“They’re giving us a discounted medical rate,” I offered, embarrassed. After the prior incident with the limo, something told me he wasn’t too surprised by our digs. What surprised us, however, were Doc’s daily visits. I figured Mom would be shuttling me back and forth to his clinic. But instead, he’d phone in “between boob jobs” or “on the way to a facelift” to see how I was doing and let me know when he would be by to make sure everything was healing okay. Every day he’d show up to check on me, usually in his scrubs or tennis gear and always chewing gum. (What was that about?) Sometimes he’d stay for a snack or a drink. I got the feeling he enjoyed the visits as much as I did. He gave me his cell number and told me to call it anytime. I gave him a key to my room and joked that things were moving too fast.
But on day seven, when he finally told me I could shower, it was I who couldn’t move fast enough. Washing off a week’s worth of stank was the turning point in my recovery. I was a new person. I just had to get used to the sight of the eight-inch flesh handle protruding from my abdomen.
Sadly, I barely got the chance.
5 Because gender dysphoria has recently been classified as a medical condition and not a mental disorder, more and more health insurance companies are providing coverage for gender reassignment procedures. (Some states, like Massachusetts, even mandate it.) Hopefully this will soon become accepted as standard medical protocol so that any transgender person who needs surgery can get it, regardless of financial ability.
SO MUCH FOR THOSE EIGHT INCHES
October 15, 2002
There’s nothing worse than the smell of burning flesh. Especially when it’s your own. In this case, the singeing was not an accident: The abdominal scarring from my hysterectomy had blocked adequate blood supply to my would-be penis. As a result, the tissue became necrotic, and two months post-surgery I found myself in Doc’s office watching him cut and cauterize away a good six inches of the precious eight he’d created. I don’t know which of us was more upset.
“I can feel that!” I shouted at one point, causing him to stop and inject me with more Novocain. While I was relieved to avoid the routine and expense of another hospital admission, undergoing this two-and-a-half-hour procedure while totally conscious had its own drawbacks. Lying there covered in bloody paper sheets I looked like the victim of a horrible murder—only I was still alive and assisting in my own mutilation.
“Hold this gauze here,” Doc said. “I’m going to stitch up this nub . . . I think I can save the tissue.”
I tried not to look while he quickly and masterfully glided the navy blue sutures in and out, and when he tied the final knot I looked down at my new miniature “Frankendick.” I wanted to cry.
“Don’t worry, when you come back next month I’ll take care of it. You still have enough tissue for me to rebuild it—it was too big anyway.” That last part, while probably true, didn’t make me feel any better. As if things couldn’t get any worse, once I washed myself clean and slipped my boxers back on, I noticed the shadow of my silhouette on the wall.
“Ah, what am I supposed to do about this?”
Doc turned to face me. “About what?”
“THIS.”
I turned to the side, to better accentuate my profile.
“What?”
“What do you mean what? This two-inch hard-on you’ve left me with for the next four weeks!”
We were both laughing now.
“Put your pants back on—no one will be able to tell.” I put my loose-fit Levi’s back on and turned to the side again.
“It’s still there!”
Doc was doubled over laughing, still trying to talk me out of the fact that I had a permanent mini-erection. “Come on, we’ll ask one of the girls.”
We left the examining room and went down the hall, where one of the nurses was filing paperwork.
“Do you notice anything funny about Chris?” Doc asked her.
She looked at me from top to bottom, her eyes widening when they reached my crotch.
“Ah, yeah. That he has a hard-on. Are you sending him off to catch his plane like that?”
“He’s sending me off for a month like this!”
“Now don’t get excited,” Doc joked.
“Thanks to you, I can’t help it.”
“Untuck your shirt,” the receptionist chimed in. “That’s what all the boys in high school used to do.”
“Yes, yes. That will work,” Doc confirmed, as though speaking from experience.
So that’s what I did and would continue to do for the next four weeks.
