Another True Dental Gas Story
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It's A GAS - Part One free porn video
It's a GAS... Part One
"Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a GAS GAS GAS..." - The Rolling Stones
I read the email once. Then, I read it again. And again. And, yeah... a
fourth time. Four short sentences: "Your file was evaluated and accepted.
Sorry for delay to write you. I could give you a surgery date of March
14th 2016. Let me know if this date is good for you." And yet it took
four readings for it to actually sink in, for me to believe it was real.
Okay, next step: scream, jump up, fist-pump the air a few times, yell
"Woohoo!", do a frenzied little jig around the room...
See, this email was the penultimate step in a very, very long process, a
process that began over two years ago, and one that involved copious
measures of waiting, frustration, anxiety, dejection, hope, more waiting,
excitement, patience, impatience, still more waiting, and indeed a whole
galaxy of other emotions, some of which I'm not even sure I have a name
for.
This email was the final confirmation of my sex reassignment surgery, or,
as we in trans community prefer to call it, "gender affirmation surgery"
or GAS.
In the last essay I wrote (titled "Implants", about my experience with
breast augmentation surgery) I did conclude by saying that - at the time
- while the option of continuing on with my physical transition and
pursuing genital surgery was always a possibility, I was, for the moment,
content. Perhaps I should elaborate on that. I think in truth I always
DID feel a desire to complete my physical transition, so that my body was
congruent with my gender identity. But the thing is, for the most part,
the magnitude and complexity of the surgery, and the potential for
complications, scared me off. In other words, my fear of the surgery
outweighed my desire for the outcome.
But gradually, over time, the balance began to shift. The daily reminders
that there was still this anomaly there, that my body did not wholly
reflect who I deeply felt myself to be, began to grate: getting dressed
in the morning and having to, well, "tuck" things out of the way; going
to the bathroom; wearing a bathing suit and worrying that something might
not look "quite right"; being intimate with my partner. All of these
things began to function as unwelcome cues that things were not as they
should be.
The tipping point came a couple of summers ago. My partner and I were at
a friend's rural property with about ten other mutual friends, camping
out, barbequing, hiking through woods, having singalongs around the
campfire. It was great. On the property there is a lovely, spring-fed
pond into which the owners had trucked a few skiploads of sand to form a
small beach and sandy bottom. At some point, someone said, "Hey, let's go
for a swim!" None of us had bathing suits, so there was the immediate
assumption that we'd all just go skinny-dipping. Um, okay... fine...
Now, let me clarify: none of these folks could give the slightest smidgen
of a shit what I have between my legs. They love me and accept me for who
I am, and frankly, I doubt that any of them even much noticed (and in any
case, the water was so damn cold that within a few seconds there probably
wasn't much to notice anyway. As George Costanza would have said, "There
was SHRINKAGE!") But the thing is, I noticed. As I swam around, feeling
my bits sloshing back and forth in the water, suddenly, the balance
shifted dramatically... and permanently. I no longer cared about the
complexity or the risks of the surgery. I just wanted that stuff GONE,
once and for all. I wanted a completely female body, and I didn't care
what I had to do to get it.
Okay, it's probably an exaggeration to say that I no longer cared. I
still carried a lot of anxiety about it, but the thing is, that anxiety
was no longer a block. I was finally ready, and from here on out, I
wasn't going to let anything stop me.
Where I live (Canada), we are extremely fortunate that SRS is covered by
our public health insurance, but, in order to QUALIFY for coverage, there
are about a thousand hoops you have to jump through first. And I was only
poised for hoop number one. I had a long way to go.
Hoop number one was simply to get a foot in the door of the Adult Gender
Identity Clinic at CAMH in Toronto, which at the time was the only
facility in the country authorized to recommend approvals for surgery.
The waiting time: ten months. Ten fucking months. Gads.
(Even then - two years ago - the system was woefully overtaxed, and it
has since gotten worse. By the time I was close to the end of my own
process, the waiting period had increased to almost 2 years, which, in my
humble opinion, is not only completely unacceptable, but actually
dangerous. I could see some trans people becoming so discouraged by the
inordinate wait just to get an initial appointment that suicide might
start to seem a viable option.
A while ago I asked one of the psychiatrists who was interviewing me if
the Caitlyn Jenner episode had had an impact on their case-load. She
replied that, in the month following Jenner's emergence as transgender,
the number of referrals to the clinic TRIPLED.
