When the surgeon was marking me up for breast surgery with his felt-tip pen and a little plastic ruler he apologized for the time he was taking.
“That’s fine,” I said. “As my father would say, ‘Measure twice and cut once’!”
“Your father was a surgeon?”
“No. He was a carpenter.”
He laughed and told me that his grandfather had been a timber-cutter (lumberjack). His own best and favorite subjects at High School were maths and sciences, and woodwork and technical drawing. The first cluster, of course, put him in the “A stream”: scientists and doctors. The second were the students who became carpenters and plumbers. I admired the creativity with which he had resolved this dilemma. Now he could draw, cut, and practice medical science all on the same day.
The guy who did my sex change surgery was not as approachable. But he, too, was a great technician and the vagina he built me is a biotechnological marvel.
I chose a third surgeon to do my face and I chose with extreme care. I found him in Thailand. A great technician, a fine sculptor, and a wonderful human being.
Yet not one of these fine technicians showed any real understanding or appreciation of the hardest part of these procedures for the recipient of their skills. Pain relief, physical healing…all fine. But not the mental trauma, the psychic stress and shock. The Thai came closest. He insisted his patients remain in his care for 3 weeks daily post-op. nursing. But he was genuinely puzzled by my obvious mental distress after 10 hours of bone removal, cutting and slicing. My sex-change surgeon gave me a brochure that cheerfully informed me I could, “resume sexual activity within 12 weeks…”
My partner had left me because of my decision. I had not attempted to have sex as a woman before in my life. My only memories of penetration had to do with childhood sexual abuse. At 12 weeks I was alone, in pain, confused and suffering (without knowing it) a PTSD that really encompassed all of my life.
I had those three surgeries within a two-year period. I wanted them. I never regretted them. But in those two years I have had to relearn how to live my life. I’ve had to grieve the rejection of all my family, loss of my partner, and now the added difficulty of trying to find work as a woman.
Anyhow, point of the story. A few weeks before the second anniversary of my sex-change surgery I began manifesting a very profound depression. It reached its culmination on that second anniversary. Only then did I realize that I was in the midst of a major “anniversary reaction”. I regularly see a counsellor and she was able to keep me on track. I also saw a sex therapist who trained me in how a vagina works. (Believe it or not it is different to a penis!)
I discovered a significant online library of “anniversary reactions” to all sorts of events (but not to sex-change surgery). The searches helped me resolve the depression/anxiety/insomnia/suicidality. I cried as I read stories of young women’s reactions to the loss of a baby; older women and hysterectomy; the shock of divorce; a loved one’s death; veterans talking about the seemingly inexplicable revisiting of battle-stress years after the event.
And I came back to remembering being discharged from those various biotechnological institutes with my brand-new body parts, some pills, a brochure and a set of plastic dildos.
This is both a warning and a plea. A warning to those of us who have any life-changing/life-saving surgery. Be prepared for post-op. depression and take it very seriously. You lost more than you may have acknowledged in that surgery.
The plea? Let us work to ensure that proper psychological/life care is part of any major surgical intervention. Let us redefine successful surgery as a surgery that is successfully integrated into the recipient’s whole of life and insist that the post-op. care plan include ongoing and meaningful support: not just a brochure and the pills.
