Please be aware, that I did not hold back in this post. I describe some mentally and physically extreme situations, that may be hard for you to process.
Once I told my therapist, that I had for about two years or so, that I always get, what I want. Because I can wait. And I have waited very long for this one:
Back when I was a teenager, I put myself to sleep wishing I would wake up with breasts and the other “bottom parts”. It feels like I did this every night for years. It probably only were a few months or so, but in hindsight, it feels like an eternity.
I hoped, it would just happen. That I did not have to do anything for it, but hope. Spoiler alert: I had to do very much, to get this one.
Let’s start with the easy ones, the breasts. I started hormones in August 2016 and it’s 2024 now. They still grow. My body reacted super well to the hormones and it felt like it had been waiting for the right hormones ever since it was created. Yet, I am still waiting for them to be done. Don’t get me wrong, they have a respectable size by now and I am super happy with them.
The story of my “bottom parts” is more complicated. Yes, I did have “Gender Confirmation Surgery” back in 2018. And funny enough, while I had severe problems with therapy, getting the right papers to do this one, was a cake walk. What was not a cake walk though, was almost everything, that followed.
In July 2017, I had my first appointment with the doctors, that the internet told me, were the best in Germany for this job. I took a train to Munich and the weight of this appointment was crushing me. I had hoped for a quite long time, that it would not come to this. That it would be fine, to live with it. That I could do it. As you know, I could not, but the prospect of this operation caused my body to tense and my throat to dry up. It was soul-wrecking.
I did my best, to stay in the moment and I actually had an interesting moment with the doctor. She told me a private story: It happens to her, that people, who learn what she does, sometimes take her to the side and ask her, how a neo-penis works. She then tells them, that it is a prosthetic and it has a pump in one testicle. Though that particular procedure (which is quite complicated, as I have learned) did not impact me, it gave me the confidence, that they are the right ones.
And I think she was quite fascinated by the fact, that I had no real questions. Because she also told me a story of someone, who came with eight pages full of questions. I was not in a state, where I could ask a lot of questions, or properly think for that matter. I was struggling with the fear, this situation instilled in me. They then gave me an appointment for the operation in 2021. And I thought, I would have time.
Until they called me. It was the 21st of December 2017, just five months later, instead of four years. I probably will never forget, that I was having lunch at my favorite Italian restaurant, when they called. My appetite vanished the second they told me, they had a free appointment on January 11th and I could have the spot. I was overwhelmed by emotions and unable to finish the pizza, I had ordered. It was the strangest thing really. I felt joy and mortifying fear at the same time. I gave them a “yes” and that I would call them back for details, once I was at home and had collected my sanity at least a little bit.
The next three weeks were hell. The stress got to me and I almost broke up with my partner over it on new year’s eve.
And then the day was there, or better, January 10th. Because I had to be in Munich the day before. The doctors wanted to talk about the procedure in their practice. This time, I had the appointment with the other doctor. He wanted to go over the details with me. Everything, they would do to my body, to make this happen. Well, I stopped him at the picture of a skinned penis. I did not care. I could not care. I was there, that had to be enough. Luckily, it was.
After the appointment, I was sent to the hospital for further preparations. I had to check in to the hospital. By myself, without anyone for support. It felt like I was signing myself up for death row. I actually don’t know, how I did it. In hindsight, it feels like an out of body experience.
I signed in and got assigned a room with, I think, a freshly operated woman who was totally crushed. Frau Freimann, she was called. I remember her, because I could not imagine sharing a room with her, in that state. Don’t get me wrong, I do share similar problems with other trans women. Yet, I do not share their oftentimes broken soul. Luckily, the nurses realized, my insurance payed for a single bed room and moved me out of that desperate place.
I heard later, that a lot of people have problems with being alone in this room and that patients there often have thrombosis (blood clots), because they lie around too much. It even was called the thrombosis-room internally. I’ll tell later, why this was not my problem.
On the afternoon of that day, I had two things left to do: Talk to the anesthetist and empty my bowels. Both funny things. The first tells you, you might die on the operating table and the latter makes you “poop” camomile tea in a jet. Moving on.
The next day, they brought me some “clothes” and a pill. I did not know, when exactly it was my turn, but I think I was the second patient on that day. I do not remember much, but a nice nurse, I later spent quite some time with, during my two and a half weeks there, pushed my bed to the operation room. I had taken the pill, but I don’t know, if it really worked. I had to climb out of my bed, over a table and answer some questions, why I was there.
Funny enough, while I was waiting, the doctor who would operate me, payed me a visit. I almost didn’t recognize him with all his operation room clothing, but I still think, it was really nice of him. We talked about it the day earlier and he actually did it.
Then, I was further “processed” and my bed was pushed to two anesthetist nurses who were in charge of me getting a needle in my hand and making me sleep. But before they did that, one of them joked about only being the janitor. My head got the joke, but I did not get to process it, because they put me to sleep seconds later. In hindsight, this was totally misplaced.
I remember waking up, feeling joy, that it was done. Still under the influence of the narcosis, I asked the present nurse if she could hold my hand. I must have drifted off again. When I woke up after that, they were pushing my bed back to my room. My partner was there, she was holding my hand. I was feeling sick and threw up three times into a bowl. My whole body felt, like it was under shock. Electrified. I could have sworn, my hair was standing vertically off my head.
