GRS in Montreal: the Experience and What to Expect
(Rather than only writing about what happened to me, I'm also going to approach this as if the reader is considering going to Montreal for his surgery. I chose the clitoral release and testicular implants, no urinary hookup. Also please note that I have recently been informed that the Residence I describe is no longer in use. Their new one is in more of a hospital-style setting, closer to the Clinic.)
Ahead of Time
Go to their website to check the eligibility requirements, types of surgery performed, and other preliminary information.
Request their detailed information and price list. As of 2002, when I booked my surgery, the prices were as follows: (Please note that costs for staying at the Residence, which includes full room and board and transportation services, are included in the price. The only extra expense is approximately $50 for meds, and, of course, your transportation to Montreal.)
Clitoral release $5,115.00
Testicular implants $3,185.00
Release and implants at same time $6,785.00
Metoidioplasty with urinary hookup $16,145.00
Sorry, no info for phalloplasty, as I did not ask about that procedure.
Waiting period. Varies by procedure, so call and ask. I booked mine about 8 months ahead, but I could have had it sooner.
Pre-op instructions. You'll need to cut out aspirin 3 weeks in advance of surgery, no alcohol for 1 week, shave your groin, and have an enema shortly before surgery. (Ouch and Yuck!)
Customs. Warning, if you haven't flown lately, things are lots tougher! Take my advice and have good photo identification and either a valid passport or birth certificate. I was foolish enough to have only a photo ID and voter registration card, and I got hassled both ways. Eventually they let me through anyway. (I must just have an honest face, huh?)
Seriously, I got sent to Immigration for an interview by Canadian Customs, accompanied by much frowning. US Customs was even harder. They asked me questions about where I was born, where I went to school, some personal things, and about the American flag and who the VP is. (Do you know offhand how many red and white stripes the flag has, and why that number? Luckily, that little tidbit had stuck in the back of my mind since grammar school.) But make it easy on yourself and get a passport.
DAY ONE: Getting There
As it says on the website, "You only need to get to the city of Montreal and we will take care of you from there on." They are as good as their word, providing a limousine service to pick you up from the airport or train station, take you to the Clinic, and back to the airport or train when you leave. Cuts out a lot of stress.
Coming from Coastal North Carolina, where international airports are in short supply, I had to do a good bit of plane-hopping, making for about eight and a half hours of overall travel time. Even at my small airport, I set off all the metal detectors as I went through security and was taken aside to be checked with a hand-held detector, which quickly discovered that my running shoes had metal insoles, I still had a dime in my back pocket and a watch on my wrist, plus a belt buckle. Other than embarrassment, no harm was done.
However, I was foolish enough to have had 2 pairs of manicure scissors
and a pointed nail file in my carry-on luggage, which they promptly confiscated. (No sharp pointy metal objects of any kind, and they mean it. Canadian security went them one better, taking away my blunt-ended nail file also. I had a bizarre flash on myself hijacking the plane, but I didn't dare laugh. "Take me to the US, or I'll – I'll file your nails!" Instead, I shrugged my shoulders and murmured, "C'est la vie.") Had I had the sense to put all this dangerous contraband into my checked luggage, I could have saved myself the trouble.
No longer suspected of being a terrorist, I was at last free to board my plane.
Thoughts enroute: Not even nervous. The doing is, indeed, easier than the waiting, which always leaves me distracted and disinterested in ordinary things as the time draws near.
For the thousandth time, I wonder briefly, fleetingly, if I am stark raving mad for ever getting involved with this whole thing. In order to be a man, I have taken risks I would never have dared for a lesser goal, spent money I could ill afford with retirement fast approaching, and done things that pure, disinterested reason might well have scoffed at. But every glimpse in the mirror, every "sir" on a stranger's lips, and every comradely nod of acknowledgement from another man reminds me yet again of just how right this is.
I have hopes that this will be my final surgery, even though it's the most minimal form of FTM GRS available, more cosmetic than functional. Were I younger, I might well have chosen a different option, but at this point in my life, I think, and hope, that I will be satisfied simply to appear to be something that is, if not entirely male, at least recognizably not entirely female either. As I often tell people, I've always wanted to a hermaphrodite, so long as I could present socially as a man.
