Farewell and Welcome Home

It's time for a change

I've come to think it's probably time to change the name of this blog. The original title was meant to be a bit droll, a pop culture reference, with a comic soap opera feel to it. It seemed right as I started into transition, echoing the questions I knew so many people would have.

But at some point, that drollness wears thin, and at some point the focus changes. One hopes there less place for questions, and less need for soap opera angst.

A new name

So I've been thinking of changing the name to a phrase that has echoed in my head since I first heard it. It came from an old friend wishing me luck and congratulating me on the eve of my transition. He said, "farewell and welcome home." 

It captures in four words what's struck me most about this whole experience, the need for loss in order to gain myself, the need to leave home in order to find a truer home.

It struck me as almost premature back then - then there was just a hope that I would be home, not a certainty. Now, months later, no matter how far it seems I still have to go, it's increasingly certain. Yes, finally I am home. 

So thank you, Mr. Park. "Farewell and welcome home" it is.

When you don't know what to say...

This is for anyone I haven't been in touch with since my transition. Well actually, to be more precise it's for anyone who hasn't been in touch with me since my transition, but still has some kind feelings towards me. It's for those who have somehow learned about what I've done and now feel in an awkward spot. 

If you're disgusted or outraged at who I am and what I've done, or if you really just have never felt any connection with me, we don't have much to talk about. We can just ignore each other and be happy. And if you're a really close friend and comfortable with transgender people like me, we've probably already been in touch, and either we have plunged on in spite of the strangeness or we have gone silent. So it goes.

Stuck in the middle

But perhaps you're stuck in the middle. I'm using that phrase deliberately, since it's a feeling that many of us trans folk know all too well. In your case, you're stuck in a grey area - you don't know what to say and probably you're not even that certain that I'd want to hear it if you did. Perhaps it took you a while to process the news and by the time you did, you felt the opportunity had passed. Maybe you're waiting to hear from me, or for an "important" reason to contact me. But you sometimes think about me and the thought of getting in touch crosses your mind.

The first few months after my transition this situation honestly never occurred to me. I was so wrapped up in the business of transitioning, which is one of the most self-centered processes in the world, that I assumed that all of those silent people, all of those people who probably would have reached out with a word in many other situations, were lost to me. I assumed that they must hate me because they were silent when I could have really used a word. I can tell you that I got many, many more messages of support at the death of Molly, the smartest dog in school and my best friend, than I did when word got out that Vern had been retired in favor of Naomi. Even putting aside the obvious truth that Molly was orders of magnitude more likable than Vern ever was, it was a striking contrast. 

In a way it was just a confirmation of what I'd always feared and expected - that coming out as trans means losing people, giving up friends and old connections. In short, it means that you are less loved. Like so many trans folk of my generation I had always feared this and now it seemed to be coming true. 

But, as has often happened in my transtion, I was wrong. Over time something surprising happened - I started hearing from people. And it's continued, a slow but steady cadence over time. Sometimes it's old friends who I thought had drifted away. Other times it's been former students I had assumed wouldn't be interested in the bizarre case of a former teacher going from man to woman. Still other times it's been former colleagues I haven't seen in years.

There was a hand written card that showed up at work one day from a former colleague I hadn't seen for a decade. There were thoughtful emails that showed up out of the blue, Facebook conversations, LinkedIn connection requests, and so on. But all of them were really the same - messages from people who really had no reason to get in touch other than they wanted me to know that the connections we had shared were still there. And those messages are treasures to me.

The more I read those messages, the more I was struck by an underlying theme. Former colleagues made vague excuses about why they hadn't gotten in touch sooner. More than one student suggested that I certainly wouldn't remember them, or maybe I wouldn't care much to hear from someone I'd known years ago when they were just a kid. But in every case there was the theme of "I wanted to contact you sooner, but..."

I think there are really just a couple of reasons that people hesitate. First, the assumption that perhaps I somehow don't want to hear from people from my past. This is an interesting spin on the trans narrative that had scared me as child - the idea that the only way to transition is to sever all ties with the old identity and those who knew it. If those are the rules you're playing by, then contact from the past would be the ultimate embarrassment, and anyone insisting on that contact would be insensitive at best. That's the path called "being stealth" and I've rejected it, but it's still a part of how people think about trans people and transition.

