Reflections from the Recovery Room - Part 3: On Sutures, Sisterhood, and the Girl in the Mirror

(Links to part 1, part 2)

On Sutures, Sisterhood, and the Girl in the Mirror

Waking up the morning of surgery, I felt jitters. They weren’t the normal, pre-surgical, Oh fuck – I’m going under the knife, jitters that you might expect, either. These jitters felt like anticipation – what you might feel on Christmas Eve, as a five-year-old, hoping Santa got you the Barbie Dreamhouse you’d been asking for, for years (which I never got by the way – thanks mom and dad). It felt like preparing for something I’d waited my entire adult life for, something I’d spent countless days dreaming about. I was so ready.

I hopped in the shower and lathered the bland Dial soap, which they require you to use prior to surgery, all over my body. I washed my hair, as instructed. I let the water wash over me, removing any debris that could cause infection during surgery, and then I turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, dried myself completely. As I did this final step, I couldn’t help stare at my body in the mirror and think about how poetic everything seemed. For my entire life, I’d stared at this body in different bathroom mirrors.

It was the same body I viewed, as a little girl, one towel wrapped around my body, a dress – another wrapped around my head, a makeshift wig, as I sang along to whichever of my favorite CDs was playing on the boombox at the time (likely Britney Spears, the Spice Girls, or Hilary Duff – if I had to guess).

It was the same body I’d watched change over the course of adolescence – as testosterone acted as a poison for me, coursing through my veins – slowly but certainly altering me, until I’d lost sight of that little girl entirely.

It was the same body that, in college, I dressed in drag for the first time – where I felt the smile of that little girl return, even if just for one night.

And it was the same body I’d pricked with a needle and syringe full of estrogen, each week, for the past almost two years – the one I watched morph into a version of itself that finally felt in alignment with what that little girl, towel wrapped around her head, saw in herself, over two decades prior.

I hugged myself in the mirror, and I told my body how proud I was of the journey it’d been on so far, how excited I was to finally feel at home in it.

…

I arrived at the hospital, giant smile on my face, and after a series of the standard, name and date of birth, please check-in workflows, I was told to take a seat in the waiting room and wait for the pre-op nurse to bring me back to my room. When I eventually heard my name, the smile remained stitched to my face – and the nurse escorted me down a series of halls and into my room, before instructing me to put on my surgical cap and gown, noting that she’d return in just a few minutes. I did as I was told – my smile still prominently featured, and then I laid back on the hospital bed and waited. Waited for what felt like lifetimes before she re-entered and began the pre-operative preparations. She was followed in by both my surgeon and the anesthesiologist, and together, the team walked me through how the day of surgery was going to go. Over the next hour they’d prep, poke, and prod me before wheeling me back to the operating room, where I’d undergo around four hours of surgery.

As they explained each step in the process, I felt my smile begin to fade, ever so slightly. Reality began to set in. My body, the one I’d hugged and celebrated in the mirror just hours before, was going to undergo some massive amounts of stress.

There are real potential risks here. Are you sure about this? You love yourself. You love how you look…most days at least. You’ve learned to work with what you’ve got in the face department. Are you sure about this?

It was the first time, in the entire two years of waiting for this surgery, that I’d genuinely had second thoughts. I was so certain, for so long, but – in an instance – all of that melted away. And then I started to question my other upcoming surgeries. I’d been looking forward to those too, but were they all worth it? I started to feel nauseous.

“Can I go to the restroom?” I blurted out, looking at the nurse with panicked eyes.

“Of course you can. I’ll walk you there now.” She said, sweetly.

She walked me across the hall to a small, single-stall bathroom. Quickly, I shut the door, locked it, and walked up to my old friend – the mirror. Looking at myself, lilac colored surgical gown on, I felt a swelling of tears form. After trying, and failing, to suppress them entirely, I decided to let myself cry, just for a few minutes.

“I haven’t pooped today.” I thought to myself. “Why don’t I sit down and try to do that while I cry this out.”

I sat, but nothing. Too anxious.

Standing back up, I flushed the empty toilet bowl, walked over to the sink, and began running my hands under the water before dispensing some soap into my palm. As I lathered my hands with the soapy water, I continued staring at myself, tears still running down my clean, sterile, unmoisturized cheeks. After washing, I dried them with a paper towel, did my best to camouflage the fact that I’d been crying, and took one last look at myself in the hospital bathroom mirror.

I tried to think of a pep talk, some words of wisdom, anything to calm myself down, but I couldn’t. I threw the paper towel away, turned away from my reflection, and walked out of the bathroom.

