In a couple days, I am going into hospital for gender-affirming surgery. It’s an odd term: My gender has largely been affirmed by transitioning and living more as myself for the past however many years, but it serves a purpose. It’s been a long time coming, and I’m excited. And scared.
As a trans person, I’ve always been aware of the option of surgery. For some trans folk, it’s an inevitability; for some, it’s nothing, an irrelevance; for others it’s a question mark during the often slow and sometimes arduous process of transitioning. Though it’s long been something I’ve thought about, it has always resided on some distant horizon, an incomprehensible blip in the future (not least due to depressingly lengthy wait times caused by NHS underfunding and the poor state of trans healthcare in the U.K.).
My first surgery consultation was nearly a year ago, a weird, jarringly impersonal Zoom appointment with a clinician with the manner and looks of a downcast Hugh Grant. It went as all NHS gender-related appointments do: I psyched myself up as best I could amidst my growing trepidation, answered an array of questions I’d responded to what felt like hundreds of times before, and that was it. Fine, boxes ticked, “transsexualism” re-diagnosed for the umpteenth time, job’s a good’un. Then I was referred onwards on the seemingly never-ending path towards a formless goal: having reached the nirvana of transitioned as opposed to transitioning.
The in-person surgical consult a couple of months later was similar: I was a sweaty, petrified mess beforehand, only to find, upon exiting the surgeon’s office, that it was all fine, really. But still the anxiety persisted. Worry and uncertainty plagued me—what could go wrong, the enormity of it all, the irrational fear that I might wake up after with a sense of regret—sometimes more overtly, sometimes allowing a break in the clouds for a little sun to shine through.
It’s the anxiety that has been the constant throughout this journey. I couldn’t negotiate the idea that surgery—which had always fallen into the “sometime in the future but not right now, thanks” bracket—was actually approaching. I was so scared of even comprehending that fact that I’d burst into tears and curl up into a ball, or retreat into myself in a pit of worry and sickening apprehension.
This persisted. Two weeks ago, I was close to vomiting with fear, and nearly canceled the procedure entirely. Were it not for the counsel of a dear friend, I might well have done. Now, however, I’m quite calm. I’m scared, sure—no matter how many videos I watch or accounts I read, nothing can truly prepare me for my body fundamentally changing—but I’m not freaking out. I don’t need the Valium a friend recommended I ask the doctors for. The poetry I’m writing to help process and express what I’m feeling no longer sounds so terrified.
I have relatively simple things to thank for my newly quietened mind. Since accepting that this is really happening, I’ve become pragmatic in my approach: Rather than spending my time worrying about complications and worst-case-scenarios, I’m preparing in whatever way I can. I can’t control what may go wrong (though very likely won’t, Lily), but I can control how I go into hospital, how I prepare my home for recovery, and how much I feel like I’m gripping the steering wheel on a ride that has often felt completely beyond my grasp.
Beyond buying cute pajamas for my week-long stay in hospital, and investing in a fluffy pregnancy pillow for when I’m on bed rest (holy fuck is that thing comfortable!), I’m spending a lot of my time cooking.
Cooking is one of the significant sources of joy in my life, an activity I take great pride and happiness in, and one I don’t suck at. It’s a way I show love for people, to show them I care, and it fills my heart to feed those I love. My favorite saying is, after all, “My belly is full and my soul is nourished.”
But now, cooking has taken on a different meaning. Perhaps it’s an attempt to purge the imagined reek of fear from my home and replace it with comforting, delightful smells. Perhaps it’s a way of keeping my mind entertained. Perhaps it’s just pure pragmatism winning out. I’ll be recovering for up to three months; how likely am I to want to cook when I’m utterly exhausted and likely in pain?
Maybe it’s all of the above. Primarily, though, it’s something I can have control over: In these last days before I go in, everything else is quietly chugging along on rails leading to one specific point. But cooking gives me a power that allows me to feel agency when everything else has been decided by others—the hospital, the clinical team, my past self.
While I currently feel a little lost and like I’m drifting towards some huge and relatively abstract, even nebulous event, chopping, grating, mixing, frying, roasting, blending, and serving food I care about is anchoring me at a point when I need it most. Like pottery, cooking is grounding: a period of time of focus and intent, using my hands to create something—a vegetarian lasagne, pork shoulder ramen, a simple stew of beef braised for hours in Dark Mild—from simple ingredients. My thoughts are given over not to worry about the fretful hours leading up to surgery and how I’ll keep my mind occupied, but to seasoning, tasting, and adjusting. Fundamentally, I am a maker; my greatest fulfillment comes from creating something as if from nothing. And now, food is like therapy.
It’s also really fun. I’m cooking with a greater frequency than ever before, desperate to stack high tubs and pots of meals inspired by my favorite cooks and chefs. This morning I put MiMi Aye’s goat and split pea curry (from her excellent cookbook Mandalay) into the slow cooker; last night’s dinner was Nat’s What I Reckon’s End of Days Bolognese, with the leftovers laying in wait in the freezer. As I write, I’m cradling a bowl of freshly roasted squash and parsnip soup. It’s warming, layered with a little ginger and coriander, and is helping to calm the few butterflies in my stomach.
In other words, I’m doing what I love to do: making food for those I care about. Right now, I’m cooking for my fiancée and my future self at what will likely be the most vulnerable time of my life. I expect I’ll be tired, depressed, bored, and utterly fed up of my situation after a few days—I’ll likely also be happy, too—but at least I’ll have stacks on stacks of lovingly prepared meals ready to go. After a period of aching fear and gutting anxiety—months upon months of tears, worry, and biting indecision—this is the best possible way for me to practice self-care.
Perhaps surprisingly, beer feels like an irrelevance at this moment. As a beer writer and pseudo-brewery-owner, my fridge is always overrun by beer, but beyond the odd Pilsner, I’ve not given it much thought lately. My fiancée and I took our dogs to the pub a few nights ago for the last time for a few months, and at the suggestion of a few friends I have a beer loosely picked out for my first beer ‘back’—when I’m able to drink alcohol once more, and when I’m ready. It’s an Allagash White, if you’re wondering. But right now, a cold beer fades into insignificance when compared to a steaming bowl of pork and rice, sprinkled with cilantro and soy.
In some ways I’ll never be ready for what’s just around the bend. That was one argument against postponing surgery: Why would I go through all of this mental preparation and worry only to delay it, when I’d likely be in the exact same spot in a year or two’s time? I do, however, feel as ready as I’ve ever been. I’m even reminded on occasion that this is a good and exciting thing, a glorious opportunity to feel more at home in a body that has for so long been a battleground, to feel euphoria and peace, to forget the transness of my body and just be.
I can do this. It helps that my belly will be full, my soul will be nourished, and my hand—through care, control, and action—will be steady.
