A Shameless Jezebel

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.


Talkin’ About A Resolution

By the time this post is published I’ll be in my appointment with the surgeon, literally pulling the trigger that will see the new me out of the starting blocks. I have no idea how it’s going to go. But I remain epically calm. And I quite like it.

Despite all of the questions that I have, I mostly feel a sense of resolution. That everything over the last four or so years has been worth it. Arguably not the loss I suppose but even that is still too early to call forever.

But just to get here is an accomplishment I think. Sometimes I did believe it was too hard and that it might break me. But it didn’t and I don’t think anything ever will now. Although, to be fair, I don’t wish to tempt fate in this regard. My journey to today has been relatively privileged though, mostly because of the people who came with me and made it a little easier just to be me. It will probably be the defining experience of my life. But it was pretty much a pleasure taking every single step.

I really have no idea what I’ll be feeling tomorrow or how this appointment will pan out. Oddly, it doesn’t actually matter. It’s just another step closer to the end of this particular journey. And while I want that resolution, it’s surprisingly now more haste but less speed. Whenever my surgery is going to be is when it’s meant to happen. And I’m actually at peace with that. Neither hurried or worried about any of it. Today at least. See you at my freakout post on Sunday.




Been giving a lot of thought to the post-op experience that lies ahead. It would appear that there is literally nothing glamorous about the new reality that awaits me.

Basically my body will treat my new organ as an open wound and attempt to heal it shut. Which is where dilation comes in. As far as I can surmise I’ll be spending a lot of time with vaginal dilators. They will not necessarily feel like my friends. Although sometimes they might.

But this is the point where the enormity of what I am doing really starts to crush me. It’s not just one thing. A simple op to “fix” me. It’s the start of something else entirely.  A wholly new life which is going to be governed by how well I manage my postoperative care. 

And from what I have learned so far, it’s a big enough job for the first year at the very least. So as much as I’m really terribly excited,  I’m growing more and more scared by the minute. What I have signed up for is really a very tall order. As for having to interfere with postop self several times a day? What’s a girl to do? Doctor’s orders after all.


Itsy Bitsy Inbetweenie Yellow Polka-dot Bikini

Less than two weeks till I see the surgeon and I’m feeling disturbingly relaxed about everything.  I’m predicting that this zenlike calm is still just a precursor to a major storm as reality bites down hard.

But calm I am and nothing feels beyond me right now.  Feeling relaxed about it all is a good place to be and the kind of progress where I’m at least a wee bit proud of myself. A relaxed attitude helps me cope with just about anything life conjures up to throw at me.

This week it was workmen idly gawping at me from their vehicular HQ.  I was absolutely ready for the usual exchanges to start. And then they didn’t.  All I heard was “Was that a guy?” said very quietly but quizzically just after I passed them. The important bit being “Was“. It was an actual question. And I will happily take that as a little victory which measures the progress I’ve made.

Four years ago that exchange would have went very differently. And arguably affected my whole day. Now I have hope that in another four years I can simply pass another group of generic workmen without any kind of comment. Other than the kind women usually get. And that doesn’t feel at all impossible to me now. Which makes me think maybe I’m absolutely ready to meet this surgeon. And to start getting ready to get on with the rest of my life. Happy days indeed!


Pink Ball, Corner Pocket 

There are many useful words in the Scottish lexicon.  My favourite is probably Baws. It’s potential uses are legion. A single word that can mean many things depending on context.

It can just as easily mean “the argument you are putting forward carries no scientific merit” as “Damn it,  this rain is torrential and I am without an umbrella “. It is singularly useful.  But it’s probably chiefly used to describe one’s testicles. And that’s what we are going with today.

As the spectre of surgery soars ever nearer on my horizon,  I find myself wondering more and more what my operation will really mean. It may be the ultimate case of separation anxiety.  Imagine a distraught dog wondering where it’s Master has gone. I think we all know that nobody is being sent to live on a really nice farm in this scenario and I’m mentally preparing for the fact that I may miss my accoutrements. And the impact that may have on me.

Humour is my default position whenever I face something difficult though.  I like to think it’s a healthy enough defence mechanism.  But this post is partly to illustrate that I really have thought everything through. No metaphoric stone(s) left unturned. The change might potentially be traumatic but I’m ready for it. Or as ready as I’m likely to be. To be fair,  it’s not like I’m using them much. I wish I could donate them to medical science though. Because it was hard enough to find the courage and being Transsexual takes a barrowload of baws.


I’ve pretty much been as high as a kite since I got my surgery appointment confirmed.  Things really couldn’t be much better than they are. Everything seems to be finally coalescing into something real.

People have since asked if I’m going to go through with it. It’s a reasonable enough question to have of me. Well, I think it is. If you have never questioned your own gender then I imagine it must still be hard to wrap your head around. I’m not sure I can offer a concise soundbitey explanation either. 

But here goes. Surgery is just the thing that makes sense of the last four years for me. It’s been a ridiculously long process. And it’s been as painful and difficult as much as it has been enlightening,  life affirming and an education. 

And I’m ready to do it now.  Not that there aren’t sometimes doubts. Of course, I’m not reckless. But surgery won’t make me any different really.  It may be a cosmic mindfuck in terms of replumbing but I’ll still just be me. Only happier.  One might hope.  It’s just occurred to me as I end this post that I should have gone with Dancing On The Ceiling.  Damn it!


Loaded Questions 

So, I finally got my appointment to see the surgeon. Friday 16th June at the hugely convenient time of 8.30am. It feels like an enormous milestone though. Like reaching land after drifting aimlessly through a shipwreck of a life.

I have hundreds of questions that need answered by the surgeon.  And a few for myself to boot. “Just what is it that you want to do?”. Now that it’s time, it’s actually as scary as fuck. There is no other expression that covers it.

In a matter of months I could have had my operation and be adjusting to the new life I’ve been clawing the path towards for an age. And I’m a little bit terrified.  Although totally ecstatic at the same time. 

I’m still of the opinion that it is sensible to be scared. I’ll never do anything so life altering again.  Short of becoming an astronaut. But it’s all systems go. The answers are within reach and a clock has started ticking down.  Kind of can’t wait 🙂