appointments and requirements, pulling up medical records, sending inquiries out into the medical community – assuring against all hell that sex reassignment surgery is an option that is available to me.
Because I know I’ve sacrificed to preserve this option; it’s just not something that people understand. I don’t understand it either.
I find myself in the mindset of someone purchasing fire extinguishers or extra car insurance.
I might need this