Despite all the joking, I was devastated. And Doc knew it. When I called to let him know I got through airport security without a male assist, he reassured me with confidence that this was just a setback and everything would be fine.
Famous last words.
••
The main thing I remember about my “rebuilding” surgery was waking up in recovery and puking my brains out—much to the shock and dismay of my sister Wendy, who had come to Nashville to take care of me in place of my mom.
Normally one spends maybe thirty to forty-five minutes in recovery. My nausea was so extreme, I was in there for three hours. And every time I lurched forward to hurl into that pink basin, I had major pain in my abdomen from the surgery. Just before 5:00 p.m., Doc came in to warn me that the recovery room would be closing and if I wasn’t well enough to leave, the nurses were going to make me spend the night in the hospital. I looked at him and Wendy and said, “Get me out of here.”
It was like a scene from Weekend at Bernie’s: one of them pulling up my hospital pants, the other slipping my arms through the sleeves of my button-down shirt . . . me slumped over them like I was dead, head lolling to the side. Occasionally I barfed into a plastic bag, my only sign of life. When I was finally dressed, Wendy held me up while Doc filled out the discharge papers and announced to the two suspect nurses how much better I felt and that I was ready to go. They gave him the hairy eyeball as he quickly wheeled me out of recovery, down a long maze of corridors, and straight out the exit, Wendy jogging behind. When we got outside the hospital doors, Doc hit the brake on the wheelchair and told us to wait while he pulled his car around. He had volunteered to drive us back to the hotel so we wouldn’t have to rent a car or get a cab. His black Saab convertible came to a screeching halt right by the curb in front of us.
“I put the top down so you would have some fresh air. Please don’t throw up in my car. I can’t stand the sight or smell. It makes me sick.”
“You’re a surgeon,” I said, struggling to get out of the wheelchair.
“I know. Blood I can take.”
Wendy helped me to the car door, while Doc pushed the passenger seat forward so she could squeeze into the back. He saw the surprised looks on both our faces then immediately apologized for the mess, shoving aside empty Pepsi cans, dirty tennis clothes, and remnants of whatever snacks his four-year-old daughter had been eating back there. When he flipped the seat back for me, I saw the situation up front was no better.
“Am I gonna need a tetanus shot after this ride?”
“What? Is it that bad?” he asked genuinely while helping me slide in without bending at my waist too much.
“Oh, no,” I replied, kicking aside the trash around my feet. As he closed my door and went around to the driver’s side, I noticed two fresh foil packs of gum jammed into one of the cup holders and in the other, a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Aha! That’s why he’s always chewing gum . . . to mask his hypocritical smoker’s breath. I got a whiff of the dirty ashtray and threw up a little in my mouth.
Doc pulled up in front of the two large lion statues that guarded the main entrance of the Loews Vanderbilt and waved off the valet who wasn’t quite sure what to make of me. He and the guests inside the hotel lobby were treated to a showing of Weekend at Bernie’s II as Wendy and Doc once again propped me up on either side and walked me to the elevator bank where, ironically, there was an old-time movie
theater popcorn machine popping away. I was still nauseated and couldn’t stand up or think straight but damn, that popcorn smelled good.
When I woke up the next morning in the comfort of my king-size bed, the nausea was finally gone. It was then that I took stock of my body and what shape I’d been left in. I recognized the familiar feeling of a binder, only this time it wasn’t around my chest but around my abdomen. There were two drains pinned to it, one on each side of my waist, and even though my groin area was covered in dressings I could tell “stubby” wasn’t much bigger than he was before surgery, which led me to believe things did not go according to plan. When Doc came by a few hours later, he re-explained what happened during the four-hour procedure. Apparently I didn’t retain the information the first time around because I was too busy puking.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” he asked.
“Ah, I’ll take the bad news.”
“I couldn’t save the tissue. But I dropped the base of your penis and gained some tissue there. And I still think you have enough tissue in your abdominal and groin areas for me to build a decent-size shaft when you come back in January.”
