From 119418aade5a7f1ab1a6665257063feb41f25c8e Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001
From: Madison Scott-Clary <makyo@drab-makyo.com>
Date: Fri, 27 Dec 2019 13:11:58 -0800
Subject: [PATCH] Update

---
 content/gender/surgery/002.html |  4 ++--
 content/gender/surgery/004.html | 26 +++++++++++++++++++++++---
 2 files changed, 25 insertions(+), 5 deletions(-)

diff --git a/content/gender/surgery/002.html b/content/gender/surgery/002.html
index abf33b6..4873571 100644
--- a/content/gender/surgery/002.html
+++ b/content/gender/surgery/002.html
@@ -4,7 +4,7 @@ weight: 2
 fit: true
 ---
 
-<div class="verse">It is surprisingly hard to think something real
+<pre class="verse">It is surprisingly hard to think something real
 when every indication, every word, all you feel
 tells you that that must not be the case.
 There's no easy way to make yourself face
@@ -79,7 +79,7 @@ Not because you do or don't so much as because the hand fate
 dealt you. You had the job, you had the insurance, the means.
 You made the call. You took the step. You passed the screens.
 <strong>You</strong> did this.</blockquote>
-</div>
+</pre>
 
 <!-- I don't think it hit home that surgery was real until six weeks beforehand. Not that I thought it was not going to happen --- though there was some of that, of course --- but that it was something truly surreal. Some unknown and unknowable procedure would happen, and then I would be on the other side. It was almost eldritch: I would close my eyes to miss the madness and awake changed.
 
diff --git a/content/gender/surgery/004.html b/content/gender/surgery/004.html
index 95754c6..26ffd3f 100644
--- a/content/gender/surgery/004.html
+++ b/content/gender/surgery/004.html
@@ -3,7 +3,7 @@ date: 2019-11-01
 weight: 4
 ---
 
-<div class="verse">There are so many words that could be said
+<pre class="verse">There are so many words that could be said
 about the preparation for surgery, all those steps that led
 to that six-thirty AM call. The days of purging.
 The anxiety. The drive. My husband's gentle urging.
@@ -15,11 +15,31 @@ the being so scared that I was reduced to the barest core.
 There was nothing left of me but fear, not even a name.
 I could still drive &mdash; the fear was quiet and tame &mdash;
 I could get us to the ambulatory surgery waiting room.
-But beyond that, I was a non-person. A convict. My doom
+But beyond that, I was a non-person. Or convict: my doom
 was in their hands.
 <blockquote>Non-person? Doom? Give yourself at least some credit.
 You still had agency. You still had a choice, could have not let it
 happen. You say of travel that getting you there is their job:
 you felt the same here. You crossed the doorway and let this mob
 of nurses do theirs.</blockquote>
-</div>
+And that's exactly what happened. I crossed that threshold,
+and then there I was: a patient before a team ready to handhold.
+At that point, I was no longer bearing all that weight.
+I was able to relax and let them guide me, a piece of freight
+working through a system. I even had a barcode to scan.
+Some gabapentin. My belongings in a bag. A rundown of the plan.
+An IV, and a second after the first missed. Meet the surgeon,
+then the anaesthesiologist.
+&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;  I felt myself then a virgin.
+I was at this point being prepared for some strange sacrifice,
+a process of pain and cutting, of rebirth. A cut, a slice,
+and I would become something more...what? Mature? More complete?
+Where I'd never put stock in virginity before &mdash; so obsolete &mdash;
+it fits well, now.
+<blockquote>It's the penetration. It's the being opened up. The breach in tegument.
+There is change implied in the loss of virginity. Something elegant,
+something beyond just the physical. Maybe it's maturity,
+maybe it's a coming of age, or even some strange aspect of purity.
+It's a one-way change</blockquote>
+That no-going-back-ness
+</pre>