This short story reflects some of the author's experience of being transsexual (and very hungry!) but much of it is fiction. The storyteller and her story are mostly figments from the writer's imagination.

The story is copyright Jenny Roberts 2003. You are welcome to download for personal reading but no extract or story may be reproduced without the express written consent of the author.

As I wake, the all too-familiar hollowness in my belly re-asserts itself. I screw up my eyes and fumble for the clock. It’s not yet six o’clock and I’ve had another miserable night.

I push down with my hands, trying to lift my body far enough off the bed so that I can re-arrange myself and ease the cramps in my lower back. But, of course, it’s futile and I have to make do with hauling myself further up the bed so that I’m semi-recumbent. I’m not allowed to sit up or turn over but, even if I was, the tubes in my arm and lower body would make it impossible. I groan and fantasise about the luxury of curling up, turning over and falling into a blissful, unfettered sleep.

It’s been 5 days now and I’m worn-out and almost beaten. Exhausted by the effort of staying still, doing nothing, going nowhere. Nobody, but nobody would do this unless they had to.

My belly growls angrily and I stretch out for the water on the trolley by the bed, sipping the whole glassful in an effort to quell the peppery bile that is burning up into my chest. Five days without food. How could I resist the offer of an Oxo drink yesterday? The weak gravy tasted like nectar after so long drinking only water, but the salts and spices in it had been irritating my empty stomach ever since.

Sausage and mash, pie and chips. Lashings of dark salty gravy. Lasagne with a crisp green side salad… I push away the images that keep on tormenting me and try and concentrate on something else. What day is it? My last meal was on Tuesday morning, just before I checked in. I had the operation early Wednesday. If I don’t get to eat this morning, I’ll be into the 6th day without food… so Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Sunday, it must be Sunday.

Maybe it will end today… or maybe not. I was sure that yesterday would be the day. I was counting on it. I don’t know how I’ll cope if it goes on much longer. I can’t begin to describe what it feels like. The first three days weren’t so bad. I was just plain hungry on Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday I was out of it with a little button in my hand and a morphine drip in my arm. I could shoot some pain relief and the high that went with it, whenever I wanted. The dreams were spectacular, Cecil B DeMille right there in the middle of my brain. But the last two days… I feel weak. I feel ill. My mouth is furry, and unpleasant. I’m sure my breath stinks. And there is a dull aching sickness deep in my gut that won’t leave me alone.

I lean over and fill the glass from the jug and take another mouthful. That’s another thing – I am so-fucking-tired-of-drinking-water. I feel like I’m awash, afloat in my own juices. I swallow it in at one end and it re-appears in the bag under the bed a few hours later. I’ve even taken to checking the levels hourly. It’s all I have to do. And I’m supposed to down at least five jugs each day. I think I’ll go crazy if it’s not today. Seriously. I mean it.

I always knew that this would be the worst part and I’ve been dreading it for months. I know you can’t make an omelette etc, etc, but surely this will be the last morning I have to wake up like this? Every time I ask the nurse she tells me that it’s up to the specialist, and when I ask him – which I did yesterday, and the day before – he just smiles curiously, nods his distinguished bald head and tells me, ‘we’ll have to see Sandra, won’t we?’

Um, well that’s ok then, Mr Fothergill, we’ll just sit here and fucking wait.

I shouldn’t swear now, I suppose. Not even under extreme provocation. Elaine kept telling me that ladies don’t swear.

‘You’ll have to behave differently after they’ve sorted you out,’ she’d warned. It was more a threat than genuine advice. ‘You’re going to be a second-class citizen, you might as well get used to it.’

‘A second-class citizen.’ Like I was about to become a sewage collector or something in the slums of Bombay.

A trolley rattles past in the corridor outside and I glance longingly at the door hoping that this morning, the authorities will relent and bring me a nice hot, sweet cup of tea or, better still, a massive mug of strong coffee. Two sugars, only a little milk….

Stop it Sandra, stop it.

I suppose in many ways I’ve been lucky. I guess that, if life had been easy, I wouldn’t be the person that I am now. Over the last 39 years I’ve had to cope. To make do. I’ve done well in my career... well, did well. That’s over now too. Perhaps in my new life I’m supposed to forget all that. Learn to become a lady. Like Elaine, maybe. Learn to be soft and vulnerable. Second-class. Mmm, maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s the way it has to be. Still, I don’t think anyone should regard themselves like that. I was shocked when I realised that she did. I always thought we were equal. She’d always said we were.

Before we parted, she started to be more confident and self-reliant. I was pleased and I said so. She said she’d always been like that when I wasn’t around. It was just that, with me, she’d been happy to take second place, because that’s how it should be in a marriage.

Twelve years together. I thought I knew her.

Then again, I suppose she imagined that she knew me too.

