The Neovagina Monologues

Chapter 1: The Surgery

Chapter 2: The Dilation

Chapter 3: Margaux’s First Period

All names changed to protect the innocent. Except Sarah, whose name is actually Sarah, and who is not innocent, in the slightest – but who also deserves all the named credit in the world. Love you bitchhhhhhhhhhhhh.

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Coming out of surgery, I expected to feel immediately changed, new, reborn. I figured I’d awaken from my drug-induced slumber and feel some new sense of womanhood – but the truth is, I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong – I knew I’d made the right decision, and I absolutely felt a sense of relief about my new genitals, but more than anything – I felt like the same old Margaux, just a little sorer than usual.

I spent most of my time after surgery avoiding my lady bits entirely, except when I had to clean them. I treated my neovagina like the wound it was, and nothing more. I had a catheter for two weeks post-op, and so, for a while, I wasn’t even peeing like a normal person. Once my catheter was removed, I was able to start dilating (see footnote[1]), and that made me feel somewhat more connected to my new parts, but even that felt more like administrative upkeep than anything else.

It wasn’t until the event, which I’m cheekily coining as my first period (quite a heavy period, I might add), that I felt at all reflective of this massive physical change in my body. So, yes. I’m taking some creative liberties here as the narrator of the story. I’m glossing over the boring, swollen beginnings and skipping right to the melodramatic, gory climax. You’ll thank me later.

Lights, camera, action.

…

The plan was for Sarah and me to have a girl’s night, complete with a home cooked meal, our favorite Bravo shows, and cuddles in bed while swiping on Raya and talking shit about boys. You know – your standard, post-surgery Saturday night type stuff. Part of that itinerary went according to plan. Sarah cooked dinner while I went to my bedroom and dilated, as instructed by my surgeon.

Dilation was uneventful. I took a deep breath, looked down at the hand mirror placed between my legs, and inserted my dilator into my vagina. Holding the dilator inside myself with one hand, editing a photo on my phone with the other – I reflected on how good of a multitasker I’d already become with these scheduled dilations. Whether it was editing photos, catching up on texts, doomscrolling through Instagram reels, or listening to an audiobook, I’d begun to appreciate that I could use the three-times-daily, twenty-minute sessions as an excuse to privately execute on whatever clerical work was on my proverbial plate at that given moment.

As I finished my dilation, I began to smell the fragrant garlic, onion, and gochujang, which Sarah used to season the meatless sloppy joes she’d cooked for me that evening, and I could hear the opening riff of The Cure’s Just Like Heaven playing on the speaker in the kitchen, which I’d queued earlier, to help curate the vibe for the night. I was so looking forward to this cozy night in with my bestie.

I walked out of my bedroom as Sarah was fixing our plates.

“Welcome back, babe.” She greeted me, cheerily. “Come and eat.”

I did as I was told.

After eating, we cleaned up, and I settled onto the couch for our weekly viewing of the new episode of Ladies of London. While I fired up the projector, Sarah served us two slices of Swedish Princess Cake, before nestling into the couch next to me – Kullen laying on the floor directly beneath us – and we pressed play. Throughout the 42-minute episode, we watched, giggled, and occasionally shared commentary about the characters of the reality show. Things like, she’s such a cunt and every time she’s on screen, I’m reminded that I’ll never be as rich or skinny as her. Again, standard slumber party stuff. The kind of stuff little Margaux would be pleased to know she got to live out in her adulthood. The stuff she missed out on, growing up as a boy.

Once the credits rolled, I got up and announced I needed to pee. Sarah wished me luck and, mostly jokingly, noted that she would be on the couch if I needed help. As I pulled my pants down, I noticed that droplets of blood had started trailing down my legs, before fixing my gaze on the deep, red blood-soaked pad between my legs. Looking closer, I noticed my underwear and pants were also crimson-soaked, and that’s when the panic began to set in. I called for Kullen, who rushed into the bathroom.

“This is a lot of blood – right?” I asked, knowing full-well that this was significantly more blood than the light spotting I’d come to sometimes expect after a dilation session.

