Day 600 (1 Year, 8 Months)
“Oh, hey Jason – ohh, my god!” Visiting my father for a weekend, his office manager greets me in the morning as I wander to the kitchen of his half-house, half-office. Her hands fly to her mouth. “You look so different.”
I try to think when she has seen me last; and I think it must be a year at least. “Yeah, uh,” I chuckle as her eyes travel the length of my body, “it changes a lot.”
“You have a beard!” she exclaims. “Okay, just let me adjust.” She turns away and looks back several times, clearly baffled. Born and raised rural, southern yet astonishingly open-minded, she’s never seen anything like this. Having met me shortly before beginning testosterone, she’s never known me female, but she’s never seen me this male either.
I only notice change when I choose to look for it, but I find that I am almost always surprised when other people do.
“Those arms…” my brother mutters, shaking his head. “Home grown, my ass.”
I have come to the point where I will admit to people that I am nervous.
I realize that all of my defining traits have become exceedingly exacerbated in the weeks prior to surgery — in particular, always possessing a slight lack of control over the ability to sit still, though surprisingly less apparent after testosterone, I cannot seem to stop moving in some way or another. I am beginning to obsess on what must be done before we leave, the small details of our arrival, appointments and instructions in California, and what to expect following surgery; particularly given the physical debility and limitations in regard to my very physical day job. Stress-influenced weight loss, to be observed beginning in early April, continues as the panic mounts despite my efforts to maintain a healthy diet in the relative chaos before any such major event. I hope for the pounds lost during the past months to return following the surgery; as, certainly, a relief and calmness will settle after so much anticipation.
I admit that many mixed feelings have occurred in these past days, particularly as the countdown comes to two weeks and now, a mere week and day until our departure. While I cannot possibly imagine the experience of simply not having to think about my chest, it is the aftermath of the event of amputating a part of my body itself that concerns me. While breasts are, after all, something that enters my mind quite frequently during the dull moments of the day, it is some strange form of comfort that there is a manipulable pair in my immediate vicinity to entertain me, existing entirely separate of my male identity; yet not belonging to another being, merely existing independently. The curiosity presents itself that I may miss them; despite that they no longer represent anything feminine from the alterations of testosterone.
Still. I have attempted to prepare myself for the ghastly post-surgical appearance, contrary to the perfectly sculpted masculinity that my mind may wish to imagine. I am aware that the scarring will be horrific to my perception; as are, sadly, all transsexual surgical procedures to me; though I am also aware of the intricacies of what I am capable of accepting — this or this I could live with. This, I could not. While the latter is by all means not among the “unfavorable results” presented at Dr. Brownstein’s session last year, for reasons I cannot explain or even differentiate entirely, it is simply — perhaps shamefully — not an outcome I would accept easily.
I struggle with the selfishness of judging so critically a procedure of which the result cannot possibly be guaranteed, predicted or even expected. But I cannot help feeling a panicked desire for perfection as I move through my last days of physical purity, existing as of yet in an exceedingly healthy, unmarred 19-year-old body, free of the surgical alterations by which it will be defined for the rest of my life. I cannot help the sense of entitlement that I should receive an outcome which is not only tolerable but pleasing in this event of elective plastic surgery — there is no cancer; there has been no disfiguring accident, genetically mutating disease to require the need for aesthetic surgical procedures. I proceed entirely of my own pursuit and desire, and I cannot help but worry that the surgery to which I have pinned my freedom from my body may in fact imprison me in revulsion of its result, and that there will be nothing to blame for my ruin but myself.
Fuck yes, I am nervous.
Clearly this is a common fear for anyone who is undergoing any kind of surgery where the result will be visible on their body, although something like this I can see as being… slightly more personal. However, seeing as you are so young and healthy, and you don’t have any excess body fat (from what I can tell, anyway) you are practically the perfect candidate for this surgery. Chances that your result will be “unfavorable” go down exponentially due to these variations. Also, keep in mind that there are a lot of things you can use to help the scarring — mederma, vitamin e lotions, that kind of thing, and that because you are so young your body will heal quickly and probably better than someone receiving the surgery who is older. And, as with all scars, with time they become less and less apparent. Basically, what I am trying to say is that there is a very slim chance that you will end up with a result you don’t like.
Best of luck!