For my part, I never left a one of you behind because of my transition. I had to physically move away and leave much of my old life behind in order to transition, and that made me sad. But I love too much of my life before to ever renounce it. Particularly now that the dust has cleared I find talking about old times is just sweet nostalgia. Vern is gone, because he was just a persona I had to use to survive, but the same person is still here. So no one need be afraid that a connection out of my past will be embarrasing or painful.

The other reason is simpler - people just don't know what to say. Maybe you don't even know how you feel about transgender issues. Maybe you thought you had a neat solution in your head, but now that you find out you know a trans person, you're not so sure. Do you offer condolences? But clearly the person changing is happy. Congratulations? How can that be sincere when you've just lost the person you thought you knew? Suppose you say the wrong thing and offend? Wouldn't that be worse than saying nothing at all? What do trans people want to hear anyway? In the face of such uncertainty, the natural human response is to hesitate. And after a while it's hard to act.

So let me tell you how things are my side

I have to confess that I'm in a similar position. I'm not likely to contact you first, either. I'm pretty cautious about contacting people who knew me before. I'll see you get recommended to me on LinkedIN or Facebook, and decide not to add you. I'll see a personal announcement and start to respond, but then hesitate. I just don't know how you feel about trans people, whether you'd be embarassed or angry or just wonder why the hell someone like me thinks you'd want to be in touch. I hear a voice in my head saying that you probably don't want an obvious connection with me on your wall. And let's be honest - if you connect with me on the social networks it will be pretty clear you're connected with a trans woman. You'll see trans related items in my streams, you might even get suggestions that you connect with other trans people. It comes with me, and I keep thinking that most people don't want that. 

All too often I find myself thinking I need to ask permission to connect with people or to join groups or even to say hi to old acquaintances, that I need to apologize for imposing myself on people. I'm trying to get myself out of that pattern, to tell myself that I need to move past that, that I need to just move ahead and let others worry about how they'll react to me. And with people I'm just meeting, I can do that - I plunge in and let them decide how to take me. But with the ones that knew me before I find that much harder to do. 

What to say when you don't know what to say

So what I really want to say is that you don't need to worry about what to say. It's okay that it took you a while to sort out your feelings about suddenly having a transgender person you know - after all, it took me decades to sort out how I felt about it. What do I, as a transgender person, want to hear? Well, you really don't need to call out my courage. I can tell you that no person who's transitioned feels they've done anything courageous. In fact, I'd say that the ones who transitioned in middle age like me feel cowardly for waiting so long. Or at best we feel like we had no choice - is it courage to jump off of a burning, sinking ship that's about to explode?

And you don't really need to reassure me that I'm still a human being, or that I'm still smart, or things like that. I'd like to think that those are true, but making a point to mention them seems to imply that they are remarkable, and somehow true in spite of who I am.

So if you've been thinking of me and wanting me to know that our connection, whatever it was, remains, then just say that. The best messages are the ones that say hey, I've been thinking about you. I know it must have been hard, but I'm glad you're happier. And just know that I'm still here and things haven't changed between us.

And then lets talk about what's been going on with you, how your family is, what you're working on, whatever we used to talk about.

I promise you I'll be happy to hear from you and I'll respond. With joy.

Flourishing through the Dark Patches

Dark Patches

My last post was written some time ago, on the day of my father's death. Since then there have been some bad times. I had to de-transition for his funeral. At least I de-transitioned as much as I was able - people had a hard time recognizing me, and to be honest I think Julie Andrews did a better job of passing as a man in Victor/Victoria. There was much about that experience that was profoundly painful - how I was (or wasn't) received by most of my family, the sheer awfulness of stepping back into a role that had tormented me for so long, the awful finality of saying good-bye and knowing that neither parent would ever know me or accept me for who I really am. 

Unsurprisingly (and yet I was surprised) those feelings have had their echoes since. I have had more than one day filled with dark despair - contemplating a life as a freak, doubting every friend and connection, even hating the world for putting me in this position, then, after so many years of hopelessness, showing me a better life, only to have that better life turn out to be a cruel joke.

I was bitchy and paranoid. Innocent questions became personal attacks, people just going about their business became part of an elaborate conspiracy to exclude me, and just thinking about some people's behavior, particularly at Dad's funeral, caused me to swear bitterly under my breath as tears welled in my eyes.