But things are changing, and fast. In response to a detailed - and quite
damning - study of the status of transgender care in Ontario, the
Ministry of Health has recommended expanding the capability to refer
patients for surgery to include all qualified healthcare professionals.
So, instead of one clinic bearing all of the load, there could
potentially be, within a year or so, literally hundreds. It's about
time.)
Okay, so I am not exactly a spring-chicken any more. That created two
conflicting attitudes to this enforced waiting period. On the one hand, I
could choose to take the long view. Hell, I've been waiting this long,
what's a few extra months, right? On the other hand, I am at a point in
my life that, when I make a decision, it stays made, and dammit, I am
ready to move on it. No hesitation. So, faced with the both need for
patience and the desire for instant gratification... well, it was a rather
tricky balancing act.
But, in retrospect, the months did go by, and I didn't die or go mad,
which is nice to know. And at last I had my initial assessment
appointments, which required the opinions of two independent evaluators.
Since I had to drive about sixty miles in to Toronto, they were good
enough to give me two back-to-back appointments, with about 15 minutes in
between to grab a coffee and chill out.
Both appointments went well. I've since talked to some trans people
who've had pretty nasty experiences with the AGIC, but that was not mine.
Perhaps they took my maturity into consideration, and made the up-front
assumption that if I made the decision at this stage of my life, I had
probably given it some pretty careful consideration, and it was hardly an
ill-considered, spur-of-the-moment impulse.
So anyway, they came to the conclusion that: I was indeed transgender
(duh), that I was competent to make decisions about my own healthcare
(ditto), and that I didn't suffer from any major mental illnesses (HA!
Fooled 'em! You know the old joke: "Insanity doesn't run in my family, it
gallops." Okay, okay, just kidding. Well, sort of.)
Mildly humorous anecdote: A couple of completely unrelated but totally
crazy things happened to me during, or right after, those initial
appointments. Right in the middle of my second interview with an AGIC
psychiatrist, suddenly, an extremely loud alarm went off out in the
hallway. I was startled, but the doctor who was interviewing me didn't
bat an eye; he just kept talking as if nothing was going on, so I
relaxed. I speculated that, since the building was a medical facility,
perhaps the alarm signified some sort of medical emergency; you know,
"Code Blue" or something. That is, until the interview was over and I
went out into the hallway. It was full of smoke! What the fuck???
Somewhat alarmed (an understatement) I ran down to the lobby by the
nurses' station where the elevators were, but they were shut down, and
everyone seemed to be standing around as if they had no idea what to do.
A short, dapper-looking Indian fellow was standing next to me and I asked
him if he knew what the hell was going on. "Nope, he said, "But I'm ready
to head for the stairwell!"
"I think I'll be right behind you!" I agreed. But just then a maintenance
guy in overalls showed up with an armload of charred electrical stuff and
yelled, "It's okay everyone! Just a burnt light fixture!" Everyone
shrugged and calmly headed off, as if this sort of thing happened every
day. And perhaps it did. It is a rather old building.
So, I took the elevator to the parking garage, hopped into my car and
headed out into Toronto rush-hour traffic. Then, just as I was heading
toward the freeway, the brake warning light on the dash came on. Weird... I
checked the hand-brake; it was off. The light flickered a few times, went
off again, then went back on. This repeated several times. I tested the
brakes and they felt fine. "Okay..." I thought to myself, "It seems alright
for now. I'll head home and get my mechanic to check it out in the
morning."
I got onto the freeway system and headed west, doing about 120km/hr, then
north, same speed, checking the brakes periodically. Everything seemed
fine. Then, onto the 401 westbound, and suddenly the traffic was so dense
I had to slow almost to a walking pace. No problem, that's pretty much
expected at that time of day.
Then, just as I was passing an exit, I pressed the brake pedal, and it
went right to the floor. FUCK!!! I swerved across two lanes and got onto
the off-ramp, using the handbrake to stop at the bottom. Fortunately,
there was a car-pool parking lot right there, so I simply drove (slowly!)
into the lot and parked. I called CAA to come and get my car, then called
my partner to come get me.
Then, for the next 45 minutes, I sat there and imagined all of the ways
that that could have totally turned to shit. What if I had been doing 120
and suddenly needed to do an emergency stop? What if the pedal had gone
to the floor right then? I shuddered. Not a good scenario, that, and it
could perhaps have put an abrupt end to my gender transition aspirations,
right then and there.