Almost immediately after nestling back into the hospital bed, I was greeted by a new pre-op nurse. She had on bright pink scrubs (with matching shoes and nails), and she introduced herself to me –before gliding across the room – going from monitor to monitor, machine to machine, making sure everything was prepped and ready for the IV she was about to put in my arm. She carried herself with confidence and moved with a relaxed, easy quality, something you only see when someone knows exactly who they are and revels in that knowing. As she worked, I watched her intently.

“Is she…?” I thought to myself. “No way! What are the odds, that my nurse, the one who’s going to put an IV in me and wheel me back to my own gender-affirming surgery, is trans, herself?”

I kept watching.

I’m not sure if she noticed my sizing her up – transvestigating, as we say in the business – or if she just picked up on my nerves, but something made her decide to stop what she was doing, walk over to the side of the bed, and look me dead in the eyes, before saying:

“So, girl – the other nurse told me you’ll be back in the fall, and then again in the winter for more surgeries. A little marathon! I love it! How do you feel about it all?”

It took me a second, but I snapped out of whatever haze I was in, now fully confident, just based on the way she said girl, that I was talking to a fellow doll, a sister.

“I’m feeling pretty good. The wait has felt like forever, but now that they are all actually approaching, it feels so quick!” I replied, doing my best to mask any shaky, nervous tone – to impress my new best friend slash guardian angel.

“I have my breast augmentation in September and then bottom surgery in March, so by next year at this time, I think I’ll feel like a new woman”. I finished.

As she prepared her reply, I saw her own smile forming – big and genuine.

“Oh my god! That’s so exciting.” She started. “And yeah, I know exactly what you mean – the past two years have been a flurry of surgeries for me, too. But let me tell you, you are in for the best ride. It might feel long and daunting, with lots of rest and recovery, but it’s all so worth it. All of it. I’d do it again, a million times over.” She exclaimed.

An immediate wave of relief washed over me.

“Congrats. I’m so happy you were able to do all of that for yourself. I hope you feel as incredible as you look.” I replied.

“Oh, I do. And you will too.” She said, with the same unshakeable confidence I felt just earlier that morning, as I dried my body in the bathroom mirror.

“Ready to go back there?”

“I’m so ready.” I replied.

And I was. Every ounce of nervousness I’d felt, just moments before, had dissipated, and I was back – excited to conquer the road ahead. A new smile formed across my face.

I felt her unclick the brakes beneath my hospital bed, before she squeezed my hand and started to wheel me back to the operating room. Upon entry, I was greeted by a room full of smiling medical professionals, and my guardian angel lifted me onto the operating table. She squeezed my hand one last time and wished me a nice, long, relaxing nap.

As I waited to fall out of consciousness, I remember thinking to myself, how poignant all of this was. There’s this narrative happening in the media, surrounding trans people: an assumption that we’re all just playing dress up or cosplaying as the gender we weren’t assigned at birth, that we’re taking some fun path that allows us to circumvent societal norms – like which bathroom I pee in – and that we’ll eventually leave it all behind in favor of settling back into normalcy, where we can live as bland and mundane lives as everyone else. But that couldn’t be more wrong.

Being trans is not about playing dress up or taking the fun path, and it’s certainly not a choice. Being trans means that even though you know an easier road exists, one of conformity and fitting in, you deliberately choose to not take that road, at every corner. Instead, you opt to take – not just a more difficult road – but the most difficult, weathered, uphill battle of a road that you could possibly take. You consistently take the road that’s harder to navigate, adds complexity to everything about your life, and has endless hoops to jump through (logistical, legal, and otherwise). You spend precious months or years of your life going through a second puberty, where you experience periods of being not quite man, not quite woman. You are faced with navigating an imperfect healthcare system. With losing friends and family. With ended marriages. There are surgeries to schedule, pay for, undergo, and heal from. Everything is more difficult.

But for some reason, none of it feels like a choice. It’s something you know you must do, in pursuit of being you, and if you’re lucky – if the world doesn’t break you down entirely, you come out the other side – ready to take on more.

It’s just like my hot pink scrub-wearing Guardian Angel said: It’s all so worth it. All of it. I’d do it again, a million times over.

…

I awoke, bandaged and sweaty, to yet another nurse smiling at me.

“Hi Margaux - Kullen’s here to see you. Should I bring him in?” She asked.

Higher than I’d ever been before (well, maybe not ever – but we’ll pretend), I looked at her and smiled a big dopey smile.

“Well, yes - bring that bitch in.” I replied.

Kullen walked in and greeted me, looking slightly disheveled. Clearly, they hadn’t given him any of these good drugs. No, no – he’d spent the last several hours worried, anxiously awaiting the call that I was okay, and everything had gone to plan.