In short, there were dark patches. And those dark patches were very, very dark indeed. It had been a year since I had started on hormones and had begun the transition process and I was just now facing the outcome. In fact, I now have emotional responses that I never had before, and when they hit me, I didn't have a clue. I'm now convinced that testosterone helped me be detached from emotions over the years (for what it's worth, I gather that the experiences of trans men confirm this). A friend likens the difference in emotional response on testosterone and estrogen to the 8 crayon box vs. that wonderful 64 crayon box, and I think she has a good point. But I'd say that it's also the difference between chalk drawings on a sidewalk and bold markers on white paper - not only are there more possibilities, they're stronger and more vibrant.

In any case, by now the inhibiting effects of testosterone are pretty much gone and after a lifetime of being able to detach from emotions, of relying on that ability to help handle unpleasant situations, I am now much more exposed, vulnerable to emotions than ever before. And I'm still learning how to deal with that. For the child whose favorite Star Trek character was Spock, not Kirk, this is unfamiliar territory indeed. And it's frightening, particularly at first. 

It's frightening not to be able to lock down all those emotions, but it's liberating as well. I know I will never be as unflappable as my male self used to be, but that's okay - I'll also not be as detached and numb.

Those dark spots were very real and I now understand that there will be more of them in times to come. However, they aren't the real point of this post. This post is actually a positive one, as the title implies. The fact is that those dark spots were surrounded by light, light I was sometimes almost reluctant to admit.

Flourishing

A few weeks after my dad's death I got to give a couple of talks at Flourish!, an Open Source Software conference. This was the first time I'd really spoken at a public conference since my transition, and in fact, one of the talks, requested by the organizers, was on my experiences transitioning and my perspectives on the FOSS world as a male and as a female. It was well attended and well received with questions taking us well past the allotted time. People who know me know that I love to speak to an engaged audience and having that experience while speaking on this topic was particularly validating. 

I also navigated all of the hassles of closing on the house, renting a truck, setting up utilities, and so on, all without raising an eyebrow along the way. One of my strengths has always been making deals happen and I still have that. Clearly not bad for someone who was regarding herself as a freak.

About a month after Flourish!, I attended a fundraising luncheon for a women's organization, along with some women from work. It was a great feeling to be attending an event with so many women, and to be a part of it, rather than an outsider. But perhaps the most telling moment was when a woman who didn't work at our company joined our table. She introduced herself as "the odd one at the table". I thought, yet again, "if you only knew." But on the ride back afterwards one of the women I work with recalled the moment and said ruefully, "I think we were all odd ones at that table!" Amen. 

It was a good reminder that everyone has something they consider odd about themselves. We all feel that we don't fit in with the cool kids for some reason, and amazingly being trans is just one reason out of many. In fact, being trans doesn't even necessarily trump anyone else's reasons for feeling awkward, in spite of what I was telling myself during those dark patches.

I also became involved with the creation of an LGBT affinity/resource group within our parent company. When I was getting ready to transition, I desperately longed for such a group, to provide information, advice, and just moral support. Unfortunately, it didn't exist. As I lay awake nights before my transition it was a dream to help form such a group, and give those in the future that support I'd wanted. And now it's happening, and I'm there, a part of of it. 

In the these past two months I've also continued to reconnect with people I'd never expected to connect with again. Former students and colleagues have sent notes and reached out, and there have even been ever so tentative connections with the old school. I told myself that those connections were gone forever and that it was okay. I'd even convinced myself it was just as well, but for all that those reconnections made me feel good. No one likes losing a part of their past, and I've been getting bits of mine back. 

There have even been a few (very few) family members, ones that I'd lost touch with for ages, who've embraced me with love and respect. I knew that when I transitioned I'd very likely lose many, if not all, of my family. Again, I'd thought I'd come to terms with that - if that was the price I had to pay for finally being myself, I was willing to pay it. But again no one really wants to lose that part of their lives and getting each one of them back has been precious. 

The dark patches also helped show me some beautiful ongoing relationships. The night after my father died some friends at PyCon spontaneously appeared and just hung out with me, understanding that the one thing I needed was not to be left alone. The Python and PyCon communities are very special to me, and it was so important to have them around me. Then, the night after the funeral that pained me so much old friends took me in and held me safe in their friendship like a mother cradling a child. To have friends like that in a time of need is a great gift, one that outweighs much evil.