My biggest fear, beyond the acknowledgement that there is always a statistical chance for things to go fatally wrong during any surgery, is that I will lose some or all sexual sensitivity. That's not supposed to happen, but ideally I wouldn't have lost as much sensitivity as I have in my nipple either. Possibly I will be more fortunate this time. I sincerely hope so.
Upon arrival in Montreal, the biggest shock awaiting me was that Quebec is primarily a French-speaking province. Yes, of course, I knew that, but it didn't really hit home until I realized that most of the signs don't even include English translations, nor do the pay phones have understandable directions. However, the phones will happily accept US credit cards, so I was able to call the number for the limousine service used by the Clinic. For the first time in my life, I rode in a real limo.
After a ride of maybe 25 minutes, we arrived at the Residence. When the driver told me it was reached by a narrow bridge, he wasn't kidding! The bridge was barely wide enough for one car.
Turns out that this part of the countryside is made up of a myriad of small islands, some inhabited and some not. The island on which the Residence is located is one of these private islands, with only three buildings, the other two occupied by the owners.
How can I describe the Residence adequately? The formal name is La Maison de l'isle, which sounds mighty like it should mean the Mansion of the Island, if that gives you a clue. Picture an extremely elegant bed-and-breakfast for about 20 guests. (The website says they have 30 beds, but I sure couldn't find that many.) Whether the building was made for this purpose or renovated later on, I was unable to discover for certain. It contains a great variety of rooms on three levels, plus a communal dining and lounge area. Every room is different and each one is named after a composer, with a small bust of that composer set into each door.
There is also an indoor pool, which was not open at this time of year. (October) I couldn't imagine swimming after surgery anyway.
One of the biggest drawbacks is that there are no private baths. Instead, there are five bathrooms scattered about the various floors. Rooms are both double and single, so you may find yourself sharing with someone. Not my favorite thing to do, but you can't have everything.
When you first arrive, you will most likely be assigned to the basement quarters, a large room with four single and very hard beds, plus its own lounge area. This is the pre-op section. After your surgery, you "graduate" to one of the more luxurious accommodations on the two upper levels.
There is an excellent likelihood that you will not find yourself alone in the basement, as there are generally several folks awaiting surgery at any given time. In my case, another FTM arrived with his wife not too long after I got there and we ended up as what I can only call "surgery partners": folks who are scheduled for surgery on the same day, travel to the Clinic together, and very likely share the same room there. ( For the sake of privacy, I will use only initials to refer to other patients.) Fortunately, R and his wife, T, were charming and congenial folks, so I lucked out as far as roommates are concerned. We spent much time talking and getting to know each other. T was staying over just for the first night. After that, she commuted back and forth to a friend's home, since it costs $100 a night for visitors to stay with patients.
A few other less enjoyable things were awaiting my arrival in that downstairs room: a vicious-looking safety razor to shave my groin, a Fleet enema for use later that night, and several sheets of paper giving rules and regulations and general info on the Residence. Among those papers was a so-called surgical consent form, which I was never even asked to sign. That was all for the best, as it was not only for the wrong procedure (meta with hookup) but also contained a totally false statement: "That after the operation, I shall no longer be able to have feminine orgasms. The sexual satisfaction that I may obtain will be above all psychological." Although I knew it wasn't true, this shook me up a bit. I determined to ask Dr. Brassard about it at our consultation tomorrow before surgery.
After an excellent dinner and a stroll around the island, I spent most of that evening reading and talking to R and T. He was there for chest surgery and hasn't yet made up his mind about future genital surgery. We were informed that we would be awakened at 5 AM the next morning and could have nothing to eat or drink after midnight. Eventually, I fell asleep, having bunked down on the sofa in the lounge when I couldn't get comfortable on the hard beds.
DAY TWO: Surgery
As promised, we were awakened at 5 AM, boarded a taxi at 6, and checked into the Clinic at about 6:30. R and I were shown to a standard hospital-type room, interviewed by the anesthesiologist, given lovely gowns to wear, and then left to our own devices to wait. The Clinic is a small private hospital owned by Drs. Brassard and Menard. It contains 39 rooms, with three operating rooms, and is located on a quiet suburban street.
No one could give us a definite time for our surgeries. T had come with us, so she was allowed to sit in our room also. We soon discovered that we'd have done well to bring cards or a simple game to pass the time, since the waiting turned into a combination of stress and boredom as the hours dragged by.
