Last month I borrowed a friends car, sat a different friend in the passenger seat, and set off to Brighton for my consultation with Mr Philip Thomas at the Nuffield Hospital.
Having somehow contrived to arrive five minutes late, I found myself in a tiny waiting room with two other girls, filling out the kind of form that makes you ponder every illness you’ve ever had and wonder if it’s relevant. Soon we were sat in an entirely different tiny room whilst Liz, the head nurse, talked us through what we should expect, backed up with photos from a book called The Great Wall of Vaginas.
As she presented us with examples of things we’ll need, dilators, and details of exactly what we will have to do to keep everything healthy down there, it started to hit me how life changing an event this is going to be. There’s so much to consider, so many little rituals I’m going to have to learn. As exciting as this all is, I couldn’t help but wish it could all be a bit simpler. Anyway, soon the man himself made an appearance, and the bit that we were all fearing: the physical examination. The tension in that waiting room was palpable, and of course, I was called in last. A quick chat about the potential risks and then on with the grim bit. It’s impossible to explain how odd it is to have two people looking at and discussing your genitals but it was over before I knew it and the news was good: I had the go ahead.
After a night in a friendly gay pub followed by a day of seaside cliches (fish n chips, ice cream, paddling in the sea, parading down the pier) we drove back up north. A coupe of weeks passed and I decided to call on the off chance I could find when I might hear a date. To my surprise, they offered me a date there and then: the 4th of November. This was much sooner than I’d anticipated, and I had to go cap in hand to my employers to convince them to give me the go ahead for two months off work, which they did.
So, date confirmed, plans coming together, future looking bright. You’d think that I’d be on cloud nine, right? Nope. This is, after all, my brain we are talking about. The conversation in my head went much like this:
Me: Yay! Surgery! Soon my body will be aligned with my mind, and I can move on with my life.
Brain: Yeah, don’t get too excited.
Me: Why not Brain?
Brain: Well the surgery might fix that bit. But what about everything else?Me: What are you talking about?
Brain: Look at your feet. No woman has feet that big. It doesn’t matter what’s in your pants, no one is going to believe you’re a woman when they see those flippers.
Me: But everyone said they are fine… seriously I thought we were over this!
Brain: Nope. You’re horrible. And ugly, and manish. No amount of surgery is going to fix it. Are you going to cry now?
Me: No *sniff*.
The next couple of weeks were frankly pretty tough. I had to lean on my friends and family a lot, and I’m only just getting over it now. I veer between self pity and hopelessness to defiance and optimism about the future. At first I worried that this sudden depression was a sign that the surgery wasn’t the right option for me, but I soon remembered how I felt anytime I made a major life decision. Whether it be putting an offer in on a house, or getting a new job, or that time I quit my job to become my own boss for a while, panic and fear set in immediately. My mind goes into overdrive in it’s attempts to explain exactly why everything will go wrong, or how I’ll end up messing it all up, and I always have to ride out that tidal wave of emotion for a couple of weeks. Now I’m coming back up to the surface, I’m feeling more optimistic. I don’t think my mind will be at peace now until I’m recovering, much like it was after my FFS.
To pass the time, and to keep a record of events, I’m going to write a surgery diary on here throughout my recovery. Hopefully it’ll be useful for some people as well as therapeutic for me. If anyone has any specific questions, feel free to message me. Until next time…
Amy
A Circular Square 