I wriggle in the clamminess of the bed, pulling at my nightdress to try and get rid of the creases under me. I get out of breath again and short on patience. Oh to be able to sit up! I am so tired of laying here in this bed. Please God, if you do exist, make it today. Make it Bacon and Eggs with fried bread and tomatoes on the side. Make it hot strong coffee and toast and marmalade. Please, have some fucking compassion. Let me at least get out of bed and have a bath…

I pull myself up short, realising that I’m actually frightened by the prospect of getting out of bed: of seeing myself naked. My stomach begins to churn and, even as I confront my feelings, a small part of my brain wonders how it is possible to feel sick when I’ve nothing left inside me. I sigh heavily and remind myself that I’m doing this because there is no other way. Then I remember how it has been all my life. And I begin to feel angry.

I don’t have to become second-class. I’ve already been that - all through my life. Maybe not in the way that Elaine meant. But second-class all the same. And I’m here because I couldn’t go on living like that. With the deception. With the lies. With the pretence. With a life that felt so different on the inside, to the one on the outside. I used to have self-respect when I was young, but little by little, as the years passed, the deceit began to take its toll and I came to despise the person I was pretending to be. The person that Elaine wanted me to be. The person she thought I was.

Can you imagine how much that tears you apart? To be seen as one thing and to feel the absolute opposite. To have to live and breathe as someone you are not. To be desperate and helpless in your soul, yet unable to tell anyone about it. Because they wouldn’t understand.

Because, dammit, I didn’t understand.

I still don’t. I tried not to think about it. To distract myself with work, sport, reading, holidays – anything I could think of. But, whatever I did, whatever I tried, I still felt worse with every day that passed. Two years ago I felt like I was going to explode with unhappiness and all I wanted was for it to end, for me to die in the night and be out of that space. I would have killed myself if I hadn’t worried about what it might do to Elaine. But in the end my mood affected her as well, and we began to argue incessantly. ‘What’s the point?’ I thought. So I told her.

She was devastated. Wouldn’t you be? She thought she’d been living with a man all those years. She accused me of deceiving her. She was right. I had, from the moment I met her. But only because I thought I could beat it. Because I didn’t want our love affair to end. And because I didn’t know how to explain it.

I still don’t.

My eyes fill up and I think how much I still love her. I don’t blame her for feeling bitter. It is all my fault, and I willingly take the blame. Why should she wish me well? I deceived her. I let her think that everything was fine. For twelve years. I didn’t mean to lie. I was frightened. I still am.

I gaze across the room at the sunlight falling through the curtains. I can feel its heat from here, warming the cloud of despondency that has suddenly enveloped me. I did try didn’t I? I promised that I’d get treatment. It was my suggestion not hers. And she agreed, of course. Neither of us wanted it to end, so we did the rounds together, for over a year, looking for a solution.

I went to see our family doctor, who didn’t know what to say, let alone what to do. A ‘gender’ psychiatrist who prescribed me the same aversion tablets they give to child molesters, and nearly drove me insane in the process. The hypnotherapist who was convinced that I was simply gay and, if I admitted it, then everything would be fine. After a while it became clear that there weren’t any easy answers or compromises. Finally, in desperation, I contacted a support organisation and found a specialist who knew what he was talking about.

And then we both had to come to terms with the inevitable. There was only one treatment, he said, and that was to be honest with myself. Gender Dysphoria he called it. It wasn’t an illness that could be cured. But it was a condition that could be treated. And the treatment was to be myself. To accept myself. To change my life. To become the woman I had always felt I was. Or, to continue coping.

‘Well, it’s your choice.’ Elaine had said, with more than a hint of sourness, when I told her I’d made up my mind. But she was wrong, it wasn’t a choice really. If I’d had a choice then I would have kept things as they were. I would have stayed there with her, in our home. I would have kept my friends, my job, my life as it was, and been happy.

I choke on the enormity of all that I am doing and waves of fear and grief swell through me as they have nearly every day for the last year. For all its difficulties my life used to be rich and full. I felt a part of something. I had a rewarding job, a family, an identity. In it’s way it was safe and comfortable. Busy and noisy. Now the loneliness is sometimes so loud that it frightens me.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and tell myself that I will be alright… and hope, as I’ve always hoped, that she’ll be alright as well.

There’s too much time to think in here. I’m tired of staring at the wall and turning these thoughts over hour after hour. Of waking up and crying in the depths of the night. Please God, make it today. I need to get on with my life.

I pull back the sheets and look down at my navel. The big white nappy is still held firmly and uncomfortably around me. Underneath is a secret. Mr Fothergill’s handiwork. The new me - waiting to emerge. I lay the sheets back down and begin to worry. I worry a lot these days. About what my new life will really be like. About my deep voice. About the width of my shoulders. My height. About how I’ll be treated. Whether I can be happy. I know that it’s not going to be easy, but I’ve coped for the last year in a new home, in a different area. People don’t seem to mind. And, in any case, I’m not going to hide. I’ve done that for too long. From now on, I’m going to be proud of who I am.