Shortly after transition, I called myself the the luckiest girl in the world. During these past dark patches it was hard to remember that, but in fact the light far outshone the darkness. I am indeed incredibly lucky.

A Deal with the Devil

A Deal with the Devil

Right before I transitioned, I made a deal with the devil. Like most deals with the devil I did it knowingly because I thought it was the best thing to do. Like most deals with the devil, it turned out to be more bitter than I expected. And like most deals with the devil it ultimately involved a loss of hope.

Last September I made a journey back home on a special mission. It was a difficult task, and I had my spouse along for support. It was potentially life changing, the hardest thing I'd ever do. At age 56 I was going to tell my parents that I was transgender... that the third member of what my mother always proudly referred to as "my boys" was really a girl, and always had been, always would be.

I expected this to be hard. My parents were getting so old and frail that I doubted their ability to grasp what I told them. But still, I hoped that they would try... I was their child, right?  I'd always done my best to be a good kid... I knew that if it were my child I'd want to know. I'd try to understand. And ultimately I'd do my best to to support them. My parents had raised me, they had helped me form those values, so they would do the same for me, right?

Unfortunately I never found out. Before I told them, I told my oldest brother. I think I was hoping for an ally, for someone to say that whatever I had to do, I should at least be honest. I was hoping for someone to stand by me, to accept me as I was.

Instead I was offered a deal with the devil. Why upset the old folks? Why force them to face a truth that would make them so unhappy? The unspoken message was that they wouldn't be able to deal with something as terrible and disgusting as the truth of who their child was. And in turn my other brother joined in. Knowing who I was would be an unbearable burden of guilt for my parents, something that would literally kill them.

Am I really such a monster? Apparently I am. And such is the power of family that coming from the older brothers I so looked up to as a child, that judgement immediately transported me back to the child who knew, absolutely, dreadfully knew, that the truth would mean I was no longer loved. Like most deals with the devil, it exploited my deepest fears and doubts about myself.

So I made that deal. I told myself it was for the best, that I was being unselfish, putting the comfort of my aged parents first. That was noble, right? To do otherwise would be unbearably selfish, right? And they were so frail, that if I told them, suppose the shock caused a death? Or what if they died before they accepted it and we came to peace?

And yet... As I thought of their character, the values they instilled in me, I kept thinking they'd want to know. I was their child and they loved me. They were proud of me and wanted me to be happy and whole. How could they not want to see me as I was? I kept hoping and telling myself they'd want to support me, that from the perspective of 90+ years, they'd rather have a real, if somewhat unexpected, child who was happy in her life and own skin than a miserable mockery.

But the deal was done. Less than 2 months after I made that deal my mother was dead. Less than 4 months after that, my father had passed. In less than 6 months the devil had taken his due.

While even one of them was alive there was hope. There was the hope that somehow they'd find out.... that they'd think about it and then let me know that it was okay, that they still loved me. In my wildest fantasies they'd even acknowledge that I was more 'right' now than before. Clearly these scenarios were unlikely, but while they were alive they were possible. At least there was hope.

Once they died, that hope was lost. I suppose it shouldn't matter. I suppose I should continue to tell myself that I chose correctly, that it was a good cause. And yet... it feels wrong. They never had the chance to give me that most important piece of love and support. They never had the chance to be there when I needed them most. Somehow I can't believe they would think that was the right choice.

I was sold that choice, urged to make that deal with the devil by those I trusted. When I was small I looked up to them so, and on some level I suppose that feeling never goes away. And yet, when I needed them, they let me down. They haven't been there for me at all, nor have they even tried to show understanding or acceptance. In short, they behaved exactly as my childhood self had feared... "if anyone ever knows, they won't love you anymore." It's hard to describe the absolute desolation that thought brings a child, even the child that still lives inside the adult.

Those old fears made me complicit in my own damnation. They conspired to steal my hope. Like most deals with the devil. And I had chosen to go along and trade hope away for nothing. Like most deals with the devil.

---

In memoriam: 

Howard Ceder, July 20, 1921 - March 17, 2013

Eunice Ceder, August 27, 1922 - November 22, 2012

I love you both and I hope you're at peace. 

But I wish I knew that you still  loved me. 

For who I really am.

