In Which I Write Things Down

But first: I can't have chips yet, but it occurred to me that I can have guacamole. I made some and ate half of it out of the bowl with a fork. I regret nothing.

And speaking of food I can eat, I was very much looking forward to the Wendling taking me out for udon, which I can eat, at the inexpensive Japanese place a block or so away. But neau, he placed a take-out order for salmon poké, with salad, no rice. (Thank goodness, because I'm not supposed to have rice yet.) And why? Because that's what he'd done the two weeks before I left for surgery, when I was quarantining and avoiding carbs. He'd completely forgotten that reasoning, and I hadn't realized that I needed to remind him of it.

Mayunn, once my son gets into a groove, it's hard to dislodge him from it.

I went to the Modular monthly at Substation yesterday, where people play – wait for it – modular synthesizers. It nominally starts at 1730, there's no cover, and it's a walk down the hill and a short bus ride for me. Sold! Since I'm not a hooligan and I can't drink yet, I bought Gatorade.

But on to the show! Young person (I was at the back of the room without my glasses) clashplaid played something that meandered prettily. Dadbaud rocked the house with a set at times reminiscent of Underworld and related '90s club grooves. And by "rocked the house", I mean that the nerds in attendance bopped their heads, which is probably the best you can expect from that crowd. Have I mentioned on here that I love Underworld? Whoever was before clashplaid was loudly wanky. I didn't get their pro name; I didn't want to. But! Certainly worth the price of admission. And somehow, the Modular folks rated the largest, best-shaped room at Substation, which has a choice sound system.

Relevant to my interests: there's a meetup on Thursday of people who want to "make synthesizers". I'm pretty sure that means fabricating modular synthesizers. Said the MC, everyone from n00bs to PCB designers show up. There's a Discord that I haven't checked out. I might just reschedule Funny Lady for that.

Long time no post! That's at least partly because my sleep was absolute ass for most of this week, thanks to a too-soft hotel mattress, and misguided attempts to sleep elevated on hotel pillows.

But! As of late last night I'm home. Seldom have I been so glad to see my son, who picked me up at the airport and of course talked about the news. Happiness.

To catch you all up, on Monday was my first post-op appountment: bandages off, staples out. That left the cast on my nose and splints still in my nose, so still no breathing through my nose, which turned out to be the single hardest aspect of this whole process.

What the hell did I do on Tuesday? Oh yeah: I walked to Dark Garden corsets because I was under orders to walk, but they were closed. That may be for the best because a) those people are very good at extracting money from me, and b) trying on corsets is surely against the Sculptor's instructions at this point. But that block of Linden is itself really nice, with some cool street art and hanging lanterns.

I'm proud of myself for making it to Golden Gate Park and Amoeba Music on Wednesday. When I'm in San Francisco I love to go to the Tree Fern Dell and pretend to be a dinosaur. This time, a pelican flew overhead for added realism.

Thing I deliberately blew off: a tour of SomaFM, which can be arranged. I think it would have been too long a walk to that part of the Mission, and if I didn't walk, there wasn't nearly as much point.

Thursday was high stress and stupid: Alaska Airlines had moved my flight an hour earlier, making it questionable whether I could keep my original second post-op appointment and still catch my flight at OAK. The Sculptor's office rescheduled me on short notice a few hours earlier, which while mighty decent of them meant I didn't get to talk to the Sculptor before I jumped on an eastbound BART train. Punch line: I had to wait two hours before I could even check my bag, then four hours more at weirdly deserted OAK.

Oh, the actual second post-op appointment: cast off my nose, splints out of my nose – I helped remove them – and tape on my nose, which I'll be applying myself for the next four weeks for at least part of the day. As of yesterday I can breathe through my nose again!

So am I going to be goddess? I haven't the faintest, not least because I can see my face change from day to day. But it's definitely not a plastic surgery disaster. The Sculptor's chief medical minion, J, says that in two to three weeks I should pass the "grocery store test", i.e. it should stop being glaringly obvious to everyone else at PCC that I've just had surgery, the "lumpies and bumpies" having gone away.

Oh: there's hope on the all-important non-horizontal sleep front. I went up to the loft this morning, looked around, and saw the camping lounge chair that I got for Burning Man oh so many years ago. That should do nicely.

Welp, it’s done. I’ve had facial feminization surgery, and now I’m busy with recovery: sleeping a whole lot, walking some, drinking my meals, and popping pills on schedule. My head looks like it belongs on a mummy who lost a fight. I haven’t been at my sharpest, of course, but I can remember a few things.

For starters my ride to and from surgery was a Rolls Royce. Believe it or not, that’s a medically sound choice because there is no smoother ride. At my request, the team put “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones on the OR sound system shortly before knocking me out. The Sculptor wore a sharp dark suit.

I came to about 5 hours later in a recovery room, and I spent the night going on assisted walks every two hours and drinking water and juice. The no-narcotics pain management worked fine, and continued to work after discharge the next day.

And speaking of those pills etc., the bag I picked them up in was the size of a burger order for a whole family. Dancer was invaluable for keeping me on schedule, escorting me to the hotel gym for walkies.

I’m supposed to sleep with my trunk elevated 45 degrees with no neck flexion. That’s fine in the surgery center with their fancy beds and 2-hour sleep stages. But neither Dancer nor I could really make that work in a hotel room all night: my back complained. I’ve been sleeping about half as elevated as I should, but at least I’ve been sleeping.

The first post-operative poop late this morning was epic. How fortunate that Dancer had just left.

I’m still a little light-headed, and I’ve gotten my meds off schedule a couple of times, but the swelling is gone from my hands and I’m on track to walk for two hours today. Go me.