I finally was called to have my consult with Dr. Brassard, who turned out to be a handsome, 40-ish, well-spoken gentleman, quite fluent in both English and French. He briefly explained the procedure, then asked if I had any questions. When I asked him about that section of the consent form that had alarmed me, he quickly put my fears to rest. As I knew full well, nothing is done that should cause the loss of sensation. Of course, things can always go wrong, but that can't be predicted. There were other questions I should have asked, but I didn't realize it at the time. More about that later.
Back to the room for more waiting. Around 10:30, R was summoned to surgery. After seeing him off, T left, I think to get herself some lunch. By now, I had a throbbing headache from lack of food. I rested and read for a while, until my turn finally came around noon.
Upstairs I went to pre-op, where I laid on a stretcher for a while, even now not truly nervous so much as anxious to get it over with. Dr. Brassard came by to ask if I was ready and told me I'd be going in soon.
When they wheeled me into the OR, even without my glasses I could see it was a rather large and well-appointed room, as operating rooms go. Classical music played in the background. The anesthesiologist started an IV and told me I'd be getting drowsy. Having been through this routine before, and even seen it myself during the course of my job as an MRI tech, I was in no way surprised to be rapidly rendered unconscious.
Although I probably came to in their Recovery Room, I have no clear memory of that. Next thing I knew for sure, I was back in the room with R, my groin aching painfully but not horribly so. I knew I must have a catheter, since I'd been told to expect that. At first, it feels as if you have to urinate, even though you know your bladder is draining by itself. After awhile, that feeling passes.
I was bandaged and had ice packs between my legs. Drowsing off and on for the remainder of that afternoon and night, I was aware of nurses coming in many time to take vital signs, change dressings and ice packs, and give regular pain shots. At one time, I felt slightly nauseated and gagged a few times, but they gave me anti-nausea meds and that soon passed. However, the meds delayed my next pain shot, and it got pretty bad for about an hour. I remember trying to keep up my courage by thinking of all the young girls who are subjected to FGM (female genital mutilation) without the comfort of anesthesia or pain medication, so I shouldn't be too sorry for myself over what I was enduring. At last, my angel of mercy arrived with a syringe and the pain went back to a manageable level again.
DAY THREE: Back to the Residence
By sunrise I was much less groggy. R and I were able to talk a bit and compare notes. T had left yesterday after seeing him safely out of surgery. R seemed about as comfortable as I was, but he also had the nuisance of having drains from his chest surgery.
As the morning wore on, we were served breakfast and later my catheter was removed. I had feared that would hurt, but in truth I could hardly feel it. After that, no more pain shots but only pills. We were told we'd be going back to the Residence around 1 PM, provided we had both been able to urinate prior to that. (Anesthesia, and in my case, swelling, interferes with kidney function and urination. It's important for the doctor to know that you've recovered enough to pee on your own before he releases a patient from the Clinic.)
Dr. Brassard came by to check on both of us shortly before our release. He told me I was doing well, but I should try to keep my legs apart as much as I could. "Walk like a cowboy," were his exact words. Believe me, I learned to do that quite well in the succeeding weeks!
Having passed the Great Pee Test with flying colors, R and I were summoned to the limo to return to the Residence, along with two other patients, one of whom was P, a 40-ish FTM who had chosen to have the meta with hook up. He had had to stay at the Clinic for two days, so this was my first meeting with him. I later learned there was yet another FTM at the Residence, C, a younger guy who was recovering from the first of his phalloplasty procedures and was almost ready to go home. That made four of us, out of 15-20 patients. (The number varied by the day, as some left and others arrived.) It was apparently a large number of FTM's at one time, and each of us had different surgeries. Bit of a coincidence, eh?
Anyway, after an uncomfortable ride (not the limo's fault, but we were all very sore), we finally reached the Residence. R and I discovered we were to share a double room. This put my nose out of joint, not because I had anything against R, but only because I'm a very private person and truly hate to share living space with anyone. I suspect R felt very much the same way, so it wasn't his preference either. On the positive side, we got the largest and most luxurious double there, with ample space for a couch between our beds, bow windows, and a two-story high ceiling complete with hanging chandelier!
On this particular day, the Residence was quite full, but I hadn't been there long enough to have gotten to know anyone, so I felt surrounded by a crowd of strangers, hurting quite a bit, unable to sit comfortably, restless and unable to concentrate on anything, one eyelid twitching whenever I tried to read.
