An Act Of God or Inactive God: Top Surgery part 3

Friends,

I'm feeling so much better than I did last week, and the better I feel the faster my memory of this adventure fades, so I'll try to wrap it all up in this post.

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On surgery morning [10/4] I woke up feeling relaxed and foggy and detached. Exactly how I'd like to feel all the time, because who cares what happens when you feel that way? I could do so much more in this world if I didn't have emotions. I need a sympathectomy not a mastectomy. This is what my head was thinking instead of panicking

and I liked it.

But one thing did manage to creep into my psyche--would my snack from the night before interfere w/ the anaesthesia and would I be one of those people who was awake but couldn't move during the whole thing? Yay, thank you mind.

When I was checking in at the surgery center, I noticed they spelled my name with a 'Z' --  Zin? really?--and I had to do my paperwork all over again. Yay for that too. [This tiny, simple name that I've chosen has turned out to be very PRAWBLEMATIC. But more on that another time.]

I got called back to the prep area pretty quickly. I said adieux to Moonchild & put my bodily integrity in the hands of cold calculating medical professionals. I took off my clothes,  peed in a cup,  got a needle shoved into my hand, then Dr G came and drew purple lines on my chest. 

The anaesthesiologist came around this time & I asked them about how often people are awake under anaesthesia. And they looked at each other like, Not this question again. They both said That only happens on TV.

I felt better. Dr G had to run off to do someone else's surgery before mine, so Moonchild came back to my little hospital tent to hang out. I was feeling pretty relaxed. I was actually almost…excited about it!

Cartoon boobies

It seemed like I was lying in that tent for awhile--for the length of someone else's surgery--but finally the nurse came & gave me my "happy juice" as she called. it. And the next thing I remember…

…I was waking up and another nurse was standing over me saying "SHE HAD A SEIZURE!!!"

I tried to say "Who had a seizure?" But my voice did not work at all. The nurse noticed I was awake.

"VIN!!!! YOU'RE AWAKE, VIN!!! HOW ARE YOU? YOU WERE SLEEPING SO GOOD!!!" 

I tried to ask again about the seizure, but I still had no voice. The nurse patted my hand and said "WHY DON'T YOU SLEEP SOME MORE. DO YOU WANT ME TO GIVE YOU YOUR PAIN MEDICINE?" I nodded. She slipped some more happy juice into my IV & I slept for several more hours. 

When I woke up again I could tell it was late afternoon and I could see hurricane clouds swirling in the windows. My ALL-CAPS nurse showed up shortly to begin motivating me for departure. She was a real comedian, sort of reminded me of Aisha Tyler (comedy-wise not looks-wise). But she was really pushing for me to laugh and respond to her, and I just couldn't. I still didn't even have a voice. But the more I didn't respond the louder & more slapstick she got.

She made fun of my pink flannel shirt that I wore for its extreme softness factor: VIN,THIS IS LIKE AN OLD UGLY RUG AT MY GRANDMOTHERS HOUSE!!! As I was getting dressed I got dizzy & hyperventilated a little. She said "VIN!!! YOU'RE GONNA BLOW THE HOUSE DOWN!!!" And she fluttered the curtains at me. I felt like I was in a play again. I tried to laugh just so she would stop, but nothing would come out.

I could see the other nurse taking care of the patient across the way. She was a real Florence Nightingale, all tender and serene. But my nurse was … different from that. I'll just say she made the start of my recovery very memorable : )) And I never did find out who had a seizure, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't me because I felt okay and also…they were using my correct pronouns, so I was not 'She' to them.

Your tits are illegal. Cover'em up.

Moonchild & I made it back to our hotel room and I hovered in my Vicodin paradise as the Bahamas got battered and the death toll rose in Haiti. That evening the path of the storm shifted and it was headed right for us. Even in my haze I knew we would have to make some timely decisions about getting home.

And even in my haze I could tell I was pretty butchered up.  I was wrapped in a very tight bandage that seemed to be "holding everything together." And out of this bandage came dangling two bloody octopus tentacles. Aka "drains". 

Friends, I used to have an iron stomach. I could eat anything. I could inhale any odor or behold any gore without so much as a nostril twitch. I was an embalmer for the love of god. And even grosser, a taxidermist. I could ride any rollercoaster or carnival ride without puking. If my years of childhood bulimia trained my vomiting reflex to be voluntary, then my years of extreme alcoholism did just the opposite. 

I stand before you now, a wretched wretch who will retch at the slightest bee fart. I can barely watch food being prepared. I can't ride carnival rides, especially ones that spin around. I can't watch sloppy television programs like Shameless or The Walking Dead. 