From Transition to Traveller

I used to wonder

A long time ago, back in the day, I used to wonder. I used to wonder if it would feel weird to live as a woman. I used to wonder if I would even be able to adapt, if it would be too strange, if it was even possible to make that change. Now just four months after transition, I have the answer. 

That answer would surpise my old self, I think, but it also would have reassured him. The answer, of course, is that it doesn't feel weird or strange or unnatural all. It's different, to be sure, and it still takes thinking about sometimes, but it's not strange. In fact, it's like finally being home after so many years away - the reaction that the differences cause is more, "oh, yes, that's the way it should be... I don't have to worry about that anymore."

Trial by Travel

I think a good example, and maybe the most surprising, is travel. Only a month after I transitioned I found myself traveling by air, renting cars, staying in hotels, all things that not so long ago seemed impossible. The TSA does not have the most trans-friendly reputation, and the processes of air travel tend to put one's background and credentials under intense scrutiny. Indeed, I know of people who otherwise live as female who travel as males to avoid that experience. In my case, since my documentation had been changed, that wasn't an option.

So travelling as a woman should have made me feel uncomfortable. Except it didn't. Even when I had to explain my situation to the rental car clerk, it was no problem. (When I told him I'd changed genders, he asked, quite innocently, 'Wow, how long did that take?' and I answered, '9 months or 50 years, depending on how you look at it.')

Across borders

However, domestic travel is a piece of cake compared to international travel. Once you get through the first screening for a domestic flight, you're done. Crossing borders involves multiple passport checks just to get on the plane and then one has to pass through customs and immigration. In each direction. If a change of identity and gender was going to be problem, it should be on international travel.

So when the time came, just 4 months after transition, to fly to Japan on business, I was a little bit nervous. Yes, I was prepared. I had my documentation in order. I had a new passport, with the proper name and gender designation, and I had my surgeon's blessing to fly only two months after surgery. I had my nurse recommended support knee highs. I even had prescription strength anti-diarrhea meds, just in case. (I know, I know, Japan isn't a problem, but it was a recommendation from corporate, so I went along.)

Caught by the TSA

So when I hit my first check point at Chicago I whipped out my shiny new passport. The agent looked at it, looked at me, looked at it again... then he looked up and said, "Naomi? Have you ever traveled with this passport before?" My heart skipped a beat... Oh my god... a problem already?!?! 

I fought to keep my composure and said, "No, I haven't."

He started to grin and said, "Well, you need to sign it!" and handed over his pen.

As I was apologizing and thanking him, he assumed that sort of half-patronizing/half-flirty tone (women will know what I mean) and said, "no problem, ma'am, it just shows I'm doing my job."  Hmmmm. 

At home abroad

And to be honest, that was the last time I really worried about it. I just flashed my newly signed passport when needed, smiled, and carried on. I met Japanese colleagues who had known me as Vern and we picked up as if nothing had happened. I went to dinner (by myself and with others), I shopped, I had business meetings. And it was all fine. In fact, it was better than fine. I felt more relaxed and able to enjoy traveling than I ever had before. Even in Japan, I was home. 

Now, make no mistake, I'm not that confident in my appearance, nor in my voice, nor in my general ability to "pass". I'm not petit, I don't dress very girly, my accessory collection is primitive, I don't wear much makeup, and by the end of a long day, my hair is positively a fright. But none of that is that big a deal. The big deal is that I'm me, even half way around the world. 

I wish I could tell that to my old self. It would be nice to reassure him, to tell him not to worry, that it will be okay. Most of all, to assure him that even while traveling being who you really are is coming home.

 

Squinting into the rising sun at Kyoto.

Costs

Costs

I know that in these posts I have portrayed my progress as the successful, almost triumphant, struggle to embrace who I really am. That is deliberate - I'm using this story to make sense of my journey and I'm choosing to see myself as a heroine rather than a victim. I also happen to think the world needs more trangender heroines and fewer victims - the world makes us victims all too frequently as it is, and sometimes we trans folk get caught up in that.

However, it would be dishonest not to acknowledge that there are costs to the path I've taken. Many people have stood by me, by far more than I'd dared hope, and I treasure them all. But some have been lost - the friends that have stayed conspicuously silent or quietly unfriended me, the many former students I will never talk to again, and the events where I will no longer be welcome. 

