Trigger warning - The following account features strong emotional content and detailed descriptions of surgical recovery.
May 13th, 2016 marks the one-year anniversary of my facial feminization surgery date. I had promised to tell you the story, but ended up taking a while to put my mind to it - Despite it being a fairly positive experience I still needed time to put the event behind me and distance myself somewhat from the memories. By this point I feel I can speak in detail about it without re-living the emotion and discomfort so directly.
For the benefit of newer members, and as a prelude, the following link will take you to my past posting about the scope of work agreed upon during the initial trip I made for my consultation with the surgeon late in 2014:
https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,181368.msg1607090.html#msg1607090 This post from April, 2015 mentioned what FFS represented mentally for me:
https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,185760.msg1653771.html#msg1653771 This one a month ahead of the surgery reveals the depth of my building anxiety:
https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,186468.msg1660292.html#msg1660292 And finally, this one the day before my surgery as reality truly sets in:
https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,188557.msg1677188.html#msg1677188 The surgery was performed by Doctor Éric Bensimon at the Centre Métropolitain De Chirurgie, a private hospital in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. The procedures, as quoted, were as follows:
- Forehead type 2, including recontouring of the forehead and orbital rims, and a frontotemporal lift (brow lift).
- Complete open feminizing rhinoplasty. (The cosmetic rhinoplasty also included a structural repair to my nasal septum due to a pre-existing condition.)
The doctor's website for FFS information is
http://www.facial-feminization-surgery.com/.The website for the hospital is
http://www.cmcmontreal.com/en/.My FFS Story - Part 1:
By May of 2015 I had been through three years of a very anxious and stress-ridden transition. While in the end it turned out most of this was generated internally by my own mind, the feelings were unavoidable. Everything I'd gone through and worked for had built up to this moment - FFS would mark the final major milestone in my journey. Almost everyone I hadn't come out to had been told a few days prior to the surgery about my transition - my co-workers learned only five days ahead that I was going away for at least a month and coming back as a woman. I was at a huge point of no return, and much was on the line as I had committed to make this the moment I went full-time and never looked back.
Complicating the situation was that I'd had to go off hormones for ten days prior to surgery, and this made me feel even more lousy and nervous during this final 'whirlwind' sequence of events. I was also quite paranoid because I'd never experienced a surgery or even major physical pain before. I'd heard horror stories of anesthesia gone wrong where patients would become conscious during surgery and end up traumatized for life, and of terrible allergic reactions to surgical drugs leading to severe nausea or even death. One way or another, I was committed now - the money had been paid, and whatever was to be would be.
The Sunday before was Mother's Day. I felt really conflicted, and I told my Mother I felt like a terrible son for putting her through this stress and for changing myself in a way she wasn't yet, or possibly ever, fully comfortable with. She understood however that there was a good chance not going through with all parts of my transition might have resulted in me ending up dead and gone. Even if the worst were to happen and I died from surgical complications, I'd at least go in peace knowing I'd made the only choice I knew was right.
It wasn't just the stress of the coming event that was getting to me - Everything wrong throughout my life that had been caused by my mostly sub-conscious and misunderstood gender dysphoria and all the struggle transition had put me through had combined to make me feel extraordinarily tired. The picture of myself I shot a few days before the surgery revealed someone beaten and defeated, stressed out and thoroughly fatigued. You could literally read the internal pain and tension in my eyes. I understood that I would have to leave that person and all 'his' memories behind if I was to move forward and be free.
I woke very early on Monday, earlier than I needed to to be ready for the train trip to Montreal. Despite my emotional fatigue there was no way I could rest any longer - I was too amped-up with anxiety. I went out into my back yard to see the sunrise - It was so beautiful and peaceful I had to record it:
The spotty little clouds looked amazing and a few birds were singing. The rest of the city was still waking up, so the background din of traffic hadn't risen to a relative roar yet. Without context the photo would be nice, but no one would truly understand all of the emotion tied up in it. Soon enough it was time to leave for the station - The reality fully sunk in what I was about to do. Before that moment I could still pretend it wasn't real or that it was a long way away. Now the final march to 'judgement' began.