Ok, now comes the good stuff you’ve been waiting for. Or not.
I could not look at the results of the operation, because I did not dare to. And because I had sacs of sand lying on my genital area all day. Combined with regularly changed ice packs. Everything down there was swollen thick, with a shining layer of what looked like sweat. It was really frightening and it felt like I had a brick between my legs.
Additionally, I had some bleeding, that would not stop and they could not find where it did come from. I was afraid of a second operation, the doctors were already talking about. I spent the next days and nights putting more pressure with my hands on the sand sacs in the hope, that it would stop. One nurse told me (loosely translated): “Where blood, there life”. Ok.
During the nights, I had chills. My whole body was shaking. I tried to stay warm with peppermint tea. At some point, I talked to a nurse and decided to stop antibiotics until I had the chance to talk to a doctor. Maybe I was allergic to them? She could not see a connection but also did not know where the shaking came from. I had to “get through it”. Today I know, that it was my body reacting to the extreme stress, I had put it in.
They wanted me to get up from bed the day after the operation. Well, I could stand. But further tries were postponed due to the bleeding. I spent a few days lying in bed and putting pressure on it. Luckily, the bleeding stopped eventually and I could get out of bed. More or less.
Trying to walk, I still had the feeling of a massive brick between my legs. It got better, once they had removed the net with compresses, which was put inside me to create the desired cavity. That was a fun one, let me give you the details:
Luckily, I did not know, what was coming. One day, they told me to come to the examination room where there was a gynecologist’s chair. It was time to remove the compresses, which were originally inside a net. But because everything was delayed due to the bleeding and lying in bed, the net had begun to dissolve. Usually they would pull the whole thing out, but with me, the intern had to remove all the pieces one by one. I do not know, how long I was sitting with spread legs on that chair. It felt quite long and at some point, I suggested a break, which the doctor gladly took. It really got easier after that.
I took long walks in the hospital and at some point even felt the need to run. The brick between my legs got better and I could move my legs ever more. Every day I visited the chair in the examination room, the doctors rinsed the cavity and put new compresses in. They took great care, to wash out the last piece of dignity I had.
At least, all of the walking prevented me getting blood clots in my legs. I even built a holder for the katheder out of the rubber band of the thrombosis stockings.
The best part was, when five doctors stood at the far end of my bed and I was asked to let them see the results of their work. Needless to say, we did not do that again, when I came in for the second operation.
A few days in, I mustered the courage to ask for a mirror, but I was not prepared for what I would see. It already was better, but it still was a swollen battleground down there. I was really shocked. I know, what did I expect. I can still see the misshapen mess of scars, the threads and all the swollen parts, that did not seem to be from me, yet they were.
After one and a half weeks, another shock hit me. A nurse (I think her name was Bärbel) told me, that I had to take care of it my myself. WTF? I was devastated and started crying, once she was gone. It took me a while, but after I had processed the initial blow, I asked for Bärbel to come to me and show me, what I had to do. It actually was ok and it had the benefit, that I could make the bandages so, that the catheter would not hurt when I was walking.
I think, that is all the crazy things, that happened to me.
One fun side note, that keeps me busy even six years later: I did not take painkillers. I took one the day after the operation but soon stopped. I had no pain and I did not need pills. Which is in stark contrast to the experience, that others have after the operation. I could have gotten painkillers so strong, the nurses have to store them in a safe. Today, I know why I didn’t need them. I somehow absorbed all the pain. I believe, that my body took all the pain upon itself and I am still working to release it. Six years later. I think, me absorbing all the pain is the reason for the intense swelling I experienced after the operation and the really slow disappearance of the swellings. And with really slow, I mean they are still not all gone. Six years later and I’m working und un-swelling. I know, I probably could go to the doctors who operated me back then and they probably have something that maybe helps. But doing this would mean:
I’d have to go back there. Trigger warning! Not sure I want to face that stuff.
I’d loose out on the learning experience this active un-swelling brings me.
Yes, I am that crazy/desperate/faithfull. I accept my body being a bit misshapen, just to get the chance at spiritual development in the process of working on it myself instead of getting a quick-fix, courtesy of our western technology. If it exists, I don’t know.
On the plus-side of those two and a half weeks, I made a friend. I spent many nights, I could not sleep, with the nurse that pushed my bed to the operation room. We talked a lot and we are still in contact. I invite her once a year and when my kids are older, I intend to visit her. Maybe taking the train and visiting the buiding where the practice is in. She actually is working in that hospital on that station again, after she had quit a few years back. Maybe I’ll visit her at work and face the pain a little bit more.
So no, sadly there was no waking up and everything magically being right. I am a compromise. I have no uterus and I am still a bit swollen. I have to keep my vagina open by putting a penis-sized foam-thing inside me every once in a while for ten minutes. Which is a great reminder, that I am this little bit artificial.
But, you know, not having a penis between my legs, that pops up, whenever it feels like it and instead being able to put that vibrator inside me, is actually worth it. The orgasms are soooo much better.
Love, Julia