Before waiting for an answer, I disrobed and inched my way over to my bathtub, a small pool of blood now running across the white-tiled bathroom floor.

“Will you see if Sarah is weird about blood, and if she’s not, send her in here?” I asked Kullen.

Within a matter of seconds, Sarah was seated next to the tub, holding my hand, trying her best to keep me calm.

“Huh – no fear of blood.” I thought to myself. “Women really are so fearless.”

We agreed that I should contact the after-hours number my surgeon included in my discharge instructions, and upon doing so, I spoke to a surgical resident, who instructed me to press gauze to my bleeding vagina for twenty-five minutes.

“And if that doesn’t work?” I asked, wondering how this much blood could possibly be clotted with just a few 4x4 pieces of cloth.

“Then do it again, for another twenty-five. Oh, and don’t look down at the blood while you do it.” She said, matter-of-factly.

I thanked her – for what, I’m not exactly sure – and hung up. Sarah set a timer on her phone for twenty-five minutes, and I did exactly as I was instructed. The time dragged on, and it took everything in me not to look down at the bathtub basin beneath me. Sarah remained seated by my side, with Kullen standing over us: both hyper-focused on me, force-feeding me cups of water every-so-often. Eventually, I felt my butt slipping on the puddle beneath me, and Kullen fetched me a towel. By the time the first twenty-five-minute timer went off, I could feel the towel was totally soaked.

We collectively looked down to assess the clotting, and while there was clearly some thickened, congealed blood – it was nothing compared to the liquid mess in the bathtub. I began to feel faint, partially due to the loss of blood, but mostly due to the murder scene surrounding me.

“Let’s start a new timer, I guess.” I said, in as calm a tone as I could muster.

I grabbed a handful of clean, dry gauze and again, placed it under my vagina, holding it as tightly as I could, and we waited.

Another twenty-five minutes dragged on, and things seemed to clot slightly more, which gave us all a sliver of hope. When the second timer went off, I attempted to get up on my own but eventually opted to take a helping hand from Kullen, who had already taken to cleaning as much of the blood off of my arms, legs, and butt as he could.

I stepped into a fresh pair of panties, doubled up on pads, tripled up on gauze, and laid into my bed, as we decided what the next course of action would be. The bleeding seemed to slow down; that was objectively true. Conversely, though, it hadn’t stopped entirely, and the amount of blood loss felt significant. After just a few minutes in bed, I began to feel spurts of blood again, this time forcefully shooting down my leg, and that’s when we collectively agreed I needed to get to a hospital immediately.

Mine and Sarah’s first thought was to call for an ambulance – which we both later admitted was at least partially so we could see me get carried out by muscley firefighters. Rationality won over though, and we settled on the less exciting option – for my not-nearly-as-muscley, former husband and current friend to drive me to the ER. I changed my underwear, pad, gauze, and pants – again – so that I had a literal and figurative clean-slate to work from. As we rushed out the door, I grabbed my new crocheted Miu Miu handbag – one of a few post-surgery gifts I’d given myself – and which currently housed my loose ID, credit cards, and cash. We went down the elevator, walked gingerly through the parking garage, and piled into my car.

The drive was an 11-minute trip in total, and by the time I reached the front doors of the ER, my pants sagged – heavy and soaked in my quasi-period blood. There was no waiting to be triaged. We were immediately bumped to the front of the line (likely because I couldn’t sit in a chair without a pool of blood collecting beneath me – which I’m sure isn’t ideal for anyone, from a health and safety perspective). Sarah took my purse and promised to keep it safe, to shield it from any blood splatters, and Kullen accompanied me, as I was wheeled through the Emergency Department, to my new room.

Pushing my wheelchair was an incredibly hot, tattooed, cross-neck-chain-adorned, nurse – Hank, who made small talk with me as we settled into my room.

“Hi Margaux. I’m Hank. I’m sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances.” He said with a soft smile.

“Hi, Hank. Yeah – so am I.” I replied.

