Ever wake up in the morning and suddenly realize, “Hey! Did I just have my original genitals replaced with other very different genitals? Holy shit!” Actually, some of you probably have. Today we are going to conclude my first ever six post story on this blog, up from the previous record of a one post story. Last we left me, I agreed with great trepidation to skip town 3 days earlier than medically advisable. We’ll get to that in a second; the opening question deserves a bit of time.

I’ve spoken to other post-op ladies, and it’s apparently not uncommon for one to emerge from surgery and be slammed with a “oh my God, what have I done?” feeling. Close, but not quite. From the time I woke up to present, 8 weeks later, never once did I wish I had the old meat and veggies back down there. I did, however, get that moment of slightly panicked breathlessness. Have nothing but time to think, I thought. It wasn’t a feeling of regret or worry. It was a feeling have having locked in to something big and life altering. It was the same attack of the willies as signing the first mortgage, saying “I do”, and most of all, bringing a crying baby home from the hospital knowing there are no backsies on that one. Until the surgery, I had a foot in both camps. Sure, I was living female, but it wouldn’t take a whole lot of effort to swap back and being one of the boys again. The gender fluidity I had since self awareness was gone for good. I picked a side and took it all the way. It’s all good. I chose wisely. You’re going to hear me roar.

My second McGinn appointment went very smooth for the most part. My gigantic bag was packed in the trunk and I cautioned my father and brother in laws not to say anything about me booking out early. I saw both Heather and Dr. McGinn briefly. “Your vagina didn’t fall out or anything, did it?” Na. “Looks good! We now permit you to go for dinner if you wish, but no walking around or shopping or anything. You are leaving Saturday, yes?” Absolutely on all counts. I emerged and my father in law broke into loud conversation as I awaited my paperwork and surgical certificate. “Did she say it was OK for you to fly today?” My frantic arm waving and ‘shut the fuck up’ gesturing didn’t deter him a lick. I don’t know if they heard, and didn’t ask. I was free.

At the Philly airport I learned again why bringing a suitcase large enough to smuggle Louie Anderson is not such a hot idea. “Gotta pull some stuff out hun, or I gotta charge you another $90”. In pain and flummoxed by the idea of what to abandon to lose 9 pounds, I started to cry and explained that I just had surgery. The kind woman took my bag without another word and charged me nothing, though she did slap a ‘whoa, this motha’ is heavy!’ sticker on it. Though I’m not saying crying to manipulate a situation has never once been practiced in the big wide world, I can say that sometimes it just happens, and if some good comes of it, so be it.

Going through the security line, I wondered how they were going to react to the fact that I had 2 dilators in my purse, and found out. I waited nervously, saw them stop the belt when my purse was mid scan, call someone over, then pulled me aside to say they had to scan it again. Oh, here we go. Tired of viewing the electronic image of what appeared to be two dildos, they took me over to the table and asked if they could look inside because, “we just need to see something.” They pulled out the felt pouch that housed them and I immediately went into a nervous talking jag and compressed the whole story of my GRS and need to dilate into a 30 second high speed spiel. The female guard looked at me blankly, put them back, and sent me on my way. To celebrate, I grabbed a slice from Sbarro and upgraded to get the garlic knot with it. They were fantastic.

The flight was uneventful, though turbulent, and I was very pleased to find that my vagina did not need to be popped like my ears on the descent. I was in the window seat and that could have been very awkward, especially for my seatmate who was trying his damndest to pretend I took I different flight instead. I wasn’t exactly looking my best. The plane landed at the furthest possible gate at the Buffalo airport, which frankly, isn’t really all that far unless you are hobbling with loins on fire. Exiting security I found my spouse waiting for me, and couldn’t have been gladder to be home.

In coming posts, I’ll explain the recovery process, go into detail how dilation often feels like being screwed by Iron Man with his armor still on, and present some handy tips and hints for those of you contemplating this journey. Hopefully you will listen better than I did.