The Subversive #24

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Explorations

, Editor

This is it. The VERY LAST ISSUE of The Subversive. I almost hesitated in writing this editorial. I mean, the moment I upload this to the BBS its all over - the end of the journey, the end of an era. But I didn't hesitate. In fact, I uploaded Issue #23 only five minutes ago.

So, how can I have anything new to say so soon? Well, I can't. And that's the point. Just like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz", I've had the secret all along. There's no place like home. But home isn't WHERE I am, its WHO I am.

As soon as I realized I had posted issue #23, as soon as it sunk in, I knew that nothing had changed. I'm not really stepping away from anything; I'm already away from it. I really haven't been involved in transition things for almost a year. The whole key is: its over when it stops. And it stops when you stop. There's no destination, no finish line, no requirements. We each set our own parameters on when we will have arrived, when we will be satisfied. But we get so caught up in the pretty lights and scenery along the way, we forget we were going someplace. Well, now I've remembered.

Thanks to all of you for joining me in the story of my transition. Its been good to have you along. I'm glad it ended in success for we can all take heart in the knowledge that sometimes things actually work out.

Raised By Wolves

Book Three: Across The Great Divide

So, here I am, sitting on the train, shooting into the dark at 90 miles an hour.

Chris and I arrived at the station at 7:30, fully an hour before the train was scheduled to leave. I had not stopped for dinner, so we berthed at the Union Station Cafe. After the brief but satisfying repast, we joined the queue assembled before Gate "E".

I had intentionally worn comfortable and non-suggestive clothing so as to avoid male attentions on the trip up. It didn't seem to be working. Of course the lack of any real competition surely had its effect, as I have discovered that male interest is a sliding scale, based upon what's available.

Finally, the gate opened and Chris, followed by myself, trudged along with the other intrepid travelers and made our way down the endless tunnel leading from the Grand arches of Union Station to the boarding platform.

Our train was waiting: the Southwest Chief - a slick, streamlined, snake harkening back to the woolly days of yesteryear by its antiquated name. I had never been on a train before, so this trip whose destination will thrust me into unexplored territory began with an untried experience as well.

The connotative images of trains famous and renowned layered over the more moderate denotative function of this modern relative. Orient Express, Trans Siberian Railway, Von Ryan's Express: the lore of the great Iron Horse reared up in majestic posturing, sharing with me a taste of the sweet savor of diesel fuel I had always wondered at from afar. Railroad buffs don't cherish their steeds from watching them run, but from riding on their graceful, yet muscular backs.

Suddenly a thought struck me: This train was a "loc" "emotive" for me - a process toward a place that had as much meaning in the journey as the destination. Just as the very nature of this simple Amtrack vehicle was stepped in spill-over from others of its ilk, so too would I soon become an icon of every loving mother and jaded hooker who ever touched on man.

So, in the darkness, here I sit - images of engines driving hard upon my mind. A tiny light in front pin-pricks at the great black beast until it has run its season and retires, spent, in favor of the day.

The night was passed in spurts of sleep; interrupted alternately by turbulence of passage and vivid waking dreams. Often I would be jolted conscious to an eerie perception of shifting shadows and slumbering shapes. Each glimpse melded into my semi-sentient musings, incorporating train stuff in the fabric of my wistful weavings.

The soft pulsing of the engine spoke of gentle sensual thrusts. The rocking of the carriage moved me in its slow embrace. My mind turned to thoughts of actually being a woman, joining with a man. The hesitations of a life being told implicitly that such was wrong, replaced with the urgings of society now to partake in full. Suddenly, the outside world turned topsey turvey - wrong is right and up is down. All the forbidden fruit is offered on the "blue plate special".

My very being was staggered by the sudden decompression. Tentatively at first, I loosened my grip on the "givens" I had never dared to question. The waters were warm and inviting. For just a moment a fingerhold on one world and a toe hold in the other. And then, the leap of faith: I let go.