What I wanted to say was that when all this is said and done, and I’m recovered, I’d like him to be first in line for the grand opening of my vagina, but even with the lack of sleep and loss of blood, I found some restraint, and I held back.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, your complexion looks great. You’re glowing!” He added, in a tone that let me know that he was probably, genuinely sweet and certainly, genuinely dumb.

“Thanks, Hank. That does make me feel better.” I lied.

Once settled into my ER bed, I looked out into the hallway and noticed the river of blood I’d left behind, and the growing pool, beginning to span across my white bedsheets. Before having a chance to think about what the continual loss of blood could mean for my overall well-being, a team of trauma nurses swarmed my bedside, quickly going person-by-person, introducing themselves to me. They assured me that I’d done the right thing by coming in and that they would be here with me through every step of the process. They also noted that they’d paged the two gynecologists on shift that night, both of whom were already on their way to my room. The team eventually dispersed, and my main ER nurse, Emma, went to work on taking my vitals, hooking me up to IVs, ordering blood for the transfusion they’d inevitably have to do, and attempting to keep me somewhat clean – an impossible feat, given the rate in which blood was now pouring out of me. She remained calm, and we quickly bonded over a shared sense of humor and love of gossip.

Shortly after, the gynecologists entered the room and began examining me, trying to deduce where the bleeding was coming from and how to best stop it. They quickly realized they needed to consult other experts and told me they’d like to send in the plastic surgeon, as well as the supervising doc who oversees the entire ED.

“We just want to make sure we make the right moves here.” They assured me.

As they left the room, Emma hung what would be my first of four bags of blood on the metal IV stand, connecting it to my IV, and assuring me that my vitals looked good but explaining that I’d already lost a lot of blood, and she wanted to get ahead of that. I felt a chilly surge in my forearm, as the thick, cold liquid entered my body, and I looked over at Kullen – standing next to me.

“Kull, it might make sense for Sarah to tag in here,” I started. “She’s here to help as needed, and it might be good for you to go home, tend to the dogs, and try to get a bit of sleep. I think it’s going to be a bit before I get out of here.”

A half-truth.

The whole truth was that I could see him on the verge of cracking – clearly about to burst into tears, pass out entirely, or both, and I needed my bedside support to remain dry-eyed and upright, to hold my hand and crack jokes. I needed them to vocally keep my mind off the constant blood spurting out of my neovaginal canal – a job I knew Sarah was well-equipped for.

Telling the whole truth didn’t really matter because Kullen immediately bit at the opportunity to let Sarah swap in for him. He squeezed my hand, reminded me how strong I was, kissed my forehead, and told me he’d be back in a moment’s notice if I needed him.

Sarah waltzed into the room, looking a little sleepy but masking it well – still clutching onto my Miu Miu, proudly showing me how safe she had kept it so far. I joked that the last time we were up at this hour together (close to 2:30am, at this point) we would have been significantly more fucked up, and there would have been significantly less bloodshed.

While we waited for the plastic surgeon, Emma gave me a second bag of blood and changed my sheets for the third time that night. Sarah immediately found her footing as the emergency room court jester and used the blood transfusion as an opportunity to start quoting What We Do in the Shadows, something she knew would land well with me – given our shared love of the show and our shared love of speaking in transatlantic accents.

“Last night, there were all these people down there, shouting and screaming, half drunk.” She said, giving me her best Nandor the Relentless accent.

“Well, where did they find the alcohol?” She asked herself, before replying again, by saying, “No – they were half-drunk. They’d been half drunk.”

We both laughed, alongside Emma – who seemed to be quickly growing an appreciation for our banter.

Shortly after, the plastic surgeon entered and introduced herself to the room.

“Hi, Margaux. I’m Olivia, the plastic surgery resident at the hospital tonight. I’m really sorry we’re meeting like this.” She said, sweetly.

She was now the second person to apologize for having to meet me while I was actively bleeding out. Before I had a chance to respond, she continued.

“I’m going to get myself set up here, and after I do, we’re going to do external and internal exams of your vagina. From there, we’ll decide how best to proceed.” She explained.

Swiftly and diligently, she set up shop while Sarah, Emma, and I watched.

As Emma monitored my vitals again, I decided now was the appropriate time to ask the most important question I had running through my brain.

