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Madison Scott-Clary
2019-12-27 13:11:58 -08:00
parent d9e4bc4ced
commit 119418aade
2 changed files with 25 additions and 5 deletions
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content/gender/surgery/002.html
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@ -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.

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content/gender/surgery/004.html
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@ -3,7 +3,7 @@ date: 2019-11-01
weight: 4
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<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>