Suddenly I was plunged beneath the surface, turned 'round in the soft power of a swirling vortex until I lost all sense of the surface. I held my breath until my lungs burst, spewing out the last remains of an old atmosphere and taking in the first gasping gulp of a new.

I knew what it is to be female - to be a woman, both in relationships and interrelationships. My whole perspective shifted, and that definitive change in self-image I had anticipated for so long began to occur.

All day I have hovered between waking and sleeping. At times I am quite alert, racing forward to grab a snack or taking a quick constitutional in the frozen air of Albuquerque - the only major stop of the journey. Other times I drift away, nestled deep in my seat, hypnotized by the passing scenery and endless swaying of the train.

My emotions gently shift and blend as I review my whole life in connotative order, then expand the ripple to include the future. No decisions sought here - its past that time. The point is familiarity with my own feelings so that every thing has been properly labeled and tacked in its place.

We just pulled into Las Vegas, New Mexico - a small town on the route, and our last stop before Colorado. Snow has drifted and disappeared from the ground all day as we traversed many altitudes an ranges. Currently, the skies are clear, more clear in fact than any time so far in our journey.

When we arrive in Trinidad three hours hence, it will be dark. There will be no feelings attached to this town until tomorrow morning.

We have begun to move again, slowly picking up speed on the way to my destiny, for truly it is that. And destinies can be good or bad. Only time will tell if all this effort leaves me joyous or regretful. And no time can tell if it is a better decision than others I chose not to make.

We've picked up steam and are slicing ever quicker through the high prairie, even quicker in the waning sun to the seat of my future.

My brain is signaling "601... 601: which is the computer code for "out of processing space". The size of the change about to occur in my life is so big that my mind runs out of room before it can determine all the ramifications. So, it gives up, dumps the program, clears memory and starts over again from a different point of attack. But, before a few minutes have passed, it has to give up on that approach as well. Its been like that all day, and its driving me crazy.

The actual desire to have surgery is not in question here, but rather what it will mean to my life. All my ponderings of the past few years have stopped short at that point. "The crystal ball grows cloudy", the fortune teller says, and draws the curtains on the show.

Its not that I can't see the future - not really. No, its that I cannot accept what I am seeing. l The sense rebel, as the glimpse afforded holds no meaning in all past experience.

Me, leaving Mary and living with a man? Me, truly a woman in mind and body? Me, mind changed so far in composition that my memories fail to identify the speaker as myself?

I am changed. I am a new person. The consciousness that was Dave is as dead as if he'd fallen from a plane. Only his motivation remains, but, godammit, those are changing too! The whole of me is mutating into some unknown alien form. The question no longer is what do I want, but who am I now? But its all too late to change. The only part of this thinking being that remains the same is the resolve to finish what it started.

I just sat down in one of those overstuffed atrocious green vinyl waiting-room chairs that were all the rage in the 50s. Moments ago I concluded my appointment with Marie, Doctor Biber's secretary. As soon as Dr. Biber is available, I'll be called in for my examination. Until then, I have time to write.

I awoke this morning before the wakeup call and lay beneath the covers emotionally neutral, trying to see how I felt. Before I could sense my mental lean, the phone rang with my 6:30 wake-up. I threw off the covers and literally jumped out of bed in the attempt to stir something up physically since my mind seemed impervious to getting in gear. It worked. Just the simple action of getting the adrenaline running started the mental motor as well.

Before anything else I called Mary as I had not done so the night we arrived. I had misjudged the time difference and woke her at 5:45 am. Nonetheless, she was warm and cheerful. Having already decided to go through with the surgery, I asked Mary if she felt it was the right thing to do, hoping to have good feelings accompany my decision. She told me that I was happier, calmer and more together over the last couple of years, and if she wasn't happy she wouldn't be there. Just like my dad at his last visit, she told me, "Yes, its right for you." What a woman!

