CW: medical/trans drama
Today I went for another surgical follow-up, because the last one went so well.
These things happened:
- I got my statutory declaration saying I have had gender reassignment surgery. This means I can change my gender on my birth certificate without having to go through counselling again.
- The doctor apologised for the trauma and that it happened and he was part of it.
- The doctor thanked me for being a trailblazer and told me that they’re working to do better for other people.
- The doctor thanked me for writing in to complain. I know! I am not making this up!
- I don’t have to do HRT because I’m informed enough to make my own choices thank you, also, stroke risk. “But that’s for contraceptives, not the gentler ones for menopause…” *glare* … “We can manage osteoporosis risk in other ways.”
I had cake for tea.
CW: medical/trans drama, suicidal ideation, dysphoria, panic attacks
Thank you for your nudges, likes and messages since my last update.
I had hoped to come back with great news but alas, I cannot.
The Zoladex, after ramping to a critical mass of hormones, ended up working. The migraines faded, as did the pain, and the gynaecologist admitted to having delayed my hysterectomy and I was given a date. This came with a warning -that on the day I would have to fight for it. Instead, I needed to fight -not- to have it, and I failed dramatically. And, now, kinda dying? Maybe.
Continue reading make. it. stop.
CN: “helpful” people, discrimination…
So if I had known that I would be going for over a week with no rest days and spiking pain and other, yucky, icky, blerky issues, I may not have decided now was a great time to be trying concerts again. But, I went without food for a week or so back in August and bought a ticket to see Skillet. Because, you know, Skillet, right?
Come today and I was regretting this immensely when I got stabby spiky pain about five minutes before I had to leave. I had prepared everything though; I had instant ice packs, my medication in the box with the prescription label on it so nobody (SECURITY) could say it was illegal and take it away. I had money for a tshirt and drinks. I had my knitting. I was good to do this with the least pain possible, and it was going to be a treat, and I could just, like, maybe actually sleep after (ha).
Continue reading A New Low…
CN: disability as inspiration, car drama
I have been babying my car for a while now – no extra trips, no long trips, no diversions, no resting on the side of the road until the pain subsides. The reason? It hasn’t been serviced in a while. It’s, technically, not even my car, and technically, my parents are responsible for upkeep and servicing, and this is part of our complex deal where I get to live in a house and not the street and in exchange have to do random things like let them know where I am at all times, half their shopping, and filter media. I am not, technically, homeless, so I don’t do anything to upset this.
So when I went to my mum and said ‘the car needs servicing’ and I had to wait until there was money, and wait until they came up so the (male) mechanics could talk to my (male) dad instead of me, with a side of “but you can’t talk how could you do it yourself anyway”, I waited.
Until today, when I was on my way home from a blood test, feeling very wrong (and the way I was treated there could be a post of its own…), I went over roadworks (I had forgotten to avoid them), and the car started making a sound that wasn’t normal, even for this car, because that conversation was two years ago.
Continue reading Broken Down…
CN: gender-related medical stuffs, codeine drama, pain, discrimination, medical ick, brief mention of suicidal ideation
Did you know it’s possible to be in so much pain that you forget to take pain meds? To forget they even exist, that there’s a way to make it not all-consumingly awful?
I didn’t. Now, this is me, we’re talking about. I refused anaesthesia for my last surgical procedure, twice, and the thought of taking it was highly amusing. The one before, I insisted on only using a local, and that for reasons of muscle relaxing only and, because I wasn’t allowed to type in the OR, and they didn’t ask the right question, I went through that without the local actually having an effect. (Try saying ‘it’s not a sharp pain, it’s an I-can-feel-the-needle-on-my-bone-and-that’s-not-normal-pain in sign with your bad arm being held, dislocated, above your head and the other arm covered by a blanket and held down and stroked for “comfort because you’re so brave, don’t you like being touched?”. Yeah. That’s about right.) This pain was no greater than my normal pain. After my appendectomy I was able to drive and function within three days, and the nurses controlled my pain meds because I was just like ‘but it doesn’t hurt more’. I can’t tell you what my “worst” piercing was because they don’t bother me. If I am complaining about pain it is black-out-in-the-toilet-after-throwing-up pain. The stuff I used to be able to get up to is more extreme than any of the fics I’ve written, and I used to be unmatchable because nobody else read ‘dark’ as anything other than ‘mild angst’.
So this morning, I was knitting and watching TV, and I looked at the clock and was like it has been three hours I can’t take my meds yet. Continue reading Escalations and Revelations
So, between all this, life goes on.
Here are a few highlights from my attempts to do basic stuff like send mail, buy things, and generally exist:
Continue reading Shopping While Disabled Is Not Fun!
CN: medical discrimination, transition, gender-coded medicine, gender discrimination, gender dysphoria, medical drama
I have spent the last few months in a haze of hurt and rage and mostly hurtful fear.
This is not because I asked, again, for my thyroid to be checked (it’s meant to be checked every six weeks, but because I had one test show normal instead of low, there must not be a problem!) and was turned down. This is not because I am repeatedly called by the wrong name and afraid that if I insist on my pronouns and correct, chosen name, I will lose my meds and therefore my lifeline. This isn’t even because every time I go to the doctor now the receptionist starts writing to me and then throws a huffy fit when I type ‘I can hear you’ and refuse to respond unless I am spoken to by someone who faces me when they speak.
This is because, in July, the gynaecologist who promised me that I would get my transition surgery this year, flat out asked me if I was trans, and then told me that the pain was psychological so he couldn’t do the surgery. He then gave me tissues and asked if I was crying, because I was in so much pain from sitting in his office on a chair with no padding and a high back and in the middle of a hot flush. Apparently, ‘but menopause is really bad!!! some people can’t get out bed you know!!!’ is a total justification for refusing what I was promised.
Continue reading Let The Dam Walls Break