I spent so long fighting for this existence. There’s something of an anticlimax when you get off the plane home after the last phase of surgery and just wait for your teal luggage to appear on the carousel. If my whole life has been building toward these months, occupying my strength in every capacity, what will life be like now? As I stood there, my mate walked into my focus– my spouse whom I’ve spent 12 weeks parted from this last year.
They gave me a big hug. The baggage claim clacketed over the sound of relatives greeting, Christmas music over the speakers. “Welcome home,” she smiled tenderly. I sunk into the embrace, pressed against her flesh until my bones met hers. I felt safe.
“I put up a small Christmas tree at home,” she told me quietly, “so it would feel merry when you got back. I almost cleaned the whole house for you, but I didn’t finish.” I looked up at those blue-green eyes– being trans also, she gazed down a foot. She could have just told me the house burned down yesterday, and I’d have been just as blissed. The holiday decorations ornamenting the airport only aided my sentimentality.
“We made it, love,” I sighed, starting the slow steps to the car, “We both survived to have all the surgeries we need. We are whole.”
I had to ask her to walk a little slower for me. Each step pulled on the achy incision between my legs, so my gait shrunk to compensate, where they entered my penis and scrotum to implant the erectile device. Stage three, and I had another small incision on my belly and around the bottom base of the shaft. Most of the pain was internal, though I had taken my maximum dose of pain medicine for all the walking around the airport. At least nothing was bleeding. Was it really the end of trips to Baltimore? Would I begin to read, say, and write the term phalloplasty, bottom surgery, and top surgery less frequently? I can’t even imagine.
Here’s to the start of happily ever after, the close of this chapter, and the beginning of something entirely new.