I began feeling freaked out. An anxiety attack overwhelmed me and suddenly I didn't think I could stand to be here for four more days under these conditions. I started thinking the whole thing had been a big mistake. The results of the surgery wouldn't be good enough to make all this worthwhile. I spent all this money to be a freak rather than a man. I would be terribly disappointed once I got a good look at the results. I could already see that my mini-dick was so small it was almost behind the testicular implants. I had known that I wouldn't end up with a huge penis, but I had hoped for more than I had seen. And what about function? Yeah, the doctor had said it would be OK, but things go wrong. I knew what I had had before and how much I enjoyed it. Could I have destroyed this pleasure, all for the sake of appearance? Now I don't know what I can expect, and I don't think I'll find out real soon.
These and other thoughts ran dismally through my head.
T returned and she and R decided to watch a movie on their laptop. Suddenly, I just couldn't stay in the room anymore. I went outside to walk around the grounds and try to calm myself. Maybe it was just the stress, both mental and physical, plus the various medications I had taken, that precipitated the anxiety attack.
Desperately, I tried to steady myself, coming up with a sort of mantra and repeating, "Let it heal. It's too soon to know. Let it heal." I reminded myself that it's not a disaster even if I have made a mistake to have the surgery, which I certainly hadn't decided was so. If need be, some of it could be corrected. If the implants didn't look good, they could be removed. I could deal with this. Let it heal.
Slowly, my nerves settled down and I felt a sense of relief and even triumph that it was over and done, for better or for worse. I saw several people sitting in the outdoor smoking area, so I went and talked with them for a time, meeting B, one of the MTF's. We later spent a lot of time sharing stories and thoughts, and I was impressed by her caring and wisdom, not to mention her sense of humor.
Feeling a bit calmer now, I returned to my room, where R and T were about to take a walk to the local convenience store, about a half-mile away. They asked if I would like to accompany them. I almost declined, but decided it might be good to keep busy, even if walking wasn't too comfortable an activity.
We discovered that it was necessary to cross two of those narrow bridges I mentioned earlier, and that they each had rather precarious-looking walkways suspended on the sides for pedestrians. The walkways made me nervous at first, but they must be sturdy, since they haven't collapsed yet. We saw gorgeous houses, nice wetlands, and even a flock of ducks in a pond. The weather was crisp and clear, just starting to get dark as we returned with our cookies and candy. (No, you're not supposed to have food in your rooms, but most of us had a stash of some kind.)
I went to sleep that night repeating my mantra, and slept like a log, catching up on some much-needed rest.
DAY FOUR: Recovering
By the time I woke up, the anxiety had dissipated, much to my relief. I began meeting and talking to more of the others. I never did learn all the names of the MTF's who were there, but they're brave ladies. Their surgery, while more successful and standardized than ours, is pretty extensive and brutal. (A couple of days later, I had the opportunity to watch a video of Dr. Menard performing that operation, so I know how chopped up they get. I was frankly afraid it would make me feel sick or faint, but I found myself so fascinated that it didn't bother me. I only wish they had had on FTM tape also, but that one had disappeared somewhere along the way. I later urged Dr. Brassard to make us a new one.)
At any rate, the ladies have much worse post-op care to do, having to dilate their new vaginas numerous times a day, starting shortly after they have the catheter and packing removed, usually on the third day after their surgery.
Perhaps this would be a good place to note that I met many interesting and nice folks while staying at the Residence, but I'm not going to give much detail here about any of them, for the sake of their privacy. Many intimate and deeply personal conversations can take place between people under such unusual conditions, so be prepared to feel comfortable telling relative strangers in the same boat as you are about things you may never even have mentioned to your friends.
DAY FIVE: Better and Better
It was cool and foggy that morning, but the sun came out in the afternoon. Perfect Fall weather! I went outside to sit in the sun for a bit. I hadn't needed any pain medication beyond Tylenol since leaving the Clinic. I realized belatedly that I should have brought a comfortable bathrobe with me, since that was standard dress around the Residence, with so many folks unable to bear the touch of regular clothing against their aching nether regions. I had also neglected to bring slippers, but I did have a pair of moccasins that passed for slippers, since slippers are the only kind of footwear allowed inside the building. Plan to bring loose lounging clothes, nice pajamas, T-shirts, and outdoor clothing depending on the season. There is laundry service available for a small charge, so you need not bring tons of stuff with you.