Next step was to take my shower and get dressed. Odd, but I just realized that I didn't even pay any attention to that space between my legs. I was so forward thinking as to what I needed to do today that I zipped through the shower almost unconsciously. Getting dressed was quick and carefree as I had laid out things last night before bed. I put on my make-up, pleased that I had done electrolysis last weekend, as even two days without shaving had shown no visible stubble.

Chris and I met at 8:00 for breakfast, then walked through the brisk morning air down Main Street to the First National Bank Building, home of Biber's office. The building itself was like most of Trinidad: Wild West frontier architecture dating back to the mid to late 1800s. We entered the ancient elevator on one side and got out on the other at the fourth floor.

I asked the receptionist for "Marie", Doctor Biber's secretary, and was directed 'round the corner to an office on the left. I walked into the open door, introduced myself and was asked to sit in the single straight-back chair in the corner. Chris was directed to the waiting room.

The office, like the building itself, smacks of its 1880s construction, apparent most in its small size and location at the end of a twisting convoluted hall. The furnishings must have been made in the fifties: the overstuffed green vinyl waiting room benches with silver steel tube arms - you know the kind.

Marie asked me to fill out several forms, checked the paperwork I had brought, and gave me some informative leaflets. We shared pleasant conversation amidst the xeroxed sheets and then I returned to the waiting room to await Doctor Biber's call to come into his office. As you have read, I was called in by Doctor Biber almost immediately.

Update! I am in my hospital room and the nurse just came in to warn me that she would be back in fifteen minutes to prep me for surgery, and that it was time to put on my gown. So I did that and now I'm writing this while wearing nothing but the delightful white gown with the blue polka dots, and my socks. As I understand it, prep consists of shaving all my pubic hair and painting me orange...

Well, back to my meeting with Biber... Nope! She's back! Time to get prepped... Yeah, team!!!

So, Biber calls me in. His office is about the same size as Marie's, cluttered and small. He sits me down and starts asking questions and taking notes on a lank piece of typing paper in longhand.

I am now completely hairless from the neck down. I had a pleasant conversation with the nurse while she shaved my genitals. I even received a phone call from a friend during the procedure. And I thought I would be bored! But wait! The entertainment scheduled for this evening wasn't over yet! For the Second Movement: THE ENEMA!!! (Part One: "Let's get to the bottom of this." Part Two: "You look a little flushed.")

So, Doctor Biber takes the notes. I show him some "before" pictures and he chuckles. I'm sent into the next room to strip for the physical exam. Incredibly, its even smaller than Biber's office! But it is a warm room (heated by the ancient radiator in the corner) and I get no goosebumps while standing there naked.

Biber enters and has me lay on the examining table. He pokes, prods, and stretches, then proclaims, "It's not the biggest in the West, but it will do." Anticipated depth four to five inches with another one to one and a half inches from stretching by dilation.

I'm left to dress, then sit again at Biber's desk while he outlines the schedule to come. He smiles, shakes my hand, and I'm off to pick up Chris from the waiting room. Chris and I walk back to the motel, arrange my things, then start on a journey of discovery. We follow Main Street to a side street that leads up the hill past some truly wonderful old buildings at the way to the top of the hill.

What a marvelous view of the city, nestled across the picture postcard valley - the white Rockies etching the horizon. Time is growing shorter, so we retreat from our perch and stroll the city until we find a small cafe and have lunch.

As we pay the cashier, I notice on the newsstand a pulp magazine touting "A baby for James Bond sex change beauty!"

Back at the motel, I call the cab company, knowing full well that by my destination, they know exactly why I am here.

Mount San Rafael Hospital is a tasteful, modern building, designed to blend into its natural setting. Inside I step into the Admissions Office and meet Roberta Marie, the administrator who handles all of Biber's patients. She takes my checks, accepts two credit cards to be protected in the safe, and takes me down to the lab. There, I have blood taken and leave a urine sample. I enjoy an interchange with the lab nurse about the many renditions of butterflies she has gracing the room.