As I sat waiting for CAA to arrive, I also reflected that, an hour or so
earlier, I mentioned in my interviews that I had yet to have a
significantly negative experience as a trans person; very little in the
way of discrimination, harassment, or intimidation, and a lot of support
and acceptance. I realized that I had just called for a tow-truck driver
and I had a purse full of still-male ID; I wondered whether I had just
invited my first negative experience.
As it happened, no. The tow-truck driver was this very jovial middle-aged
Jamaican dude with waist-length dreadlocks who didn't bat an eye at the
male name on my CAA card, called me "Missie" and cracked jokes pretty
much non-stop.
(By the way, I have since gotten all of my ID, including my birth
certificate, changed to reflect my new legal name and gender. I find it a
little strange (but very welcome!) that here in Ontario you can actually
change the sex on your birth certificate, even without having completed
SRS, as long as you have a supporting letter from a healthcare
professional. It's almost like they're admitting they made a mistake the
first time around... which is kind of true, isn't it? Anyway, thank you,
Ontario Human Rights Commission, who made that the law!)
Long story short, my partner came and got me, the tow-truck driver drove
my car all the way to my mechanic's lot, and all's well that ends well.
(Incidentally, the brake line had rusted out. It is a pretty old car.
But, I figure there's probably no point in me buying lottery tickets any
more: I think I used up my stockpile of good luck that day!)
So where was I? Oh yes: waiting some more. Now I had to wait for a pair
of "surgery approval" appointments. That took about six months, including
two months where, thanks to some sort of computer glitch, they actually
LOST MY FILE temporarily, and when I called they had no idea who I was.
Those were two panic-stricken months, let me tell you, and I finally had
to get my GP to intervene and straighten things out. It ended okay,
though. They were suitably apologetic about the glitch, and to compensate
they fast-tracked my approval interviews.
In the interviews, you have to demonstrate a working knowledge of the
surgical procedures involved, what to expect, what NOT to expect, what
possible risks and complications exist, and show that you have adequate
post-surgical support. I aced it, I think. My partner was there with me,
and we made it clear that I had excellent after-care, and that I was very
well acquainted with everything that would happen, before, during, and
after.
Then, more waiting. The AGIC doctors do all of the decision-making for
all current patients in a single team meeting, which typically happens at
the end of the month. Since my interviews were at the first of the month,
I had to wait. But eventually I got a phone call letting me know that I
had been approved and that they were forwarding their recommendation to
the Ministry of Heath, and to the SRS clinic in Montreal (currently the
only one in the country, if you can believe that.)
Then, more waiting, but not long. I received a letter about 3 weeks later
from the Ministry informing me that they had allocated funds for my
surgery and had informed the clinic to that effect. There was dancing in
the streets at that point! (Well, okay, maybe not the streets. Dancing in
the living room for sure.)
But then, dammit, more waiting. Everything should be completed, no? I had
already sent the clinic my completed health questionnaire, they should
have the Ministry letter, as well as recommendations from the two
psychiatrists at the AGIC who interviewed me... what was the holdup? All I
needed now was a surgery date. How could it be that that could take so
long? A month went by, and I sent a couple of anxious emails, to which I
received vaguely reassuring replies and the assurance that I would be
contacted "very soon."
Another month dragged by without a word from the clinic. I started to
panic. I was afraid that my surgery might be delayed till mid-summer or
later. Here I was, so near to my goal, so close to that increasingly
bright light at the end of the tunnel, and yet this one, final piece of
news was... still... pending.
Then, abruptly, unexpectedly, and about when I was beginning to feel some
real despair, the email that opens this article showed up in my inbox.
Break out the champagne! Release the doves and balloons! Lasers,
fireworks, massed choirs singing the Hallelujah Chorus and Beethoven's
Ninth Symphony!
I recently did a talk to the local Unitarian congregation on the subject
of "finding courage". I suppose they seem to think that living as an
"out" trans person takes courage. Whatever; I dunno... Maybe it does. My
partner and I sing in a local LGBTQ (and allies) amateur choir. It's a
lot of fun (despite the fact that a few of the songs in the current
repertoire are cheesy enough to make lasagna), I get to play guitar on a
few songs, which I really enjoy (and the choir is actually quite good; a
few years before I joined they actually sang at Carnegie Hall for an
international choir competition.)