So you can imagine how I felt about having to open up these octopus drains and squirt the blood out of them every few hours. I actually left that up to Moonchild, but every time I almost puked. I just had to tell myself, You cannot puke or you will bust open and be a slab of ribs & a beaty little heart w/ no protection. That worked.

[And I have to say that Moonchild missed his calling as a nurse! Anything I couldn't handle, he was right there handling it, blood, gore, psychotropic meltdown, et al.]

The pain was also a lot different than I was expecting. It felt more like I had been lasso'd by a piece of barb-wire right around where the girl-nips used to be(and under the arms) rather than sliced open. And even though the pain medication worked really well, the tightness and restriction of the barb-wire never went away. And I really had to keep my imagination in check or I would get all claustrophobic & panicky. Luckily the pain meds helped w/ that too.

[I know I sound like a huge druggie, but the best part of a medical vacation (aside from surviving the surgery) is the drugs. DON'T JUDGE ME.]

After watching the storm all night & calculating all the variables, Moonchild & I decided we would leave the East Coast early early Thursday a.m. Matthew was supposed to make U.S. landfall Thurs night or Fri morning and evacuations were starting in some of the counties just north of us. We didn't know what traffic would look like. I didn't know how my whole situation would hold up. But we wanted to be at home, not in a hotel during a hurricane.

So we packed up & got on the road at 5 am Thurs [10/6]. I tried to sit in the front seat but it was too much like a rollercoaster & I almost projectile vomited on the windshield. So I lay in the backseat watching the skeletal clouds dance. Traffic wasn't too bad & we made it home to find only 2 puddles of cat vomit waiting for us.

In the grand scheme of surgeries, I know this was a relatively mild one. But it was much more than I was bargaining for. I seriously thought I would be bedridden for about a week, then I would suddenly feel fine by the second week, back to writing and submitting and getting a goddamn haircut.

Scars & stitches & tape goo & legal nipples

But here it is three weeks later and the lasso has loosened, but I still feel like I'm leaning into a barb-wire fence. The healing process has been grueling. Getting my bandages & drains removed one week after surgery ( & driving to the E Coast again) was difficult. I didn't really want to see my chest while it still hurt so much. But voila! There it was, and my nipples looked really scary. Like they were barely attached and might peel off at any moment. Barf.

I rationed my pain meds so I was able to do my radio show 2 weeks after surgery. But shortly after that the Vicodin was gone and I was on my own. Week 3 without pain med = the hardest part of the adventure. (If I really wanted to throw my life away, I would start a slow dance w/ opiates right now. That is some pleasant shit. Luckily I still have delusions of making something of my life.)

Now starting week 4 post op and I'm doing fine on Tylenol and have resumed most normal activities. Nipples still attached and looking less pukeworthy. I'm starting to feel like this was all worth it after all. I was plagued by doubts for about 8 weeks but now I'm starting to be plagued by amazement.

And I'll be sending hurricane relief to the Bahamas and Haiti. I've been in the Bahamas during a hurricane & it ain't pretty. Now it just seems like the right thing to do.

So, I hope you have enjoyed the Top Surgery Adventure. One thing I can guarantee El Trumpo-style--there will never be a Bottom Surgery Odyssey here in the Octopus Diary. Believe me.

PHOTO DISCLAIMER: I'm aware my photos have been stolen & manipulated in the past. Yeah, I know about this. And though it's really creepy and invasive, I'm not going to let it stop me from sharing with people who may have interest in my story. If you need to steal my photos for your art, I'll let that be a reflection on you. Good Day.

Pre Op Psychoactive Euthanasia Yoga Party

FRIENDS,

On top of having phantom nipple pain I also have a monster headache today, so I will try to relay this portion of the story as justly & eloquently as I can…

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After watching the storm all weekend and seeing that it had stalled in the Caribbean, we took off for the East Coast early, early Monday [10/3]. We arrived at Dr Garramone's office at 9:43 for my 10:00 pre-op appointment.

One thing I didn't realize is that I would be sharing my 10 am appointment w/ about 5 other guys. We all had to fill out big packets of legalese paperwork that had some scary warnings & disclaimers. All stuff about how risky surgery is, how results may vary, how death is a possible side effect, etc…stuff I already know but prefer to remain cognitively dissociated from. It took me the longest to get through the paperwork, so I was the last one to see the doctor.

I could've been kinda upset about having to wait for 4 other people to see the doctor, but I was too excited to be upset. I realized that this was a once in a lifetime venture & I pulled on my big boy thong with lacy trim & waited. I was a little nervous about meeting the doctor as he is pretty legendary in the trans community. I expected him to be larger- and louder-than-life. But he was quite mellow and medium-sized. And way younger than I thought. 