Back to Roberta Marie's where I receive final information and am led to my room. I spend some time unpacking, then relax on the bed, watching TV (39 stations on cable!) and listening to the radio with my headset. Chris relaxes in an uncomfortable chair with the latest Stephen King novel he has been reading since Burbank.

Finally, I pull out my notebook and begin to write, which brings us to where this started.

It is now 9:57 pm. I'll be awakened in seven hours for surgery. The nurse has just left after providing a sleeping pill, which was washed down with water - a small treat to my dry moth since I am not to eat or drink after 8 pm.

Well, this is it. Right or wrong, for better or worse, forever from now on, the die is cast. I feel no fear nor anxiety. In fact, I feel nothing at all. Perhaps to avoid nervousness, my emotions have shut themselves down until after the fact.

What a strange feeling that after all the pain and yearning and drive I should be emotionally neutral on the eve of completion. But from here, it seems like such a small thing. A little tag of flesh that worlds revolve around.

My mind grows fuzzy already from the effects of the pill. I'll close for now. All is said, and soon all will be done.

The day I have waited all of my life for has arrived. I awoke at just past four after a solid night's sleep. Mused and pondered for a while with a smile on my face. Then took several minutes to engage in the "Obligatory Last Masturbation". That successfully completed, I decided to continue this log like a good little reporter. So, here I am, on the verge of the greatest change I ever expect to make.

So few things begin as a double dilemma - the first being between body and mind and the second between mind and mind. To resolve the negative potential, one must change both body AND mind. And so I have. I am no longer the person I was. Who I am has shifted and grown as I changed the state of my consciousness, even while maintaining my subconsciousness. What I am has been partially changed by hormones. My physical self is certainly not what it was.

But both of these are temporary, or at least changeable conditions. I could go back to the way I thought and I could go back to the physical self I was. That is about to change in a scant two hours. By the stroke of a knife, my body will be altered permanently. And by this certain knowledge, my subconscious is changed forever as well.

That is the nature of a leap of faith: to close off your options and burn your bridges behind you. To take a step from which there is no return. Throwing yourself into a future where the odds for success are fifty/fifty, and no guarantee seems more likely than another.

I cannot know the nature of the outcome. If I could, there would have been no dilemma in the first place. Just a problem to be resolved step by known step, where each advancement you make puts the next in sight. But dilemmas skip a step and you must leap into the fog on the assumption and hope that if there was something to stand on all the way here, there will be something to land on behind the mist.

So I take my leap this morning. It is 5:03 am. At any moment they will come for me, and I am ready, truly ready to go.

If there is a place to stand on in the mental sense, I'll be truly happy. if there's a place to stand on in the physical sense, I'll be alive. Either way, I am prepared. And either way, to my personal friends and relatives, and especially to my family, thank you all.

I love you all so very much. No one could ask for a more supportive and loving family than you. This has not just been my struggle, but yours as well. And I am truly aware of how much my choices forced you to deal with. Words cannot express the love and respect I have for you all.

I hope with great eagerness and anticipation to see you soon. But should something untoward happen, be at peace that I lived my life as I wanted to, and entered the operating room more full of joy and completion than I have ever experienced before.

So, I close, fulfilled already. Already enjoying my new life even before surgery. So know that should something happen, I'm already there. I cannot be deprived because I'm already there.

NOTE: The following is taken from my handwritten journal. The letters are slurred and scrawled in such disarray that if I hadn't written the text myself, I'd never have been able to decifer it later.

Its done! I'm back in my room and doing well. I awoke during the end of surgery, so by the time I got to recovery, I was already quite alert.

They checked me out for a while, then sent me back here. I'm still pretty groggy, so I'll take a quick nap for a while.

I've been a woman for about nine hours. Strangely, I don't feel much difference! I guess that shows how successful I had been in thinking of myself as a woman before surgery. The pain is not nearly as bad as I had been told to expect. The injection from surgery completely wore off two hours ago and I still don't need a pain killer. I suppose I should have one to help me sleep, but the overall is that it is only like a bad bruise. I'll fill in more details tomorrow, but today I am very tired and keep drifting in and out.