Some folks are leaving today. It's going to be less crowded from now on, as tomorrow is a Canadian holiday, so no incoming patients. B left. She was easy to talk to and wise in many ways. I'll miss her presence. Maybe soon some new folks will arrive and R and I won't be the newbies anymore.
Glad I don't have to stay here too long. Once you start to feel good, you're anxious to get back to your life. However, since some of us face long trips home, I guess it's really a good idea to stay long enough to be able to manage the trip without too much discomfort or exhaustion. I'm not hurting too much now, so I think I'll be up to my return flight in a couple more days.
What can I say about the food? It's not gourmet cuisine, but it's certainly good as far as I'm concerned. Desserts are my favorite, especially the carrot cake. The staff tries to take into account special dietary needs, like vegetarianism or particular dislikes and is usually willing to cook up an omelette if you really don't like the main dish. Considering the wide range of food preferences, they do an excellent job.
In this regard, I must mention what we nicknamed the Residence Cocktail: a combination of prune and cranberry juice. Both juices are always available and we are encouraged to partake, the prune for obvious reasons and the cranberry because it helps prevent urinary infections. Since one is too sweet and one too tart, mixed together makes for a superior taste.
I had a chance for an inspection of myself today, since R went to town with some visiting friends. Can't say things look very impressive, but I can't blame that on the doctor, since he can only work with what I've got. It doesn't look too bad really, except that the testicular implants definitely overwhelm my poor little mini-dick. Looks rather weird. I'm not sure how much change to expect after healing, or if there's anything I can do to help improve the results. Haven't seen Dr. Brassard since just after the surgery, but will ask him when I do.
I was somewhat surprised to realize the incisions for the implants were in the front of my groin. I had had the idea they would be across the bottom of the labia, rather than up so far. However, it makes more sense this way, as there won't be as much pressure against the stitches.
I've been quite sociable lately, and I have a camera now, thanks to one of the ladies going shopping and graciously asking if she could get me anything. Going to start taking photos.
The aunt of one of the ladies has been staying here. She showed us her wonderful beadwork. Got a pair of earrings from her as a gift for my friends back home.
Spent an hour sitting outside with a local stray cat sitting on my lap. Friendly little thing that looks as if she's pregnant. We're hoping someone will break down and take her home. (One of the caregivers did eventually adopt her, but she ran away again. I left knowing that there was a home available to her, if she wanted it.)
DAY SIX: Inspections
I was up very early today, a rare thing for me. I was the first one to breakfast and I spent an hour organizing my notes and beginning this report before anyone else was up and moving.
Lots of the ladies will be having their catheters and packing removed today. Spent all morning talking to them as they awaited their turns with the nurse. Everyone felt much better afterwards. Awkward as it is for me to have so many people around, it's a great resource to see and hear all about their surgeries and learn about their lives. I would have missed an important experience if I hadn't come here.
Dr. Brassard finally arrived. He checked me out, showed me how to work on adjusting my silicone balls to lie further back, said everything looked good and I'm cleared to leave tomorrow.
Good news for some of the others also. R is already gone, a day earlier than he expected and pleased with his results. At the last minute, we played show and tell, so he could better make up his mind about surgery for himself.
C was okayed to go home, much to his delight. He'd been here for quite a few weeks waiting to heal from his phalloplasty and was more than ready to leave. Almost as soon as he got the word, he was on the phone calling his parents to come get him.
P had his drains removed, but not his catheter. He was disappointed, as he had misunderstood how long the catheter had to be in and didn't realize he had three more weeks to go. However, he was relieved to be checked out by the doctor and know that everything looked good.
Our two pre-op MTF's will be on their way to the Clinic tonight, so it's going to be very quiet here. (Yes, at last some other folks had arrived, so R and I were now considered old hands.) What a difference from the overcrowding of a few days ago! It's going to seem positively deserted.
I am finally allowed to take a shower. Hooray! It felt great to be really clean again.
The few of us who were left ordered in Chinese food for our Canadian Thanksgiving dinner, then had a fresh-baked chocolate-on-chocolate birthday cake for P.
As a preliminary to leaving the next day, I filled out an evaluation form for the entire experience. I had a number of suggestions to make, but the largest part of my comments was positive.