“Is that the good news?”
“No. The good news is I gave you a tummy tuck.”
“You what?”
“That’s the bonus of having a phalloplasty. I do that for all my patients to minimize the scarring from the first procedure. That’s why you have those drains. They’ll come out in five days and you’ll need to wear that binder for four weeks, but after that you’ll have a nice flat stomach.”
“And no scars?”
“You’ll have one thin horizontal scar below your waistline. But that’s a lot better than what you had before.”
“I’ll say.”
“Any other questions before I go?”
“Yeah. What’s with the cigarettes in the car, Mister ‘Smoking-is-the-worst-thing-you-can-do-to-your-body-and-I-refuse-to-operate-on-anyone-who-smokes’?”
He stared back at me with a guilty grin. “I plan to quit.”
CATHY & JARED
January 2003
As prepared as I was with questions prior to surgery, there was always something I either forgot to ask or didn’t know enough to ask. This meant varying degrees of unwelcome surprises (with the exception of a tummy tuck) on my road to recovery.
Such was the case with Cathy and Surgery #4.
While I knew Cathy would be with me during my time in Nashville, I was not expecting her to accompany me on the plane back to Boston. Nor did I anticipate she’d be staying with me for three more weeks. Yet there she was, 24/7. I couldn’t shake her. Everywhere I went, she went. Home, work, bars, restaurants. She really cramped my style. I knew she was there to help me, but “Cathy the Catheter” was getting on my nerves.
Surgery #4 consisted of a vaginectomy (yes, it was as horrible as it sounds) and the creation of a urethral extension, which would eventually allow me to pee standing up. While I was told I’d need a catheter “post-surgery,” I assumed that meant the days I’d be in the hospital. (Note to self: Always ask for specifics.)
After three days I was released from the hospital but not from Cathy. She was converted to a portable bag attached to my left thigh via an elastic band that was constantly pinching my leg hair. I likened the quick random bursts of pain to stepping on a Lego barefoot. When Cathy was empty, you couldn’t really tell she was there, hiding under my baggy pants. But when she was full, it looked like I had a kilo of coke strapped to my thigh.
When I got to the hotel, Jill was waiting for me. I introduced her to Cathy and the three of us spent the next seven days ordering room service and watching pay-per-view movies and Golden Girls reruns. On day eight, I packed my suitcase and waited for Doc to swing by for my final checkup. He showed up with a box of medical supplies he’d swiped from the hospital and a bunch of instructions on what to do with them. I was following along fine until he got to the spare catheter bag.
“Ha. Ha,” I said sarcastically.
He smiled, then looked at me, confused. “What?”
“You’re serious?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not taking this thing out before I go??”
“No, you can take it out yourself in four weeks—maybe three.”
“WHAT?”
“It’s no big deal. You just pull it out. I’ll talk you through it over the phone.”
“I have to go to work like this?”
“Wear your baggy jeans; no one will be able to tell.”
I sat there shaking my head, right hand stretched across my furrowed brow. Doc broke the silence. “At least I’m not sending you on the plane with a hard-on.”
While I made it through security without a pat down, I didn’t make it through the three-hour flight without having to empty Cathy. Twice. This did not bode well for going stealth at the office. I started doing the math in my head. Average workday? Ten hours. That meant I’d have to conceal a pant leg full of urine at least six times a day.
The first few days I sat closest to the door at every meeting so when I stood up to leave I wouldn’t have to walk past a conference room full of people with a giant bulge on my thigh. But as the days went on I cared less and less. I began openly referring to Cathy in the office and talking about how much I hated her. Soon it was a running joke among friends and coworkers.
“How’s Cathy?” they’d ask.
“Ugh,” I’d groan. “I’m so sick of that bitch.”
When making plans, friends would ask if Cathy could come or just tell me to bring her along. One out of every four times I’d answer my phone, the voice on the other end would open with, “Is Cathy there?”