No father is without a few rough edges, but I have to say mine is incredible! When I'd come out to him he'd offered his full support. When I told him about my coming FFS and that I needed a companion to help me he committed to go immediately and unconditionally. As such, Mom had to stay home and take care of things there - I felt bad for leaving her alone with the worry of the situation. She dropped us at the station and I gave her a hug good-bye. I immediately broke out in tears from the intensity of the moment. Dad said, in his own older-generational masculine way, "Come on, we don't have time for this." I'm sure it was the only way he knew how to respond to intense emotion, as men of his day were brought up to do. He didn't mean any harm by it and I couldn't help but laugh. It kinda helped me regain my composure, that and the similar social conditioning I'd received all my life as a male to contain my emotions too. The guy I'd been would serve me well until the end with a strength I might not otherwise have built.
The train trip was long, and at times shaky, but I'd gotten used to it on two prior outings already. This was the very first time I'd been out in public presenting as a woman while in the presence of my father. I'm not sure how he was taking it because he never let on. He'd not so far been addressing me with female pronouns, but he would learn quickly from the behaviour of others that he'd better 'get on-board' because everyone else saw me as a woman and addressed me correctly. Inside I cheered!
There was a seriously obnoxious and mentally-disturbed problem-passenger in our car who was aggravating a number of her neighbouring seat-mates and the staff for much of the trip. I quite seriously felt like knocking her the hell out - Who was she to be adding to my horrendous stress?!? She was clearly the kind of manipulative mind that reveled in this sort of behaviour and in using it to gain privileges. I just had to try to ignore it, and I put on headphones and listened to music for most of the way.
That evening in Montreal, Dad and I went out to a restaurant for dinner. It felt really strange in that moment because it would be the last food I was permitted before the surgery the next day. If things went terribly wrong it would quite literally have been my 'last supper'. I was so wound-up I almost lost my appetite, but I knew I had to force it down because I'd need the nutrition to get me through the recovery. Shortly after, I went to bed and had some trouble getting to sleep. I couldn't believe it was my last night of rest before the Big Day.
Then all-of-a-sudden it was Tuesday morning and I'd woken early again. The Big Day had arrived! Dad left the hotel room to go eat breakfast and left me there alone because I had to fast. This gave me some quiet time to reflect on my life and my journey. I grabbed my cellphone and recorded a video - a message from my 'Past Self' to my 'Future Self'. I'd realized that once I went to sleep in surgery for the last time, I would wake up re-born in a sense, and the two of us would never meet. It sounds overly poetic and dramatic, and I know it's a bit silly, but this was how I had to frame it in order to move forward and drop all the baggage of the past. I'd written up the message in advance so I wouldn't stumble - the emotion made it hard enough to get through the video without breaking down. The intensity of it was clearly visible and audible when I played back the video to make sure it had worked, at which point I exploded into a fit of tears and bawling. It gripped me in a way I didn't know how to handle - a moment of sheer intense helplessness knowing what was to come and knowing I was the only one to blame for doing this to myself. Again I composed myself before my dad returned to the room. With the clock ticking and only a few hours to go there was no point in crying any more.
I was keeping in touch with some of my co-worker friends by text message. I jokingly quoted a line from the movie "The Chronicles of Riddick", where the Lord Marshall declares, "THESE are His LAST MOMENTS!" They appreciated the somewhat morbid humour but could never know the full extent of its meaning to me. My final message to them was, "Now entering radio silence..."
On a clear, bright, sunny morning we left the hotel and boarded the Metro. It's actually dead-simple and quick to get to the hospital by transit from downtown Montreal - the Metro takes you to a frequent 24-hour bus route that stops right at the front door. For all the expense of this trip already I didn't feel like shelling out for a taxi when the transit trip was so easy and cheap. I don't know why but the hospital and the surgeon's office made no mention about this service. I certainly recommend it.
We arrived a few minutes ahead of my 9:00am check-in time. I had to wait quite a while before the registration nurse would see me and process my information. She asked to see my medications, which although I'd had to suspend for the surgery, they still needed to know about for reference. In all my anxiousness I'd forgotten to bring the bottles, but they were satisfied with me just telling them the information. They checked my weight and blood pressure, had me put a final signature to paper, and then had me sit and wait again. I actually had no idea when they were going to bring me back in for the surgery and they didn't say anything.
While I waited, I watched as another patient, obviously a transwoman who'd recently had SRS indicated by her look and 'hobble', left the room that would be mine. A staff member then changed all the bedding and sanitized the bed frame. By now I'd been there almost two hours and still had no idea when I'd go in for the surgery. Then the anesthesiologist took me aside and asked me a few questions. He was very mild-mannered and kind which put my mind somewhat as ease. I went back to my seat and waited again, but this time I only waited five minutes or so before a nurse came to bring me upstairs to the operating floor. I gave Dad a big hug - he almost acted like he didn't want it, most surely because he was trying hard to contain his emotions - and then said good-bye. He couldn't know that in my mind he'd seen his son for the last time.