My second day as a woman. I guess all I can say is that for the first time in my life I feel normal. No fireworks, no marching bands, just plain normal. I am balanced, the internal conflict is gone. I find that I see myself as a woman now, no longer transsexual or male.

Testosterone is just about out of my system now, and I am completely estrogen based. That DOES feel different.

Look at me! I'm just who I want to be! I've spent most of the time drifting in and out. Until now, I had not felt motivated to write. During the day, the pain has gotten significantly milder. Once or twice, however, I reached a little too far and quickly and felt the mule kick me right between the legs. Fortunately, the nurses were all set with painkiller injections: the gift of the gods.

Finally my strength is back. This is the first day I have really felt up to snuff since surgery. Saturday and Sunday were pretty much write offs (no pun intended) Even though my pain receded slowly but continuously, I had forgotten that the bowels shut down after surgery for up to four days. The overall effect was for one kind of discomfort to segue into another. This left me getting motivated to become more mobile only to find myself unable to move. Just rolling over on my side to get a pain killer shot was a major exertion requiring an hour of recuperation. I had no idea at the time just how weak I was.

The entire staff here has been amazing. In all my experiences with hospitals during the years preceding my grand parents deaths, I have never encountered such kind and caring people. The lady in charge of the kitchen came by in between meals to see if...

The last entry was interrupted by the most emotionally positive experiences of my life: The "Biber Button" was removed. named for its resemblance to a navel, the Biber Button is a round wad of brown surgical gauze that is positioned two thirds of the way from the navel to the vagina as an anchor to a wire that pulls the abdomen down into a more female curve.

Through the last few days, my tentative gropings were always interrupted by the protrusion of the button, feeling much like a dried penis stub. So the thrill I had of seeing my new form was incomplete. But just moments ago, the nurse informed me that today was "wire day" and bent over me to snip the last link to my male past.

A tiny little snip, then, "take a deep breath," a sudden tug, the sensation of something being pulled out of my insides - over almost before it was felt. I looked down and my physical womanhood finally lay before me. My God! All these years and all this way. The years of dreaming, hoping, hurting, all behind me now. Reality has shifted; the past is the dream. The future is territory unknown.

I called in some voice mail to be played at the company meeting later in the day. I said,

"Hi all! You've heard of Postcards From the Edge? Well this is a postcard from OVER the edge. Of course, the question of the hour is: Was the surgery a success? YES!!!! It looks like I was born this way. Biber is a miracle worker. (Only my hairdresser knows for sure!)

"Actually, it was a pretty heavy surgery. It takes a lot out of you (so to speak). However, I'm bouncing back fast and can hardly wait to get back and show everybody my scar.

"Seriously though, I want to thank everyone for their support. When I was looking forward to this it was just one step at a time. But now that I look backward, I realize the magnitude of what I've accomplished and wonder how I did it. In truth, you can't do it by yourself. You need the support of those around you.

"Thank you all for your acceptance and friendship, and I'm looking forward to seeing you all back at work next week."

My roommate just ordered a pizza. I realize I have not yet even mentioned my roommate. Looking quickly back over my journal here I realize how fragmented it is, due to my post-surgical fatigue, which rears up once again as I write these words. So, tomorrow I shall fill in what gaps I can during my last day in bed before taking my first step as a woman.

I just met Cathy, a sister transsexual who is scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning. She's younger, prettier, gentler, and sounds better than me, dammit! What a cruel twist of fate! Just kidding, just kidding... sort of!

Actually, she's very sweet and has obviously chosen the right course for her personality. Cathy is here with her sister, who looks very much like her. Dorothy, the anesthesiologist, introduced them to Steph (my roommate) and myself and left us alone to talk to them about our experiences. They just left to organize their things and will be back later with fresh questions.