“No,” I’d say. “Her phone privileges are revoked for repeatedly pinching my leg hair.”
After eighteen days Cathy and I finally had it out. We were at my parents’ house for Sunday dinner, and while standing at the sink rinsing my plate, I felt something warm running down my leg inside my pants. I looked down to find I was standing in the middle of an expanding yellow puddle.
Fucking Cathy!
I pulled my pants down; she had sprung a leak! I didn’t know what to do. I yelled for my mom who stopped short when she saw me.
“What are you doing?”
“My catheter’s leaking. What should I do?”
“Don’t you have a spare bag?”
“Not on me!”
At this point Jill came in with more dishes from the table. She took one look at me with my pants around my ankles standing in a pool of urine and burst out laughing. Mom ordered her to get a Ziploc bag out of the drawer while I apologized profusely.
“You couldn’t have done this in your own kitchen?” Mom griped, mopping up my pee.
“Sorry, Mom. I couldn’t help it. At least you have a tile floor.”
Jill handed her a sandwich bag. Mom looked at it, annoyed. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Oh, right,” Jill cackled, exchanging it for the one-gallon size.
Now we were all laughing.
“What’s going on in there?” Dad shouted from the dining room.
“Cathy’s a whore!” Mom shouted back.
••
While Cathy and I split up after just under a month, my relationship with Jared lasted much longer.
I’d finally had surgery to insert the tissue expander, or balloon, into my nearly hairless forearm. Over the course of four months I was to inject it with enough saline to fill a twenty-ounce Coke bottle. (I’ll let you sit with that for a second.) The idea, as Dr. Laub had explained four years earlier, was that as the balloon gets bigger, the skin stretches to cover the increased surface area of the arm—kind of like what happens to a woman’s belly during pregnancy. This “extra skin” was what would be used to make my urethral extension.
The needles I had to use to inject the saline were much larger and way more intimidating than the ones I used to inject myself with testosterone, and the pr
ocess was a lot more challenging to pull off one-handed. To locate the injection site I had to feel for the metal port under my skin. I’d then draw a circle around it in pen, close my eyes, and hope for the best. The first time, I had Doc on speakerphone talking me through it. The rest of the times I had Jill or Straubs do it.
I’d scheduled this part of the surgery during the coldest months so I could hide what was going on under layers of winter clothing. But as it turned out, even my bulkiest sweater was no match for my inflatable forearm. When I noticed coworkers staring at the bulge in my sleeve, I told them it was a sub sandwich I was saving for later. So naturally, I named my arm “Jared” after the Subway spokesperson.
Unlike Subway Jared who recently had a major fall from grace, my Jared was extremely popular—way more popular than Cathy. He had a much better personality. He was always waving to people and everyone was always happy to see him. I responded to invitations with Jared as my “Plus 1.” And my friends would always set an extra place for him at the dinner table. We became close over those four months, but our parting was inevitable. The time had come for him to serve a higher purpose.
THE BIG ONE
June 10, 2003
Ten and a half hours. That’s how long it took Doc and his partner to build me a penis with outdoor plumbing and eventual sensation—the latter of which involved transplanting an artery, vein, and nerve from my forearm to my groin. I woke up in the ICU a bit lonely without Jared but comforted by the sight of what looked to be a giant “thumbs-up” wrapped in gauze between my legs. Then I vomited all over myself.
Enter Bonnie, the ICU nurse assigned to take care of me for the next twenty-four hours. “Ugh, now look what you’ve done,” she barked, stripping off my puke-covered blanket. “If you have to throw up, use this.” She held up the familiar pink basin, then set it on the bedside cart completely out of my reach.
At this point my dad tentatively walked in. Judging by the expression on his face, I didn’t look so good. He came over and stood by my bed, wedging himself between my IV stand and the unreachable cart.
BALLS Page 19