They took me up the stairs to a small room with an attached washroom where I would change out of my clothes and into a hospital gown. I looked in the mirror and paused - a strange feeling came over me knowing that this was the last time I'd ever see my face this way again in-person. I never hated that image, but I did always kind of see a stranger in the mirror. While I knew what I wanted to achieve through FFS, I was going in on some blind faith that the result would make me "Me". There was no true way to see that until after the surgery and a period of recovery. I hesitated before turning away from the mirror - even now, it was hard letting go. I mouthed "Good-bye," and then pryed away my gaze.
Once I was ready, Dr. Bensimon, in full surgical garb, took me into another small room where he looked me over, pulled at my face a bit, and then took reference photos. He was putting together an image in his mind of what I would look like afterward. I trusted him a lot, not because of his pleasant manner, nor his years of FFS experience on transwomen, but because his early training was actually in reconstructive surgery. It is because of this that he has a masterful grasp of how to visualize a natural-looking post-surgical face and exactly what he must do to achieve it.
Satisfied with his final assessment, he then brought me into the operating room. There were three other people there completing the surgical team, and he introduced me to all of them. At this point there was no more waiting - they promptly lay me down on the table, poked one needle into my arm and another into a vein on the back of my hand. The second one hurt more than the first and I groaned. This was IT, I realized - my entire life and everything that had happened had built up to this moment. I really didn't know how to feel, there were so many emotions and so much anxiety. I knew that peace wouldn't come until I woke again afterward. My male self said good-bye to the world knowing I didn't blame myself for everything my condition had caused to go wrong in my life - I'd done the best I could, and honourably so, with the hand that was dealt me. It was like raising a proverbial torch that my female self would grasp on the other side. I said to my male self, "You've done enough, you've earned your rest... Now go to sleep, knowing She'll never forget you. She'll take it from here..."
I don't know how long it was after the anesthetic was injected that it took effect - maybe ten to twenty seconds. I don't even remember fading out or anything - Just suddenly I was unconscious.
End of Part 1
MODIFYMay 13th, 2016 marks the one-year anniversary of my facial feminization surgery date. I had promised to tell you the story, but ended up taking a while to put my mind to it - Despite it being a fairly positive experience I still needed time to put the event behind me and distance myself somewhat from the memories. By this point I feel I can speak in detail about it without re-living the emotion and discomfort so directly.
For the benefit of newer members, and as a prelude, the following link will take you to my past posting about the scope of work agreed upon during the initial trip I made for my consultation with the surgeon late in 2014:
https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,181368.msg1607090.html#msg1607090 This post from April, 2015 mentioned what FFS represented mentally for me:
https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,185760.msg1653771.html#msg1653771 This one a month ahead of the surgery reveals the depth of my building anxiety:
https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,186468.msg1660292.html#msg1660292 And finally, this one the day before my surgery as reality truly sets in:
https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,188557.msg1677188.html#msg1677188 The surgery was performed by Doctor Éric Bensimon at the Centre Métropolitain De Chirurgie, a private hospital in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. The procedures, as quoted, were as follows:
- Forehead type 2, including recontouring of the forehead and orbital rims, and frontotemporal lift (brow lift).
- Complete open feminizing rhinoplasty. (The cosmetic rhinoplasty also included a structural repair to my nasal septum due to a preexisting condition.)
- Combined bill for the surgeon and the hospital was $14,990.00 (Canadian Dollars).
The doctor's website for FFS information is
http://www.facial-feminization-surgery.com/.The website for the hospital is
http://www.cmcmontreal.com/en/.Trigger warning - The following account features strong emotional content and detailed descriptions of surgical recovery.
My FFS Story - Part 1:
By May of 2015 I had been through three years of a very anxious and stress-ridden transition. While in the end it turned out most of this was generated internally by my own mind, the feelings were unavoidable. Everything I'd gone through and worked for had built up to this moment - FFS would mark the final major milestone in my journey. Almost everyone I hadn't come out to had been told a few days prior to the surgery about my transition - my co-workers learned only five days ahead that I was going away for at least a month and coming back as a woman. I was at a huge point of no return, and much was on the line as I had committed to make this the moment I went full-time and never looked back.