“Emma, what’s the story with Mr. Nurse Hank out there?” I asked as I motioned to the scrub-adorned man outside my room, who was – no joke – running his fingers through his hair, seemingly in slow motion, like a scene out of a smutty romance novel.

“Oh – of course you want to know Hank’s story.” She started, with a slight eye roll.

“Well, for starters, he knows he’s hot. Plus, he’s married.” She continued.

“So do I. And so am I, technically.” I rebutted.

She laughed before saying, “He’s also 23.”.

“And…?” I said, making it clear that the slight age gap wasn’t even remotely a deterrent for my delusional ogling of this man.

“He was married at 19. It’s a whole thing.”

“Ah – so that crucifix neck chain isn’t just a stylistic choice.” I retorted, understanding precisely what she was getting at.

“Exactlyyyyyyyyyy” Emma concurred, as if to say, without actually saying – he doesn’t respect women and definitely doesn’t respect women with neovaginas.

The four of us laughed before Olivia announced that she was all set up and ready to begin her examination. She explained that she would not be able to numb me, nor would she be giving me medicine to manage the pain. She needed to work quickly, especially since Emma was now attaching me to my third bag of blood. I felt a stream of blood spurt out of me and onto my leg. Sarah, affixed directly by my side, looked away, ever so briefly.

“So, since we can’t numb you or give you anything for the pain – do you have a playlist you’d like to listen to? That might help ease your mind.” Olivia said.

Without missing a beat, Sarah and I locked eyes. She pulled out her phone and threw on a shared playlist we have – making sure to add some of my favorites immediately to the top of the queue.

Olivia quickly went to work, suctioning the blood around my vagina to create a clean surface for herself as she assessed, cut, and sutured – while Like a Prayer blared in my ear, helping to drown out some of the noises and sensations.

Sarah remained directly by my side, her hand clasped in mine. I occasionally caught her glancing down at the horror show unfolding below my waist, but each time she’d look back up and regain eye contact with me, her smile held on – giving me all the confidence in the world that nothing she was seeing was all that bad, that everything was going to be okay.

Meanwhile, Emma continued diligently monitoring my vital signs. She took a deep breath before calmly explaining that they were consistently declining, and that because of that, we’d need to feed me a fourth bag of blood.

The next hour dragged on, and the playlist shuffled around from Madonna to the Veronicas, to Paris Hilton, to Lana Del Rey, to Sabrina Carpenter, and at various points, I caught all four of us singing along, bobbing our heads. Looking around the room, we were like a bloodier, more sleep-deprived version of the Sex and the City gang, each of us knowing the role we were there to play.

Emma was the Charlotte: kind and attentive to the needs of her friends.

Olivia was the Miranda: precise, pragmatic, and level-headed.

Sarah was the Samantha: confident, loyal, the comedic relief for me, and for the entire group.

And I was the Carrie: the selfish narrator of the story, who brought everyone together to help her in her time of need, even if that time of need was now nearing 4:30 in the morning.

Finally, I felt the bleeding go from a steady pour to a slow trickle, and Olivia announced she’d excised some tissue that seemed to be causing the bulk of the bleeding. She rinsed me off and stepped back from her workspace, before confirming her hunch.

“You had a massive hematoma, as well as some really irritated tissue. I cut the hematoma out and sutured the tissue. That seemed to stop most of the bleeding.” She started explaining.

“I also packed your vagina with gauze to help with the remaining internal bleeding, which we’ll want to monitor in the hospital for at least the next day or so. I know you probably don’t want to stay here longer, but I think we need to keep you here to be safe.” She continued.

All four of us breathed a collective sigh of relief. Sarah kept held of my hand, and I felt a tear stream down my face – the first tear I’d shed since arriving at the hospital, some six hours earlier.

As Olivia cleaned up her workspace, I thanked her, telling her it was incredible to watch her as she worked, that I couldn’t believe how easy she made her job look (a job that is notoriously not easy).

“Thank you. But you made it easy. You did great throughout the entire thing, Margaux.” She said, in such an earnest tone, I felt moved.