I'm mostly packed, even though I don't leave until midday tomorrow. Hard to believe it's almost over. By this time tomorrow night, I should be approaching New Bern. Back to the so-called real world again, and life can go on.
Hmm. I was just thinking what a multitude of lives and stories must have passed through this building, all at pivotal points in their lives. If these walls could talk . . .
Stray thought that it might make the basis of a novel. Certainly has the potential for drama. The concept of the four guys going for the different surgeries gives a great chance to explore pros and cons. Would have to invent another location and make up the characters, since it would be fiction. Have to think about it some more and see if the idea develops or goes away. After all, there's quite a bit of non-fiction out there now, but the Great American Transexual Novel has yet to be written.
DAY SEVEN: Going Home
Good sleep last night. All packed and ready.
C left a while ago, much to his delight. When his parents came to pick him up, I saw his father standing by the door alone, looking awkward. I went over to him to tell him how good it was to see parents there with their kids. Made me feel that my own parents would have done the same for me, if they'd had the chance. Also told him he had a great young man there and he should be proud of him. He smiled and thanked me.
Been out enjoying the scenery for the last time, crossed the bridge on the footpath. Yesterday in the wind the blowing yellow leaves fairly sparkled against the blue sky. Today it's still. I had almost forgotten what the autumn trees look like, being surrounded with evergreens at home. The colors are striking just because they are different and so force you to pay attention to them. We take the great beauty of nature for granted most of the time, perhaps because when you do pay close attention to it, it's so lovely it can break your heart.
Off to the airport, after some quick good-byes. Bought maple sugar candy and syrup for my friends at home. Three planes to catch and a long way to go.
Bless the rocking chairs at the Charlotte airport, where I had my longest layover! Just what I needed after the cramped and uncomfortable seats in the planes. Hurting a bit from all the sitting, but getting by on nothing stronger than Tylenol.
Still concerned about the implants, one of which doesn't seem to want to stay where it was put. I like the freed-up mini-dick, but it's very sensitive and rubs against my clothing. I suppose I'll get used to that in time.
On the last leg of the final flight. An orange moon, just beyond full, seems to be hanging low in the sky, looking down at the jeweled cities, floating in golden glory like a huge peach, ripe for the picking by a Cosmic hand. Now and then it's obscured by hiccups of lower fast-moving clouds that look like softest gossamer but are filled with bumps as our plane bounces down through them. As we descend, the moon's ghostly glow haunts us in occasional gleams, until the lights of my town suddenly flash into view below us.
And I am home, the same person I was when I left, and yet also different, in spirit as well as body, after my time in Montreal.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
Wow! Pretty melodramatic ending, huh? Well, that's how I felt at the time.
What would I have done differently, had I known all this ahead of time? For starters, I would have taken another week off, if I could have. As it is, I went back to work six days after I got home, but it wasn't fun. I still hurt quite a bit when sitting and walking was uncomfortable, at best. Just wearing pants was irritating. At home, I could wear just a bathrobe or large T-shirt. It was only about a week later that I could finally sit with a degree of comfort.
What irony! For the first time in my life, I'd actually prefer to be able to wear a skirt, since it would chafe less than pants. But if I did, I would look like the Bearded Lady. I did, however, take full advantage of the acceptance of robes for men when attending my SCA meetings. (Medieval living history group, for those who don't know.)
My wandering implant still doesn't want to stay where it belongs, although the other one is pretty stable. Unfortunately, neither one will go back far enough to actually be behind my mini-dick, as they should be. I'm seriously considering having the implants removed, since they aren't working out well. However, I intend to think things over thoroughly before taking any further action. I may also consult with another surgeon, to get a second opinion.
I'm pleased enough with my mini-dick itself, since it's even more sensitive than it was before the release. It is a bit rough-looking around the edges, most likely since I told Dr. Brassard that I might someday want the urinary hook up, so he was going to leave as much tissue intact as he could. Now that I'm reasonably sure I won't want that, things could be improved somewhat in that regard.
Along these lines, there is something I would have done if I'd known. Although I had a consult just before surgery, I never had a physical exam of my genitals by Dr. Brassard. Possibly he could have told me that I shouldn't expect much length and I could have decided right then that he needn't have left anything for a future hook up. I also might not have had both surgeries at the same time, in order to have first seen the results of the clitoral release before deciding on the implants. However, as they say, hindsight is 20/20. These are just suggestions I'm putting here so others will know better what to do.
