top surgery

TW: mentions of suicidal ideation

I got top surgery on March 28!

Confetti noises

I remembered yesterday that I had a countdown on my site leading to this day. I'm not sure if anyone really noticed it, but I think it's nice.

Anyway, I want to talk about my top surgery experience! Because it's weird and wonderful and mundane and I have a lot of thoughts about it.

As I begin writing, it is just past midnight on March 31; it has been less than 3 days since my surgery. I will probably write more as my recovery progresses, but for now I will speak of the days before, and immediately after surgery.

I scheduled my surgery in August of 2024. At the time, I was under the impression that I would be able to get scheduled within a month or two; this was incredibly wrong, and purely a misunderstanding on my end, but hearing the date 8 months away still shocked me. I had been actively pursuing top surgery for the 6 months before that- which included far more phone calls than my newly-an-adult self was comfortable with- and finding the finish line so far away was disheartening.

So, I bunkered down to wait it out.

To flash back- in March 2024, I had an appointment with a very lovely woman, who asked me leading questions and then filled out my answers madlibs-style into a letter, which my surgeon could use to prove to my insurance that Yes, I am trans, and Yes, I would like surgery.

I don't believe I lied, but as we spoke I felt my answers becoming palatable; reasonable; correct. I am a Transgender Person. I experience Chest Dysphoria. Please let me cut my tits off.

During this meeting, when I revealed that I was not in therapy, the very lovely woman asked if I would like to be. I declined, then a day or two later thought better of it and said that yes I would. I went to one meeting with a nice young medical student, during which I could think of no immediate problems to bring forth, and concluded that actually I was fine after all, haha, sorry to waste your time.

To flash forward- in October 2024, my life ended.

Without getting into details- and while being far too melodramatic for the situation- in the span of an hour, plus the slow burn of three days, I destroyed my previous life. It took months to pick myself out of the wreckage; and it was a new self, a self I felt shift and flake away in real time. I've never known who I was; never recognized the face in the mirror; but for a while I had been able to ignore it, to make peace. When I burned my main support system to the ground, I was left shaken and suicidal for the first time in several years.

(Side note: It's scary how easily the suicidal ideation came back. How completely natural it felt. As if it had never left.)

I never seriously intended to end my life; no matter how much I wanted it, I always knew on some level that I never would. And I knew that this would pass, as all else does and did.

So, I bunkered down, behind 12-inch thick steel walls, to wait it out.

March 2025 didn't feel quite real when it arrived. Treading water at this point; though sometimes only barely; I navigated the influx of calls, pre-op appointments, blood draws, more calls, PDFs, and voicemails. I reaffirmed yes, this is what I want, though my insurance has changed, now I have that shitty one that randomly decides my testosterone should cost $160 after several months of only making me pay $20. (Fuck united healthcare by the way.)

I found myself unable to stop thinking about certain things. About, several months ago, compulsively reading blog posts from detransitioners, talking about the regret they had from mutilating their bodies; about wearing tank tops in public with no binder two summers ago; about my hatred of my facial hair and my recurring desire to be seen as Butch, if not as a woman. I worried incessantly about being mistaken, about being hasty, about only wanting this because I think it's what trans people are "supposed" to want.

I worried about this up until the week before surgery. Then the day before. Then an hour before. I would daydream of nightmare scenarios; getting horribly sick, or eating after midnight, or getting into a car crash on the way to the hospital, all so I wouldn't be faced with the horrific responsibility of choosing.

Then I was laying in the hospital bed at the crack of 6 in the morning, cold in my undress but warm under the heated blankets the very nice nurse had given to me, and my surgeon (looking a little harried from running late to work) gave me a form to sign. "This is saying that you don't have to do this today if you don't want to," she said, laughing as she turned the paper over to show me where to sign if I did want to do it.

I laughed too, and without a moment of hesitation, I signed.

I didn't realize when it was over, at first. The excitement of the hospital; getting wheeled around, people looking at and smiling at me, talking to me about serious things where I knew exactly how I was meant to respond each time- in a moment that was over, and I was swimming up out of a dark, icy depth.

I felt calm in a way that I hadn't for months. People were talking over me, taking care of me; all I had to do now was rest. I took that lack of responsibility happily, greedily, like a starving man.

I haven't had really any pain so far! There's occasional soreness around my incisions, normally right before I'm scheduled for another round of meds; I don't feel loopy or delirious at all, just calmer and more even-headed. I guess I feel tired, but I always feel tired, especially when I spend 8 hours a day sitting up in bed, reclining in my nest of pillows.

When we opened the compression vest for the first time, I realized that I couldn't stop smiling.

I get to bathe tomorrow! Or today, I guess, since it's now 1am. Whoops. My mom is lying right next to me, snoring. I'm going to go brush my teeth, then put in my headphones and listen to some rain noises so I can fall asleep.

A part of me feels like this was sudden; like I came into existence as a person recovering from top surgery. I guess that's how I feel every time I experience a major life event; like my novel only just started, and the audience is still playing catchup to figure out what exactly is going on.

To that part of me, I say: Congratulations.