Complicating the situation was that I'd had to go off hormones for ten days prior to surgery, and this made me feel even more lousy and nervous during this final 'whirlwind' sequence of events. I was also quite paranoid because I'd never experienced a surgery or even major physical pain before. I'd heard horror stories of anesthesia gone wrong where patients would become conscious during surgery and end up traumatized for life, and of terrible allergic reactions to surgical drugs leading to severe nausea or even death. One way or another, I was committed now - the money had been paid, and whatever was to be would be.
The Sunday before was Mother's Day. I felt really conflicted, and I told my Mother I felt like a terrible son for putting her through this stress and for changing myself in a way she wasn't yet, or possibly ever, fully comfortable with. She understood however that there was a good chance not going through with all parts of my transition might have resulted in me ending up dead and gone. Even if the worst were to happen and I died from surgical complications, I'd at least go in peace knowing I'd made the only choice I knew was right.
It wasn't just the stress of the coming event that was getting to me - Everything wrong throughout my life that had been caused by my mostly sub-conscious and misunderstood gender dysphoria and all the struggle transition had put me through had combined to make me feel extraordinarily tired. The picture of myself I shot a few days before the surgery revealed someone beaten and defeated, stressed out and thoroughly fatigued. You could literally read the internal pain and tension in my eyes. I understood that I would have to leave that person and all 'his' memories behind if I was to move forward and be free.
I woke very early on Monday, earlier than I needed to to be ready for the train trip to Montreal. Despite my emotional fatigue there was no way I could rest any longer - I was too amped-up with anxiety. I went out into my back yard to see the sunrise - It was so beautiful and peaceful I had to record it:
The spotty little clouds looked amazing and a few birds were singing. The rest of the city was still waking up, so the background din of traffic hadn't risen to a relative roar yet. Without context the photo would be nice, but no one would truly understand all of the emotion tied up in it. Soon enough it was time to leave for the station - The reality fully sunk in what I was about to do. Before that moment I could still pretend it wasn't real or that it was a long way away. Now the final march to 'judgement' began.
No father is without a few rough edges, but I have to say mine is incredible! When I'd come out to him he'd offered his full support. When I told him about my coming FFS and that I needed a companion to help me he committed to go immediately and unconditionally. As such, Mom had to stay home and take care of things there - I felt bad for leaving her alone with the worry of the situation. She dropped us at the station and I gave her a hug good-bye. I immediately broke out in tears from the intensity of the moment. Dad said, in his own older-generational masculine way, "Come on, we don't have time for this." I'm sure it was the only way he knew how to respond to intense emotion, as men of his day were brought up to do. He didn't mean any harm by it and I couldn't help but laugh. It kinda helped me regain my composure, that and the similar social conditioning I'd received all my life as a male to contain my emotions too. The guy I'd been would serve me well until the end with a strength I might not otherwise have built.
The train trip was long, and at times shaky, but I'd gotten used to it on two prior outings already. This was the very first time I'd been out in public presenting as a woman while in the presence of my father. I'm not sure how he was taking it because he never let on. He'd not so far been addressing me with female pronouns, but he would learn quickly from the behaviour of others that he'd better 'get on-board' because everyone else saw me as a woman and addressed me correctly. Inside I cheered!
There was a seriously obnoxious and mentally-disturbed problem-passenger in our car who was aggravating a number of her neighbouring seat-mates and the staff for much of the trip. I quite seriously felt like knocking her the hell out - Who was she to be adding to my horrendous stress?!? She was clearly the kind of manipulative mind that reveled in this sort of behaviour and in using it to gain privileges. I just had to try to ignore it, and I put on headphones and listened to music for most of the way.
That evening in Montreal, Dad and I went out to a restaurant for dinner. It felt really strange in that moment because it would be the last food I was permitted before the surgery the next day. If things went terribly wrong it would quite literally have been my 'last supper'. I was so wound-up I almost lost my appetite, but I knew I had to force it down because I'd need the nutrition to get me through the recovery. Shortly after, I went to bed and had some trouble getting to sleep. I couldn't believe it was my last night of rest before the Big Day.