Perhaps the most important thing is to go into all of this with realistic expectations of the results. Never forget that doctors can perform surgery, but they cannot perform miracles. Not yet, anyway.
POSTSCRIPT
or
"I Left My Heart in San Francisco,
But I Left My Balls in Montreal"
Ironically, the above witticism made by one of the MTFs I met during my brief stay at the Residence could have applied as much to me as to her. After ten months, my implants had not ended up in the correct place, due in large part (or so I suspected) to my own particular anatomy. I went to consult Dr. Brassard, hoping he might have a suggestion as to how this could be remedied, while strongly expecting to hear that there was nothing he could do that would have a very good likelihood of success. I had already decided that no balls at all would be far better than having them ridiculously in front of my mini-dick. I also hoped for a better appearance for the mini-dick itself, which looked somewhat lopsided due to a bit of excess skin on one side.
As a result of all this, I headed for Montreal with very mixed feelings.
I spent an exhausting day waiting in airports for a longer time than actually flying in planes, due to a screwed-up itinerary and some ill-timed thunderstorms. I can happily report that I had no problems with Customs, either going or coming, even though I had only a driver's license in my current name marked M and a birth certificate in my born name marked F, plus copies of papers showing a name change. Although I did volunteer the information that I was transexual, I might well have gotten by without mentioning it.
Arriving at the Residence, I got my own room, much to my delight. Usually, one must stay in the dormitory area in the basement while awaiting surgery, then be assigned a room on the first or second floor after surgery, possibly sharing with someone. Since there were only seven people in the whole place, the basement area was not needed and it wasn't necessary for me to share. The staff actually remembered me from last time, and welcomed me back. It was a homecoming of sorts.
Hug from Linda, one of the caregivers
Also, again to my delight, it turned out not to be necessary for me to shave my pubic hair, nor even have an enema or refrain from eating, as I was only going to have a local anesthetic for my surgery the following morning.
All the other patients during my stay this time were MTFs, so I was the lone guy amongst all the ladies. For some reason, I felt extremely sociable and decided to spend most of my stay hanging out and talking to the others, rather than hiding in my room and reading a lot, as I am inclined to do. As a result, I had many long and personal discussions with a lot of the ladies over the course of the few days I was there. Hearing other histories that are different from, and yet much like, your own, in a safe place where you don't have to hide what's going on, is one of the biggest advantages of staying at the Residence. For the ladies, it is also very helpful to be able to see others who are further along in the healing process, learning firsthand what it was like, asking questions, and so forth.
Surgery was set for the following morning, so I was awakened bright and early to get ready for the taxi. I declined breakfast, figuring it best to have an empty stomach in case I should later become nauseated.
Since the revision was to be an out-patient procedure, I went to the office, rather than the clinic itself. I had barely gotten there and had time to admire the many stained glass panels and doors when I was summoned to the back of the building to see Dr. Brassard. Sitting at what looked more like a kitchen table than anything else, we went through the multi-paged document that is now required. (It basically says that I agree to go through the Canadian court system if I choose to bring a lawsuit against them.)
After that, I changed into a hospital gown and went with him into the examining room. He took a look at my problem and basically agreed that, although he could replace my implants with smaller ones if I wished, they would be unlikely to stay where they were put, but would probably migrate to the front, since there really wasn't enough space behind my mini-dick. However, he could easily tidy up the lopsided mini-dick itself.
I told him that was pretty much what I expected and I wanted the implants removed.
The surgery took about an hour. There was a little pain from the injections of local anesthetic, plus a sort of pressure-pain when he reached the point of persuading the implants to come out, but nothing truly spectacular or unbearable. The worst part was that I began feeling light-headed and nauseated. (For you medical folks out there, I have a hair-trigger vasovagal response.) I was able to warn Dr. Brassard that this wasn't at all unusual for me, so he needn't be unduly concerned. Nevertheless, he had the nurse hook up a monitor, lower the head of the table, and put cold compresses on my head and neck. As soon as he was certain I was medically stable, he continued with what he was doing and I soon began feeling better, even carrying on a conversation with him as he worked. By the time he had finished stitching everything up, I was able to sit, then stand up and get dressed.