I don't really remember what we talked about during the appointment. More scary stuff about where incisions would be made, and how I would have to take an active part in the healing process. Stuff I had meant to prepare myself for in the 6 weeks before surgery, but you all know that didn't happen. After the appointment, Moonface & I did all our preparatory errands--getting prescriptions filled, stocking up on post surgical necessities like Activia & compression socks, getting checked in to our hotel room.

It was late afternoon before we were settled into our room and my surgery-nerves were taking over. All the doubts & uncertainties I had held at bay for 6 weeks were now realities that loomed only hours away. I'd had surgery in my 20s and one thing I remembered (& was very worried about) was the nausea from the anaesthesia. I remember writhing in vertiginous torment for hours before finally throwing up gallons of bright purple liquid later that evening. I was really hoping to NOT relive that experience.

Luckily, someone was kind enough to supply me with a terrific anti-nauseant for this operation. I'll just call it a "medical edible" and assume you know what I mean. 

I was told this antidote was best eaten BEFORE the nauseating chemicals were administered. My plan was to have it as an evening snack and then just drift off into a peaceful, dreamless slumber. But…my nerves were already at the forefront & I wanted to shut them down. So I nibbled my medicine a little earlier--about 5 pm. We turned on the news to watch the storm a little. I started to feel a little relaxed. I thought, "This is great. Just what I needed."

Then we decided to go eat dinner. And, friends, I don't know what chemistry was at play here, but as soon as I ate dinner, the psychotropic properties of the "edible" kicked into high gear. And I was off on the most juvenile, overblown, exaggerated, unexpected fever dream/waking nightmare I've had since….

……I don't know…? ….7th grade?

Just what I did NOT want in the hours remaining before scalpel-time!!!

The first thing I felt was just disorientation and pure panic--I'M HAVING SURGERY TOMORROW!! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN???

And of course I was certain I was going to die. But I was going to be brave & die anyway, because what better way to die than during top surgery, right?

Then came the GUILT. Those of you who know me know I'm a master of guilt. I've been told I would make an excellent Catholic. Somewhere in my youth I must've gotten the message that feeling guilty about everything you do is super virtuous.

So I was a horrible person because I was spending all our savings on my selfish operation, I was guilty for hoping that the hurricane would hit anywhere else but SE Florida, I was guilty for putting Moonface through all my shit, I was guilty for being born female and not just accepting that. I was just a big hunk of guilty meat rotting on my bones & I can't even describe how HUGE the guilt was in my altered state. It was ridiculous. 

I felt guilty because I know people my age who have already survived breast cancer, and what would they think of me just volunteering to lose my two blobs of bitchflesh? Yep, I deserved to die.

I tried to remind myself that I DID need this operation, that I AM trans, there are words for it now, there is help out there for people who hurt in the way I do--not so much the physical way but that obscure unspeakable psychic pain that debilitates in separate but equal degrees.

But I couldn't convince myself of anything but horror and doom. 

After the guilt came a kind of sadness. I was pacing around our hotel room spouting guilt-gibberish & doing yoga because I knew I would be incapacitated for a few weeks (if I survived at all). I'm a pretty active person & I don't like how I feel when I can't exercise. So I was trying to get my joints & muscles all limbered up for their down time. It helped dispel some of the guilt & sadness.

Then things just got bizarre. I felt like I was acting in a play, mostly because the hotel room looked like a stage set. I kept asking Moon "Are we still doing a play?" 

A little after that, I started to see myself as a dog that was about to be put to sleep. I think I was even panting & jumping on the bed on all fours & treating Moonface like a dog would.

(When Moonface first moved to Florida he had a young Tibetan mastiff who died during surgery. And I kept feeling that the human version of that story was about to play out.)

ANYWAY…  this psychotronic diversion lasted for HOURS and was much more intense than I can describe adequately. It was really quite frightening for awhile!

I imagine most guys on their pre-op eves are happy, excited, sure they are doing the right thing & that they deserve it.

I did not have that experience. I was wracked with nightmarish questions & visions & doubts. And I'm sure that's how I would've felt with or without the medical edible--that just served to crank the volume of my neurosis up to 11.

BUT!!!! I did eventually drift off into peaceful slumber & had ZERO nausea after anaesthesia!! So you can bet I will be voting yes on Amendment 2.

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So, spoiler alert, I did survive the surgery. And perhaps I'll write a little bit about Surgery Day. Next time. In the Octopus Diary. 

Pre Op Detox: Top Surgery pt 1

Octies & Gentlepusses,

HTF are you??? I am fine in a post-surgical, not-quite-back-to-normal, all-my-Vicodin-is-gone-and-I-must-admit-I'm-no-longer-on-medical-vacation way.