Then all-of-a-sudden it was Tuesday morning and I'd woken early again. The Big Day had arrived! Dad left the hotel room to go eat breakfast and left me there alone because I had to fast. This gave me some quiet time to reflect on my life and my journey. I grabbed my cellphone and recorded a video - a message from my 'Past Self' to my 'Future Self'. I'd realized that once I went to sleep in surgery for the last time, I would wake up re-born in a sense, and the two of us would never meet. It sounds overly poetic and dramatic, and I know it's a bit silly, but this was how I had to frame it in order to move forward and drop all the baggage of the past. I'd written up the message in advance so I wouldn't stumble - the emotion made it hard enough to get through the video without breaking down. The intensity of it was clearly visible and audible when I played back the video to make sure it had worked, at which point I exploded into a fit of tears and bawling. It gripped me in a way I didn't know how to handle - a moment of sheer intense helplessness knowing what was to come and knowing I was the only one to blame for doing this to myself. Again I composed myself before my dad returned to the room. With the clock ticking and only a few hours to go there was no point in crying any more.
I was keeping in touch with some of my co-worker friends by text message. I jokingly quoted a line from the movie "The Chronicles of Riddick", where the Lord Marshal declares,
"THESE are His LAST MOMENTS!" They appreciated the somewhat morbid humour but could never know the full extent of its meaning to me. My final message to them was, "Now entering radio silence..."
On a clear, bright, sunny morning we left the hotel and boarded the Metro. It's actually dead-simple and quick to get to the hospital by transit from downtown Montreal - the Metro takes you to a frequent 24-hour bus route that stops right at the front door. For all the expense of this trip already I didn't feel like shelling out for a taxi when the transit trip was so easy and cheap. I don't know why but the hospital and the surgeon's office made no mention about this service. I certainly recommend it.
We arrived a few minutes ahead of my 9:00am check-in time. I had to wait quite a while before the registration nurse would see me and process my information. She asked to see my medications, which although I'd had to suspend for the surgery, they still needed to know about for reference. In all my anxiousness I'd forgotten to bring the bottles, but they were satisfied with me just telling them the information. They checked my weight and blood pressure, had me put a final signature to paper, and then had me sit and wait again. I actually had no idea when they were going to bring me back in for the surgery and they didn't say anything.
While I waited, I watched as another patient, obviously a transwoman who'd recently had SRS indicated by her look and 'hobble', left the room that would be mine. A staff member then changed all the bedding and sanitized the bed frame. By now I'd been there almost two hours and still had no idea when I'd go in for the surgery. Then the anesthesiologist took me aside and asked me a few questions. He was very mild-mannered and kind which put my mind somewhat as ease. I went back to my seat and waited again, but this time I only waited five minutes or so before a nurse came to bring me upstairs to the operating floor. I gave Dad a big hug - he almost acted like he didn't want it, most surely because he was trying hard to contain his emotions - and then said good-bye. He couldn't know that in my mind he'd seen his son for the last time.
They took me up the stairs to a small room with an attached washroom where I would change out of my clothes and into a hospital gown. I looked in the mirror and paused - a strange feeling came over me knowing that this was the last time I'd ever see my face this way again in-person. I never hated that image, but I did always kind of see a stranger in the mirror. While I knew what I wanted to achieve through FFS, I was going in on some blind faith that the result would make me "Me". There was no true way to see that until after the surgery and a period of recovery. I hesitated before turning away from the mirror - even now, it was hard letting go. I mouthed "Good-bye," and then pried away my gaze.
Once I was ready, Dr. Bensimon, in full surgical garb, took me into another small room where he looked me over, pulled at my face a bit, and then took reference photos. He was putting together an image in his mind of what I would look like afterward. I trusted him a lot, not because of his pleasant manner, nor his years of FFS experience on transwomen, but because his early training was actually in reconstructive surgery. It is because of this that he has a masterful grasp of how to visualize a natural-looking post-surgical face and exactly what he must do to achieve it.
Satisfied with his final assessment, he then brought me into the operating room. There were three other people there completing the surgical team, and he introduced me to all of them. At this point there was no more waiting - they promptly lay me down on the table, poked one needle into my arm and another into a vein on the back of my hand. The second one hurt more than the first and I groaned. This was IT, I realized - my entire life and everything that had happened had built up to this moment. I really didn't know how to feel, there were so many emotions and so much anxiety. I knew that peace wouldn't come until I woke again afterward. My male self said good-bye to the world knowing I didn't blame myself for everything my condition had caused to go wrong in my life - I'd done the best I could, and honourably so, with the hand that was dealt me. It was like raising a proverbial torch that my female self would grasp on the other side. I said to my male self, "You've done enough, you've earned your rest... Now go to sleep, knowing She'll never forget you. She'll take it from here..."
I don't know how long it was after the anesthetic was injected that it took effect - maybe ten to twenty seconds. I don't even remember fading out or anything - Just suddenly I was unconscious.
End of Part 1