Mercifully, the taxi ride back to the Residence took place while my nether regions were still numb, which was a big improvement over the ride last time. I spent the rest of that day taking it easy and keeping an ice pack on my crotch to minimize any swelling, as Dr. B had advised. Although the staff had pain pills available had I needed any, a few of my own tylenol got me through just fine.
I had only two and a half days left to stay, and some of the ladies had gone home while I was at the office, while others had arrived or returned from their own surgeries, so I had a lot of new people to meet and new stories to hear.
Despite the pain and discomfort of the post-op folks, they were all happy to have their new bodies. Newcomers looked forward eagerly to their turns, even as they asked nervous questions about how bad it would be.
I must confess to feeling a bit envious. The MTF surgery is so standardized now that it's almost routine and generally results in a very satisfactory outcome, while the FTM surgery is more of a choice of options, none of which have entirely terrific results.
Mysty and Brandi, several of the charming ladies whose company added so much to my stay in Montreal
So here I was, surrounded by folks who had finally arrived at the big day, the surgery that would make them physically what they already knew they were, while I had had a part of my surgery reversed. Of course, I rejoiced at the joy of the others and was very aware of the long, hard, and painful roads many had traveled, but I couldn't quite suppress a bit of self-pity.
Sure, nothing said I couldn't have a meta, or even a phalloplasty, if I really wanted it. But from what I've seen, neither seems worth the price. (My own opinion, of course, in my own case only. No disrespect intended for the many others who choose those options.)
When asked by one of the caregivers at the Residence if I expected to return someday, all I could say was that I doubted it very much, unless Dr. B could invent the perfect FTM surgery sometime in the near future.
Still I enjoyed those few days of healing and talking, of looking at the scenery outside and walking to the store a couple of times, of having nothing really to do, and taking a bit of time off from my daily life. I was healing well, and there was only discomfort rather than pain after that first day.
The final morning of my stay dawned bright and beautiful. Everywhere I looked I seemed to be reminded that I would very likely never pass this way again. I wanted to stay on, to see the new pre-ops through their surgeries and watch the post-ops as they healed. I wanted to remain just a little longer, to extend this brief hiatus from my everyday life. So many people had been at the Residence in the past, and many more would pass through here in the future, seeking the transformation that would make their bodies more acceptable to them. So much hope had flowed through this place, so much pain, gladly borne. And sometimes, inevitably, a bit of disappointment at the results. So many words and private thoughts exchanged with strangers who were suddenly friends, never known before and, for the most part, never to be seen again.
From this place of intersections where the paths of so many of my brothers and sisters have crossed, I fervently wished them all good journeys, and a home where journeys end.
Corner of the Residence living room
A few hours before I would leave for the airport, I walked outside, and stood on the small dock down by the river, admiring the crisp clear air and the view. Above me, the leaves danced in a light breeze and whispered to each other. So many people had come here for changes that almost amount to miracles. Self-pity crept back, as I reflected that there had been no miracles this time for me.
Catching sight of my shadow on the murky water in front of me, I suddenly remembered a photo of myself as a teen-ager, dressed like a boy, standing fully-clothed on a rock above a sparkling creek with a swimming hole where others played in the waterfall, my fists clenched in anger as the photo was snapped. Anger and sorrow that I could not join the others without donning a bathing suit, which would inexorably mark me as female.
Now, looking down at the water, my shadow stands at ease, hands in pockets, comfortable and self-confident. I am recognized by the world as a man, and would be so recognized even in a bathing suit. My fists are no longer clenched in anger and despair.
And I thought, maybe I have had my share of miracles, after all.
REVISION REVISITED
Then again, perhaps there were more miracles to come. In January of 2010, I had a consult with Dr. Christine McGinn in New Hope PA, to see if she could suggest anything to improve the appearance of my genitals. I was dissatisfied because my mini-dick was virtually invisible, hidden by my labia. Dr. McGinn said she could reposition it farther forward, in order that it might be seen more easily. She also suggested a mini-tummy tuck, to pull everything forward and up more. I made an appointment for surgery that June. Everything went fine.
As a result, I am even happier about my appearance. While I cannot say I look like an average man without my clothes on, I no longer look like an average woman either. My penis, although abnormally small, is clearly visible now. I had no loss of erotic sensation from the surgery. I recommend Dr. McGinn highly.