That's right, last we "spoke" I had just made my appointment for Top Surgery & I was taking a hiatus from Octopusworld to get ready for it!!

And what an adventure this all became, from the moment I made my appointment, to this very moment 2 weeks after surgery, it has all been more than I bargained for. That's not such a bad thing; I know now that jumping right into the surgical portion of my transition was the right thing to do. I had planned on waiting til sometime in 2017 to do it, and now I am so glad I did not wait!

You all know I am a Hobbit. A hedonist. A kiddult who does not invite stress or noise or pain or people into my life lightly. I live my life in constant defense against those unpleasantries, so to schedule an event that creates lots of stress, pain & peopled-interaction is really against my religion.

But the money we had saved to turn our garage into a creative workspace was just burning a hole in our electronic spreadsheet after we learned that houses w/ garages are worth more than houses w/ a creative workspace & no garage. I proposed the idea of top surgery to Moonchild and he agreed that would be a good alternative way to spend our savings.

I asked him a few more times "Are you sure it's okay? Are you sure it's okay? Is it still okay if I make an appointment for top surgery?" And he kept saying yeah, it's okay.

 So I made the appointment. And I was immediately beset by panic & the reality of all the strength & nudity that would be required to get through this invasive medical upheaval.

I thought a good way to keep my panic in check would be to get really healthy. Detox, exercise, eat like a strict hipster-mommy bunny rabbit. Make myself feel like I was in control of my own flabby mortality.

But life had other plans for my pre-surgical waiting period. Just about everything that could go wrong in 6 weeks did:

A friend died.

My computer died. Stuff went wrong w/ the house. Stuff went wrong w/ the car. Stuff that usually doesn't happen to us kept happening.

Not to mention all the humiliating medical hoops I had to jump through. I was told I would need to get a mammogram before surgery and that flipped me out. I scheduled the mammogram for mid-September & spent all of August in abject fear of having to pull my tits out & put them in a vise.

But…the mammogram was no big deal. I dreaded it & dreaded it & it was over in the blink of a non-judgmental digital eyeball.

However…I was also required to get "medical clearance" from my physician. This I did not dread as much as the boob-fondling. And yet, it was so much more traumatizing.

Our usual doctor died last year and we have a new, young doctor whom I have not really gotten to know yet. During my medical clearance I discovered how little she's been paying attention to my holistic situation. She wasn't prepared to do my medical clearance, she thought I was there for a ….gross, I can barely say it….Pap smear. "Aren't we doing your Pap today?"

No. Look at my chart. When have I ever done a Pap? That's right--NEVER. 

I handed her the paperwork for my surgery--which clearly stated Chest Reconstruction for FTM Transgender Patient--and as she looked at the results of the previous week's mammogram she asked, "Why are you having a double mastectomy when your screens are benign?"

And I had to point out the part about being "transgender." And she seemed surprised, perplexed, dismayed and embarrassed. Which made me feel the same way, but worse.

I've been lucky on my "journey" so far to have a good network of local medical professionals who are invested in helping the transgender community. This was my first experience with a doctor whose mind it hadn't even crossed--oh this patient is on testosterone & is seeking chest surgery…but WHY???

Anyway--my intentions to achieve ultimate health and happiness before going under the knife were thwarted from all angles by life's tainted uncertainty. Instead I arrived at my pre-op appointment on Florida's East coast a stick of homo sapien jerky, gristly and fat and cranky and ready to bust into tears like the sissy boy I am.

Oh yeah…did I mention that the weekend before my surgery a hurricane formed in the Atlantic & was scheduled to hit FL that very day? 

The surgeon's office had called me on Thurs Sept 29th to tell me that they had received all my requisite paperwork & I was set to go!! And I had 24 hours of pure relief & happiness--This is really happening!! -- all dashed by Fri Sep 30th when I saw the weather report & the storm heading right for my operating room.

I was right back to wondering--Is this even going to happen?

Well, you all know it did happen, but there is more to the adventure. This was just the prologue. Unfortunately, I still do feel like a pizza with an autopsy (and two little Frankenstein-stitched nipples for pepperoni). So you will read the rest of this story as I'm able to type it.

I got to meet the holy god of top surgeons (Dr Garramone), I got to experience some lovely drugs, some interesting nurses, some body trauma I wasn't expecting…but the real pinnacle of insanity happened the night before the surgery. I will regale you w/ that adventure next time….

….in the Octopoussoir Diary!

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Sorry I have no new writing or art for you. But remember, there's plenty of epic poetry sprinkled throughout the summer blogs to keep you RIVETED. And I can't wait to feel well enough to get back to it.