Before leaving the room, she assured me she’d be checking in on me later in the morning, and again in the evening.

Now, looking over at Emma, Sarah and I both thanked her for her attentive care and for keeping things positive throughout.

She laughed before saying, “Two things. One – you both made this shift one of the most entertaining nights I’ve had at work in I don’t know how long, so thank you for that. And two – now that this is all over Margaux, I can tell you...You had us all scared for a bit there. You needed four bags of blood to replace what you lost. That’s an insane amount of blood. That amount of blood loss could have been fatal. I’m so glad you’re okay now.”

And it was at that moment that I realized just how extraordinary she was at her job.

Throughout the entire night, I knew things weren’t good and that I was losing a lot of blood, but I didn’t even once get the sense that I was in potentially life-threatening danger. She was calm and matched mine and Sarah’s demeanor, which kept our spirits high enough, while doing all the hard work behind the scenes, literally keeping me alive.

I felt myself begin to choke up again.

Once Emma left the room, Sarah and I sighed another sigh of relief, and we agreed that she didn’t need to stay with me once I got up to my new hospital bedroom. We’d planned for a slumber party, and since it was close to 7am, we’d essentially executed on those plans, so it felt fair to part ways. She assured me she wouldn’t leave my side, as she promised hours earlier, until I was safely tucked into my new bed.

“Oh, and by the way,” she said. “I actually don’t do well with blood. I lied, and it’s a miracle I didn’t faint.”

I looked at her, mouth agape. I wasn’t sure what to say and thinking back at it – I’m not actually sure how I responded. I am sure, however, of how I felt after hearing that. I felt loved, cared for, so lucky – to have a friend – no, a sister – so clearly in my corner, that she not only kept that bit of information to herself all night but also chose to stare that fear literally in its face – just to be by my bedside, holding my hand, singing along to music, and cracking jokes with me in what was surely my greatest time of need, to date.

When it came to wheel me out of the ED, across the hospital, to the wing I’d be spending the next 36 hours, Emma returned to my room to say one last goodbye.

“Margaux – wishing you a speedy recovery! Oh, and by the way – look to your right when you get wheeled out of here.” She said, with a slightly mischievous smile.

As they wheeled me out, I did as Emma instructed, looked to my right, and saw my likely-conservative, certainly-Christian, married, hot male nurse, who was still playing with his long, thick hair.

“Hank!” I waved. “You’ll always be famous!” I said with a wink, immediately looking over at Emma and Sarah – the actual audience I was playing to.

As promised, Sarah remained by my side as they wheeled me up to my room, until the exact moment my head hit my new pillow. She leaned over, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and told me that I was so strong, that she was so proud of me, and that she’d come back the as soon as I needed her.

As she left, I began to cry again, now for the third time – and this time more profusely. I was overcome with emotions of gratitude for the women who kept me mostly smiling throughout this grueling experience, gratitude for the woman who held my hand, literally and figuratively, without faltering even once, despite her own fears, and gratitude for my body for enduring what it did. Tears kept streaming as I drifted off to sleep, hugging myself tightly.

…

If this event, My First Period – is supposed to be my pivotal post-op transition moment, my coming-of-age story, my approaching womanhood tale – it feels a lot less Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret Margaux and a lot more like a biblical rebirth, a resurrection. And maybe that sounds dramatic – but c’mon, can you blame me? A.) I was raised Catholic, B.) I almost bled out in a hospital bed, saved only by a group of female disciples, empowered with intelligence and humor and wit and gossip and a bit of dramatics, ultimately helping me ensure I’m eventually able to take my final form, so C.) let me have this one.

And so, if this is my dramatic, biblical rebirth, resurrection story – this scene of me falling asleep, tears streaming down my face would have to be scored with a song just as perfectly dramatic to match, as the camera pans out and the screen fades to black.

And to that, all I have to say is this: Tírame magnolias, baby.

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Footnotes:

• [1] Dilation: The act of shoving a dildo-like silicone device inside oneself and holding it there for 20 minutes, three times a day – to maintain the optimal depth, width, and elasticity of the new vaginal canal.