Dorothy came in and started my IV. Another nurse gave me a pre-surgical injection. Chris shot some 8mm video for posterity, and then, in the midst of all the commotion, they came to take me away.

In ordered frenzy, the team liberated my bed, rolled me out of the room and down the corridor. I looked up to see the stereotypical movie angle of the patient's POV of ceiling lights flashing by. I returned my gaze forward and saw the operating room doors loom up. Chris stepped ahead into view (I believe to make sure I didn't want to change my mind at the last moment.)

I knew this was my final chance to bail out: the last opportunity to remain male. I smiled groggily at Chris, raised my hand in the "thumbs up" sign and said, "See you on the other side." The doors swung closed behind me.

The gurney was wheeled along side the operating table, and I was asked to raise myself up and over onto the surgical slab. I was told to roll onto my left side and pull my knees to my chest, my shaved genitals coldly exposed.

My last feeling was the satisfied certainty that nothing could stop this now. I was really going to be a woman.

The next sensation I had was a gentle tugging feeling - like when you are sound asleep and someone is trying to waken you without frightening you. My mind was very cloudy as it rose out of the depths, but eventually I recalled who and where I was AND what was going on. As my senses returned, I realized that the tugging was something they were doing between my legs: I had come out of the anesthesia while the surgery was still going on!

My first reaction was to tell them, so I could be put under again. But I have always been somewhat nervous about anesthetic and figured that as long as it didn't hurt I'd rather not take that chance twice. So, I didn't move and didn't talk and let them tug away.

I don't know exactly how long it was that I remained motionless, as my time sense was not very functional at the moment. But it didn't feel very long before the tugging stopped and then gently wheeled me away to the recovery room.

(When I brought this information up to the anesthesiologist, she was convinced at first that I had only imagined it. However, when I described the feelings and mentioned that I had heard people talking - though I did not recall the words - she agreed I must have come out of it early. In fact (she confirmed) at that point, the actual surgery was completed and they were stuffing in yards of surgical gauze called "packing" to keep my vagina open while it healed.)

Once in the recovery room, I woke up quickly, which somewhat surprised the surgical assistant who was there to monitor me. He was a really kind young guy - something of the athletic type, blondish, muscular, that I had met on the way into surgery when the team introduced themselves to me. I told him about waking up during the end of the procedure and he merely commented that it was very odd indeed.

Once that was off my mind, a stray thought lodged in my mind. I looked up at him and mused to myself, "You're a man, and I'm not."

I drifted in and out of sleep as they checked on me from time to time, but eventually was awakened for the short gurney journey down the halls back to my room. And this is where my earlier account resumes.

It occurs to me that each of us is a pioneer. At the moment of our birth we awaken to find ourselves in territory unknown, without a map. It is our simple purpose to spend our lives looking for a way home, and in the end, we do.

Regarding the above paragraph.... I awoke at seven and opened the window drapes to see the frozen landscape before me. I began thinking about my daughter Mindi, someday at her wedding. I would be wearing a dress... No, I would wear a tux - I'm not proud! I still want to "give her away" as her father.

I thought about Keith - wanting to be his buddy, his dad; not to lose him to another male role model. I want to give him some understanding of life, some wisdom that will help make the journey easier, some hope to help him overcome the bad times.

It has been an eventful day. Just after my last entry, they removed my catheter. Drawing the fluid from the balloon that had been inflated in my bladder to hold the catheter in place, the nurse then pulled the tube from my urethra. I was free!!!

After six days flat on my back in bed, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and put my feet on the floor as a woman. To me, that was when I felt I had made it. I walked about four feet to the chair they had prepared for me and at my breakfast Sitting Up!

The next few hours were spent in short journeys around the room, followed by ever decreasing recuperation periods in bed. But I had a mission: I was charged with the sacred duty of learning how to pee like a woman. Problem is, muscles, nerves and the drainage duct itself have been moved. So the brain actually doesn't know how to do the job: what mental buttons to push. Which means, weak as you are, painful as it is, you sit and you push and you relax and you pray, and nothing happens.