Anyway, the choir always does a performance at the local Unitarian hall
at some point, and this time the service leader asked if I would give a
short talk the same day, to which I agreed. I related how, back, quite a
few years ago, now, when I first made the decision to live full-time as
my true gender, so many people said to me, "Oh Christine! I so admire
your courage." "This is such a courageous step you're undertaking." I
would always smile and nod and say something polite in return, but
privately I'd always be thinking: really? is that what it is? I don't
know. Does it take courage to reach for a life-jacket if you're drowning?
If you're falling does it show courage to grab for a tree branch or a
rope to try and stop your fall? To me it's more a simple matter of
responding to the demands of your own survival. And so it was, it seems
to me, when I committed to being my true, authentic self.
But now... well, now I could certainly see a measure of courage coming into
it. The more I researched the surgery that I sought, the more I talked to
people about it, the more I realized that this was a serious commitment
of... well, I suppose it IS "courage". That's really the only word that
springs to mind. It is, by any definition, major surgery. A lot of
sensitive tissue gets snipped and shuffled around, the recovery period is
long and, in the early stages anyway, sometimes painful. And there are
many things that can go wrong, from infection to tissue death to prolapse
of the vagina, to many other complications, some trivial, some serious.
Individually, the odds of any of those things happening are fairly small,
but it all adds up, doesn't it? I've heard some people say that after a
month of recovery the best they could manage was to totter to the fridge
for a bite of lunch. That doesn't sound so appealing, now, does it? On
the other hand, I've also heard of people finding the recovery a snap.
Two weeks and you're up and about doing stuff, and within a month
everything's pretty much back to normal. I suppose it's all about your
general health, resistance to pain, speed of recovery and so on. In those
terms, I can afford to feel somewhat optimistic. I typically recover
quickly, my health is excellent, and I am generally okay with a bit of
pain here and there, as long as there are some good drugs available.
But there comes a time when an event of this magnitude suddenly goes from
a "concept", i.e. something kind of nebulous in the distant future, to
something very, very real. And that happened to me just the previous
week, as I write this. Suddenly, I realized that in a couple of short
months, I will find myself lying on a table with a tube in my arm, and
I'll fall asleep, and when I wake up... well, things will be very
different. And, as is drilled home repeatedly during the approval
process, this is completely a one-way street. Once the operation has been
completed, there is no going back, ever. On the other hand, if I were to
back out, if I were to call and cancel, I would never, NEVER, get this
opportunity again. They wouldn't even look at me. They'd say, "Sorry, we
don't waste our time on people who aren't completely sure. We already
have enough patients on our waiting list who are sure. So... take a hike."
All true. Nonetheless, I realized that this is perhaps the most major
all-or-nothing decision I've ever made in my life, and suddenly, I found
myself questioning literally every decision I've made about my gender
journey. Even to the point of questioning whether they were in fact
decisions at all, or whether I'd simply allowed myself to be carried
along by some kind of thoughtless momentum, one step leading inevitably
to the next, and to the next, without stopping to consider their validity
or rightness. It was a hellish week, believe me.
In my previous article on my breast augmentation surgery, I referred to
the sudden fear and uncertainty I felt when confronted with the imminence
of the surgery itself, and how I wondered, "What the fuck am I doing??
Why am I doing this?" Well, what I experienced this time was the same
thing, only magnified a thousand times. It was pretty scary.
But, with the help of my friends, my wonderful partner, my music, and my
excellent therapist, I have once again found the ground beneath my feet,
and I am once again aware of what, really, I always knew, but forgot
briefly. And that is this: I am a woman. I may have been assigned "male"
at birth, and yes, I had all of the male bits and pieces, and I looked
male, but that was never who I was in my heart. I am, and always have
been, a woman. And, I want my body - all of it - to reflect that. I'm
committed and I'm ready.
So anyway, now... yes, that's right: more waiting. But, this time, I am at
least waiting for a specific date! The light at the end of the tunnel is
getting pretty bright. The other day I told a friend, "You know, I think
this time will go by like a cheetah running in wet cement: fast and slow
at the same time." And so it is.
Okay, as I write this, I have just under two months to go, then it's off
to Montreal and... snip-snip! If anything crops up in the meantime, I will
write about it. Otherwise, I plan to write the next installment from my
room at the clinic, as soon as I feel well enough after the surgery.
Should be interesting, to say the least...
So... stay tuned for Part Two...
Pansy
- 30.10.2022
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