“Hi Margaux.” He said, softly.

“What’s up slut?!” I asked, a bit too aggressively.

Earlier that morning, I’d made a comment on how his Grindr was blowing up while we were in the waiting room, and I think that that’s where my very specific, cheeky greeting was coming from. The nurse looked up at both of us and chuckled.

“Wow, you two must be close!” She commented.

Immediately and in unison, we looked at her, then at each other, before smiling. She had no idea what she was stepping in with that comment. On the one hand, we could explain that yes - we were close. So close in fact, that we’d married each other in our backyard. So close that we’d picked out baby names and built nurseries together. So close that we’d moved to a new city, opened our marriage, and reconfigured everything about our relationship – in an attempt to make the ever-changing puzzle pieces of our lives fit together. On the other hand, I’d just undergone four hours of surgery, and Kullen looked like he could use a nap.

“We’re close.” We replied.

…

The next several days were hazy, partially due to the pain meds and partially due to the fact that my face became so swollen, I literally could not see for almost two days. I spent my time sleeping, eating lots of mashed potatoes and pudding cups, and occasionally visiting with friends – as they would either call or stop by to check in and offer their love and support.

---

My parents and baby brother sent flowers and a card.

Cassie and Ewan brought me a plant, a slushie, and some edibles.

Riley and Nick brought treats from a café down the street.

Natalie, Mackenzie, Regina, and Emma, all texted me – almost every day, to check in on my swelling and pain levels.

Joe and Rico brought the gossip and boy drama.

My kickball team dressed in the theme of surgery scars, putting Band-Aids all over their faces during our last game of the season – while I watched from the sidelines, in my actual surgery scars.

Kullen and the dogs brought me snuggles – no matter the hour of the day.

---

It was during that hazy time that I realized just how lucky I was and am – to be surrounded by so much love, so much warmth. I thought back to how happy middle-school me would have been, and I think that’s why, for whatever reason, I kept having this recurring, drug-induced dream.

In the dream, I, as a teenaged but still Margaux-presenting version of myself, sat at a long table, in the center of my middle school lunchroom. Like so many other middle schoolers before me, I had friends in different friend groups, but I remember always feeling like I was at the top of the totem pole, due to my association with one, cool kid friend group. And that was the group I was seated around the lunch table with. Seated directly across from me were two “friends” – a term I use quite loosely to describe them because, in actuality, they were adversaries who made me hate so much about myself – especially the feminine parts of me, but who agreed to keep me around the friend group, so long as I let them make me – in all my queerness, all my femininity – the butt of their jokes. They’d constantly remind me of my mannerisms that were too feminine, that the music I liked was for girls, and that normal boys didn’t dress so well all the time. These were the same things I’d remind myself of in the mirror, for years and years after – before finally letting myself free again as an adult. And while these criticisms, jokes, and reprimands made me hate myself, and that little girl that was inside of me, for so long – they also served as the ammunition I needed to fuel me into working my ass off – to achieve all the things little Margaux dreamed of.

And as I sat across from my frenemies, at that gross, probably sticky lunch table, they hurled those all too familiar insults in my direction, only this time, with some added transphobic flair. They taunted me about how I’d never be a real woman, that I’d always be chasing a version of myself that didn’t exist, and how I’d never amount to anything more than the freak I was. I let them finish their remarks, knowing they needed to feel absolute dominance over me in that moment. They topped off their insults with a big, hearty laugh.

If this were the real former me, the thirteen-year-old named Sean, who hated every part of her mind, body, and soul – she would have pretended to laugh along with them, before b-lining straight for the nearest boy’s bathroom to cry it out.

But that’s not who they were dealing with.

It was Margaux sitting across from them, fielding their attacks. The Margaux who knows exactly who she is. The Margaux, who – after the laughter dissolved – cracked the tension out of her neck, looked them dead in the eyes, and readied herself with a reply. With total control over herself – this particular Margaux informed them of exactly how strong and beautiful and funny and sexy and successful and loveable she is, and after finishing her final proclamation of self-love – told them exactly where they can stuff their words.

Slowly but confidently, this Margaux stood up from the table and walked away without looking back. She didn’t b-line for the bathroom. She didn’t cry. She just walked away.

I awoke from my dream, beaming from ear-to-ear, grin smattered across my big swollen, puffy face. I looked to my left, flowers and gifts and notes from friends and family piled up on my nightstand, and then to my right, into the mirror – and winked at the girl, the woman, the goddess staring back at me.

“I’ve got your back, girl. Forever and ever.” <3