For five hours I made painful trips to the restroom with negative results. Due to the almost unbearable pressure building in my bladder, I was temporarily catheterized to drain me back to zero. This was just a temporary reprieve, however, as if I was not able to go in another five hours, I would be recatheterized for one more day with the model I had endured the past week. No more mobility, not to mention the pain of having the catheter re-inserted, this time WITHOUT anesthetic!

And what if THAT didn't work? What if I had to go back to surgery? What if THAT didn't work?

After my initial relief on Wednesday the remainder of the day was fraught with fear and pain. I was completely unmotivated to write, so I will catch up on those events now.

On Wednesday afternoon, I found that drinking water as regularly as I had been told led to restroom trips every twenty minutes or so. The first couple of times were increasingly easy, although still difficult and sore. But soon, the burning pain began to increase. And the surging flood of relief became a trickle. Soreness and pressure built up and troubled me throughout a listless night.

Thursday morning, I found myself constipated as well. The old fears of a surgical mistake welled within me. I complained to all who came to check, was given more laxatives, but remained bound. I kept remembering that I was due to have the "packing" that had been stuffed into my vagina removed the next day. It was my desperate hope that its removal would ease the pressure and allow all systems to function again.

Throughout the day and into the night I slept naught, jolted alert every twenty minutes by the burning pressure to relieve myself in excruciating pain. Finally, dawn was upon me, and ultimately, the moment of unpacking.

Unpacking was supposed to occur at 7 am. I watched the clock like a convict on death row, waiting for a pardon from the governor. The hands reached seven, then seven-oh-five. I had to wait an extra 30 minutes for them to come in. That may not seem like much, but under the conditions it was awful.

When the nurse arrived, she undid my tampon from the "garter belt" and began to pull the gauze from my new vagina. It was not unlike the standard magician's trick where they pull yards and yards of scarves from their pocket. I felt like I was being unraveled. She kept pulling and pulling and more and more gauze came out - all in one long piece.

I had been warned that the smell of this procedure was perhaps the worst one could experience. Well, it wasn't THAT bad, but it wasn't pleasant.

FINALLY, the end of the gauze snake left me. For the first time, there was nothing attached, stuck in or connected that wouldn't be there for the rest of my life. And the best part was, all the pressure was gone.

Before I had a chance to consider all this, the nurse showed me how to dilate. In Doctor Biber's program, you are provided with two silicon rubber, lifelike dildos: a small pink one and a larger purple one. You cover it with a condom (to prevent germs), then squeeze a liberal supply of KY jelly onto the top. All this was shown to be by the nurse, and I commented that topped off like that, the dildo looked like a rich dessert!

The nurse observed while I inserted the dildo for the first time to make sure I had it right. No problem. Its strange, but the feeling of having something penis-shaped inside me seemed so natural - almost as if all the programming was always in my brain, just waiting for the body to get it together.

The big surprise was that as the dildo remained inside me, I began to feel aroused. What was this? I made a mental note to explore that sensation later, in more private conditions!

After dilation, I went to the restroom and was overjoyed to find that all systems were "go".

Shortly thereafter, I got a call from an ABC television crew that I had heard from the nurses was doing a story on Doctor Biber. They wanted to film me as I left the hospital and got on the train. Not being one to shy away from the spotlight, I agreed.

Doctor Biber came in to give me his post-op care instructions and a couple of warnings about VD, Aids, and various female infections to which I was now prone. I had my picture taken with him.

For the first time in eight days I was able to take a shower. What a wonderful feeling to have all that slime washed away! I got dressed, did my make-up, visited Cathy who had just had her surgery that morning and said my good-byes to the staff.

The ABC crew arrived and made their introductions. The Sister arrived who drives the post-ops to the station. The crew set up some shots while I loaded the trunk, then followed us out to the station.