Readers of my posts may also have noticed that I don't mention family much at all, other than a couple of references to my spouse, whose love and support are so central a part of my transition. That's partly to respect and protect their privacy, since they didn't choose to be involved in this. (Of course, neither did I, but I did choose to confront it.)

The other reason I don't mention family is because they, too, are among the "costs". With only one exception, they prefer not to speak of or acknowledge my "difficult situation" (as one put it). It's as if I've been put under a cone of silence - I have no idea which of them has been told, what they think, or anything. When I went in for surgery last month, I got no messages of support from them. I suspect that in general they are hoping if they ignore me and my situation persistently enough it will just go away.

And they're right. Many people like me don't get acceptance and support from family and are devastated. In my case, we've grown apart over the years (my fault probably more than theirs), so while it is a loss, it's one I can bear. I will continue to walk my path, and even to be happy, with or without them. And yes, I will eventually just go away, because I don't care to have contact with people who refuse to accept me as I am. I am okay with that.

I do find it ironic that I've received so much support and even love from friends, coworkers, and even casual acquaintances, only to have family be the ones who can't accept me. But to be honest, I had always expected as much. I've discovered over the past year that I'm pretty good at guessing people's reactions, particularly those I know well. And one reason I waited so long to embark on the path to transition is that I was convinced my family wouldn't accept it. And it turns out I was right. 

Perhaps over time some of those I've lost will come around. If that happens, I'll welcome them, but at the moment it seems unlikely.

Still, this post is most definitely not a plea for sympathy. I'm still the heroine and my story is an overwhelmingly happy one. I am more than okay with the costs - I feel that I've gotten off so much easier than many trans people I know. But I also don't want to pretend that it's possible to win them all. No one wins them all, and I'm no exception. 

 

Facial Surgery - Notes from the other side

As I mentioned a little over two weeks ago, I went in for facial femiinization surgery (FFS) on December 13. I promised a post from the other side, and here it is. 

Disclaimer - boring surgery stuff ahead

This post is for anyone who is interested in what FFS was actually like. As is my usual practice, I won't name names (not even of my surgeon) but if you want more specific information I'll be happy to talk about things like that privately. On the other hand, if you're not interested in what it takes to have your face redone, feel free to bail out at any time.

What is "the works"?

The first question is what exactly did I have done? While I didn't have the world's most masculine face, I did end up getting pretty much everything done, "the works" as you might put it. And I realize that for those who haven't been there "everything" isn't a good answer. NOTE: this is NOT an attempt to use technical terms. If you want the technical terms for all of these procedures consult with a more complete FFS reference or surgeon.

Let's just start at the top of my head: 

• hairline advancement - that means my scalp was partly detached, pulled/stretched forward, and stuck back down, advancing my hairline by about one inch. 
• forehead lift - my forehead was pulled up, tightening it and pulling out the wrinkles. This was really more for rejuvenation than feminization
• brow reduction - the ridges over my  eyebrows were ground down to remove the prominence that males have there
• eyebrow lift - my eyebrows were slightly lifted
• under eye skin peel - the skin right under my eyes was about 70% removed by a chemical peel, to make it grow back smoother. Again a rejuvenation thing.
• cheek implants - soft plastic implants were put in each cheek to make them project forward, as opposed to the more hollowed male look that I had
• nose work - my nose was reduced slightly, the "bump" was taken out, and my deviated septum was repaired. I can already breath better than I ever have in my life
• fat grafts - fat removed from around my navel was centrifuged and re-injected at my temples, and around my upper lip, for more youthful and feminine fullness.
• jaw muscle reduction - the muscles at my jaws which tend to give a squarer, more masculine appearance, were cut down
• jaw angle and projection reduction - basically my jaw was ground down to both project less and be less square
• tracheal shave - my "adam's apple" bump was reduced
• neck lift - my neck skin was pulled and tightened to get rid of the "turkey neck" effect that is both aging and a bit masculinizing.

So that's "everthing" pretty much. It means that almost every part of my face was disrupted in one way or another. A fair amount of this work was done from the inside, so the number of incisions you might see is not as great as you might think - I have an incision at my hairline, pretty much all the way around each ear, under my nose and under my chin.

So how does all of this come about?

