Before I could even be considered for scheduling for surgery, I had to send back a written consent form that confirmed I understood all of the implications of the operation. I duly did.
But here I am, a few weeks on, really only now fully understanding the risk that was presented to me. Statistically, it’s small enough for me to have made an educated decision but it’s mindbogglingly awful should things go wrong. And I am not necessarily known for my luck.
You can’t let that bog you done I believe. Everything carries risk. Most of which can usually be managed. But it’s hopefully normal enough to have a wee worry about it being a successful operation. There are just a lot of What If’s to wrangle. My greatest fear being what if it doesn’t work? Loss of sensation being one of the very real risks mentioned. I’d hate to start my female life in command of a terribly unresponsive vagina. Too awful to contemplate really.
All I can really do is put my trust in the surgeon and hope for the best. To be entirely fair to him, he’s had a hand in plenty of vaginas. Medically speaking. And he was confident enough in his approach that I felt able to sign with little trepidation. Here’s hoping he knows how to sort out my butterflies while he’s down there.