It was a cold, cloudy day as I stood alone by the tracks waiting for the train (heavy handed phallic symbol) to carry me back to the real world. At least, that's the way it looked to the cameras, I imagine, with the kinds of shots they were setting up. But, the train was running late, and the crew (gentlemen and ladies all) had other set-ups to document, so they left me there at the station and went their way.

I sat in the old building - just another relic in a town built mostly during Gold Rush days - and made pleasant conversation with a family journeying to the city. Conversations happen easily in Trinidad, as a single girl, traveling alone, is instantly recognized as a product of the town's chief industry. Still, everyone I met during my stay (including this family) were open and friendly and warm.

Finally, the train arrived. We boarded, going to our separate accommodations. As per recommendations from gender pamphlets, I have taken a sleeper car for the trip home, allowing for privacy during dilation, which must be done every two hours for the first month or so after surgery.

I settled into my compartment, feelings very free, very complete, and very female. Just placing my bags, snacks, and cassette player in the various nooks and crannies of the small cubicle made me feel better - decorating my temporary home. I felt so cozy and secure: the struggle was finally over.

Once we got under way, I left my compartment and staggered down the swaying corridor to the restroom. Peeing on an Amtrack is an experience in itself, but doing it while getting the hang of the equipment is another story altogether! Still, I was pleased to find that the pressure was fully gone and the time between trips was increasing. On a rather gross note, perhaps the strangest feeling of all, was going "number one" and "number two" at the same time!

What better segue than that to talking about lunch. Meals were included in my ticket, which was a good thing since this surgery has depleted my financial reserves to the point that Mary and I have maxed out all our credit cards and refinance the house to pay for it AND I have less than $20 left to my name.

I sat down to the table with three other people: two a couple traveling on vacation, and the other a rather nice looking young man who was visiting relatives while on semester break from college. We all had a pleasant conversation. But the best part for me was sensing that the college man found me attractive and knowing it was okay. (A telling phrase, "okay"? Well, yes, not because I thought of men that way before, but because now I can without social disapproval.)

So as not to arouse suspicion, I had not brought to lunch my doughnut - the inflatable circular air pillow that keeps one's underside from touching the seat. Still, the soreness was not that bad, as long as I shifted my weight from one thigh to the other occasionally.

After lunch, it was time for dilation again. I locked the door to my compartment, got everything ready, and had the experience of a lifetime trying to keep everything in position in the tiny box of a room on a moving train! I peeked out the window while we were moving. There I was, "doin' it" in Albuquerque!

Quickly, my strength has returned, the soreness is almost gone, and my thoughts begin to turn forward toward seeing Mary and the kids again, and beyond.

Here I am, once again sitting on a train, slipping down the golden rails at ninety miles an hour. I am on my way home. The sun looms large in the panoramic window of my sleeper compartment. Strange how this trip, bracketed by these two elegant surreal journey's seems to have passed in the twinkling of an eye.

So, here it is: the end of my journey - not just by train, but the entire train of events that describe my life for the last two and a half years.

This diary began on August 1st, 1989, the first day of my transition, and ends today on the last. For there is no more to change; no more patterns of thought, no more biochemical balances, no more physical characteristics. When shortly I step from this train, my journey will truly be complete.

Naturally, my thoughts turn to the future. But those musings are not the "what ifs" of someone wanting to be, but the "why nots" of someone who is. From the first day I recorded my thoughts, my feelings have been public domain. I strove to describe accurately and withhold nothing. But now, the usefulness of the sharing of my experiences is at an end. And ownership of my most intimate self returns to me. I shall not withdraw from sharing what has happened, but from here on will let others understand the meaning of my future life by my actions and through my deeds.

As we pull into the station, I think of Mary, Keith, and Mindi waiting to reunite with me as a family. It is not an end, but a beginning.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. May you find as much peace at the end of yours.

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Number 24

Table of Contents

WHERE TO FIND THE SUBVERSIVE:

Explorations

by , Editor

Raised By Wolves

Book Three: Across The Great Divide