Since I started out on this process of transition I’ve had to show so many medical professionals my junk that I’m considering issuing loyalty cards to repeat visitors. Friday’s visit with the surgeon was no different but it at least advanced my cause somewhat. And it will fortunately be one of the last occasions when a doctor ever has to peer at it again. Although I quite honestly have no shame left at all about whipping it out upon request.
But there is at least one positive that this journey has given me. I appear to have very few hangups about my body overall. Which might seem incongrous to you given what I’m going to do next. But I tend to think of it as corrective surgery as it’s not born out of any need to rid myself of something hateful. I am exceptionally fortunate that I never experienced dysphoria.
And now I’m spending this weekend with the written consent form that will make surgery a reality. I’m going to sign it of course but it deserves more than a little thought because of the complexity of what signing actually means for the rest of my life. A single signature which will start to eradicate my male life for good. I’m allowed to be a little overly dramatic in this particular situation I think.
It’s not at all bad though. I’m calm and content and hopefully taking a very measured decision that will work out for me in the long run. I just can’t know for definite which does give me reason to pause before committing pen to paper. I’ve now had all the possible complications explained to me. I could have particularly lived my whole life without being aware of what a fistula is. Don’t look it up. It’s disgusting. If you do look it up, I warned you fair and square.
It looks like my final surgery will be around November but I am told it will definitely be by the end of the year. So a festive foof is all but assured. But the all important consent has to be sent back first. That’s a job for tomorrow. Under the circumstances, I hope they’ll forgive the shaky handwriting.