The process starts with consultation with the surgeon and their suggestion of what shoud/might be done and how much it might cost. Not surprisingly, the surgeon will have his opinion and you'll have yours on both points. Coming together on what willl be done or not done and why is the biggest issue you have work out - feel free to get other opinions, ask questions, and even argue with the surgeon. I did a fair amount of soul searching in deciding whether I wanted to do everything or not. And some of it is more for youthful appearance than anything else - I was okay with that (as I've mentioned). I even paid for someone knowledgable to use photoshop to simulate what each procedure might do for me.

Once that's worked out, and you have reserved a date (I decided to save up my time off from work and do it during the slow time at the end of the year), there is a ton of administrivia to take care of - paying (let's just say my credit cards ended up with a truly amazing amount of reward points), getting medical clearance, laying in needed supplies (including a few gross of q-tips and gallons of hydrogen peroxide), signing what seems like a hundred pages of releases, arranging post-op care, etc. 

Day of Surgery

There were a few pre-surgery restrictions, like stopping vitamins, supplements and hormones, but nothing much else except for the final two - a head to foot shower with antibactierial soap (yep, good old yellow Dial) and NOTHING to eat or drink starting at midnight before surgery. And nothing means NOTHING, not even a sip of water.

I actually managed to get a little of sleep before we got up to get to the surgeon's at 6 am. People tend to assume, since this was surgery, that it would be in a hospital, but a lot of surgeons have their own facilities for surgery. Hospitals are expensive and full of sick people and bacteria, so they're not always the first choice for elective surgery. 

From that point things moved pretty quickly - I changed out of my jammies (yes, I wore jammies to surgery) and into a gown and associated paraphenalia. An IV drip was inserted, a few final pictures were taken after the surgeon used a marker to decorate my face, I got on the table, and... I woke up about 12 hours later in a tiny recovery area. (Clearly there must have been something in that IV.) And some stupid heartrate monitor was driving me mad with it's continual beeping... (I did not fully appreciate at the time what it would have meant if it hadn't been continually beeping!)

After a couple of hours I was "recovered" enough to be dressed, wheeled to the door, and to be helped into the caregiver's car for the drive home.

Here's where accounts diverge. What I recall is walking slowly but steadily and being coherent enough to give the caregiver turn by turn directions from the interstate (she did have written directions as well, but it was dark) to our house. What my wife remembers is that when we arrived, she looked out the door to see a heavily bandaged figure who couldn't figure out how to open a car door, mumbled unintelligibly, and who on standing immediately drooled on her own shoes. I'm sticking with my version, thank  you very much.

How long does it take to heal?

For the first three days, I was propped up in bed and fed pudding and vicodin, punctuated by occasionally getting up to walk a lap around the apartment. Then I got the main dressings removed and took a wonderful, but exhausting, shower. Painkillers continued to be my friends for most of the first 10 days, but things steadily progressed, and by two weeks after the surgery I was starting to feel more normal. Sure, I still got exhausted easily, but I was starting to sleep normally and had said good-bye to the nasty paranoid dreams vicodin gives me. 

So right now, that's about where I am. I have to massage the swollen areas and scars for an hour a day, and wear a supporting head "garment" for 18 hours a day, but I'm starting to feel better. Taking a shower no longer exhausts me. Sensation is returning to some areas, like my forehead, but others, like the top of my head and under my chin remain pretty numb. I'm told that things are going well, and I expect to be working in a few days and mostly of back to normal in a few more weeks. 

The swelling will take months to fully go away and it will also take that long to get sensation back everywhere, so full recovery will be an ongoing project in 2013, but one that I think will be worth it.

Are there pictures?

In case you're wondering, yes, I have been taking pictures. And no, I'm not sharing them now. I'll hold them until I can put together a more triumphal procession than I can now. Even my tolerance for being a work in progress has limits!

Are you happy? 

So am I happy? It's still a bit early for wild celebration. It's also surprisingly hard (and demoralizing) to see yourself so bruised and swollen. The fat grafts have left my upper lip way too thick, the swelling has given a bit of a snub nose, and so on. But all of those things are improving, as the surgeon promised. So things are getting better every day as I continue to heal.

For a while there I was looking in the mirror, searching in vain for some sign of someone I recognized. That has all been more than a bit scary... but today I looked in the mirror more closely and caught a glimpse of someone... it was the first time I'd seen her, but there could be no mistake...

It was me.