Mewburn - Faking It: My Life in Transition

I am in a taxi being taken to a private hospital in a leafy suburb on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. The trip, as BA taxi rides invariably are, is a wild slalom through busy streets and intersections where everyone has, seemingly, equal rights of way. All the while the drivers arms wave emphatically as though constantly daubing the scene ahead with colour.

Amanda, the owner of the company performing my procedure, is beside me, making small talk. She is also a writer and is outlining the synopsis of her next novel. I try to feign interest, but my mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Excitement. Doubt. The impending surgery doesnt scare me Ill be sleeping through most of it. I know Im being flippant, but thats how Ive always approached my life. Or tried to. Its how I got here. No point changing now.

My thoughts are a tumult. One moment theyre racing ahead to my life-changing facial feminisation surgery and the uncertain future which lies beyond. The next moment, theyre drifting back to my previous life, a life which was, by and large, enjoyable, rewarding and successful. According to clichd wisdom, life is what you make of it. I think I made a pretty good fist of being Kyle or boy Kyle as Marion has taken to calling him. Im going to miss him.

Transition is weird. Surreal. Often incomprehensible, even to me.

We finally arrive at the hospital. The reception area is modern and reassuringly shiny. Im handed a wad of paperwork to fill out. Amanda translates, but Im already scribbling my signature on each dotted line. Am I aware of the dangers involved in the surgery? Yes. Too aware, if anything. Am I of sound mind? Even though several people have questioned my sanity over the past six months, Im pretty sure Im not crazy. More importantly, my psychologist agrees. Reckons Im the most stable client hes ever had. Ill take his word for it. I wouldnt couldnt be here without his stamp of approval.

Now I must wait for a consultation with the surgeon who is about to peel off my face, grind down portions of my skull, then nip, tuck, stitch and staple my new face into place. Itll be my first interaction with Dr Rossi. After years spent scouring the internet, comparing specialist facial feminisation surgeons and chatting to other trans women about their experiences, I was confident Id made the right choice. Dr Rossis results speak for themselves.

As I wait for Dr Rossi, I feel suddenly nervous. Its not the surgery Im worried about. Its the thought hell take one look at me in person and call the whole thing off. Even artists need a decent canvas.

My rising trepidation at the thought that I might yet fall at the final hurdle is, in a weird way, reassuring. It means Im doing the right thing. The necessary thing doesnt it?

After 15 minutes, Dr Rossi wafts into the room. Hes affable, confident, with a Hollywood veneer. A TV doctor straight off the set of General Hospital. He clasps my hand as though about to propose. His hands are reassuringly steady, warm and meticulously clean. They firmly guide me back into my chair.

He spends several minutes explaining why he had needed to postpone my surgery by two days. It sounds more like reminiscence than explanation. Hed been invited to present a keynote address at a prestigious plastic surgery conference in the United States. It was an enormous and unusual honour, apparently. He pulls out his phone and shares photos of the event. Of course, Amanda had already told me all about it when shed let me know about the postponement several weeks before. Dr Rossi likely suspects she hasnt conveyed the full magnitude of the honour.

After a final, nostalgic glance at his photos, he turns his attention to my face.

He handles my head with the delicacy of a Michelin-starred chef dealing with an unstable souffl. He gently turns my face left, then right. Tilting it to assess each masculine angle, every unwelcome ridge. Satisfied, he hands me a mirror so I can follow his fingers as they outline his battle plan across the testosterone-ravaged terrain. Each tweak designed to make my features of a proportion and perspective that is more feminine.

Yes, he finally declares, leaving no room for doubt. It will be perfect.

I know its the last time Ill ever see this face. A face that has seen me through almost 55 years. There are no wistful goodbyes. It has always been a mask. A stranger glimpsed in the mirror. But I still dont quite manage to look him in the eye.

Any questions? Dr Rossi asks.

I hand back the mirror with a shake of my head. No questions. He hasnt told me anything I didnt know already. Like I said, Ive done my research.

He offers one last reassuring handshake, then breezes away.

Amanda asks how Im feeling. I can only shrug, unsure.

We return to the foyer to wait while Dr Rossi completes the required formalities. Finally the receptionist hands back my passport. Im officially checked in. While Amanda goes in search of an orderly, I try to connect to the hospitals internet. Theres no coverage. So I fumble in my overnight bag, gathering my thoughts.

Amanda returns, trailing a surly young guy with lots of hair but few words. He escorts us to the elevator and punches the button. Amanda and I try to make small talk, but it seems impolite, so we fade to silence.

The elevator releases us onto the second floor. As we follow the orderly down the corridor, the hospital slowly loses its shiny faade, becoming less Los Angeles and more Eastern Bloc with each turn. Walls fade to grey, peeling paint.

We reach my private room. The orderly vanishes without a word. There are two beds, so I choose the one by the open window. The day is warm. Sunny. A shame Im going to miss it. The curtains dance in the light breeze, snatching scraps of traffic noise and birdsong.

Amanda fluffs around, offering distraction. I text Marion. Shes doing okay, under the circumstances. Its going to be a long night. Shes already cleaned the apartment. Might have redecorated it entirely by the time I wake up. Originally shed wanted to come to the hospital, but Amanda persuaded us both that there was nothing to be gained. I agreed. I didnt want to go to surgery streaming tears.