Even if who-I-am is a paradox. Almost a non-person, I suppose. I never fitted in before, but the irony, even after all this, is that I still won’t fit. I’ve never been a man in any true sense, but I can never be a woman either. I can never be like other people. I think sometimes how nice it would be to have been born female and not have to go through this. How nice it would be to bleed, to know that everything was there, in place, whether I needed it or not. This makes me smile, because every woman I know tells me to be pleased, that they would give anything to be free of menstruation. It’s hard to explain to them but, for me, the lack of it is just another loss. Something else that will always makes me different to real women. Just another experience that I’ve never shared, never will share.

It’s eight o’clock now and people are moving around in the corridor outside. Maybe there’ll be some post, a letter maybe… I look over at the bedside table. There are six cards. Messages of support and encouragement from people who still love me come what may. My sister, my best friend Anna, and friends from my new life. But there is nothing from the one person who, more than anyone, I needed to wish me luck.

The door opens and the nurse comes in, the new one from last night. She’s young, she can’t have been qualified for more than a year or two. But she makes me feel better the minute she walks through the door, and I wonder if I could get her on prescription. She peers at me with her big, dark eyes and purses her lips, trying to weigh up my mood. Then she smiles broadly and puts her head on one side, making little effort to hide her amusement, “My God Sandra,” she scolds gently, “What have you been doing in that bed!” She puts the fresh jug of water on the bedside cabinet and starts to peel back the bedcovers, pulling and straightening and tucking until everything is neat, and tidy, and tight. I watch her closely. She fascinates me; her fine dark hair tied back neatly with a small clip, her slender neck and a slightly crooked nose that, somehow, makes her all the more endearing.

She sees me staring and smiles back, pleasantly, relaxed. Like she’s talking to a friend.

'How you doin’, sweetheart?’

There’s just a trace of an accent. Scottish definitely, Edinburgh maybe. I smile broadly, in spite of myself, enjoying the warmth that is suddenly filling my belly. She watches me for a few moments, studying me, looking like she really cares. Her eyes flash brightly and I feel like I could fall right into them given the smallest persuasion. The warm feeling dissolves into a swarm of butterflies. For some reason, even the smallest kindness makes me want to cry.

‘Oh, I’m OK.’ I manage, passing off the emotion and keeping my voice as steady as I can. I’d like to tell her all my fears and be gathered up into the warmth and safety of her arms.

“Och, there’s nothing wrong with you that a good meal won’t put right.” She smiles wryly and sticks the thermometer in my mouth, then sits down on the bed. “But you’ll be glad to be out of that bed I expect.” I nod, unable to speak. But my eyes must have said a lot more because she smiles and shakes her head gently. “Time passes Sandra. You’ll soon be looking back on all this as a distant memory.”

She pulls the thermometer out again and checks it. Then she wraps the rubber tube around my arm, pumps it up and looks at her watch as she releases the pressure. I watch her every movement - her wide soft mouth, the way she uses her hands, the expressiveness of her face – and a sadness pricks me inside. I know that I can never be attractive in that way. But it doesn’t matter, I tell myself, we all have our own special beauty – the trick is to let it show.

‘Temperature is normal and blood pressure good.’ She smiles reassuringly, laying a soft hand on my arm and squeezing lightly. “I know you must be feeling rotten, but I’m sure it will all be worth it.”

I swallow hard and agree.

‘I’d go through this ten times over, if I had to.’ I say, looking her straight in the eyes. And I mean it too. ‘But, all the same, it will be nice when it’s over… I suppose it’s the bed bath again today?’

I’m fishing, nurse, you know I’m fishing. Please tell me that today’s the day.

She shakes her head slowly and looks back at me. There’s a sparkle in her eyes and something in my belly loops the loop. Then she grins.

‘I think you might just be allowed out of bed today.’ She says it slowly, carefully, watching for my reaction. I breathe in sharply and hold it, my mouth still open in disbelief. She looks at me more seriously now, and nods her head.

‘Today should be the day you’ve been waiting for, love. Mr Fothergill seldom leaves it more than 6 days – and, in case you hadn’t noticed, this is day six.’

I swallow hard and a heady cocktail of excitement and hope floods upwards through my body. She pauses, then smiles broadly again and tips her head towards the wall. ‘He’s with Joanne, in the next room – you’re next. I’ve just come to make sure that you’re respectable.’

Now there’s a knot in my belly and a paralysis all over my body. This is it. This is the moment of truth. Suddenly I’m gripped with apprehension. I can’t speak. The nurse smiles again, more to herself than to me, and leaves the room. She’s seen it all before. We may be a tiny minority but, in here, they see more than a hundred of us every year. For them this is routine. But for me….

This is my catharsis. My renaissance. The moment of my rebirth when my outer body will at last reflect my inner being. Will I like what I see? How will it feel to look at myself and see that the old bits are missing? How will I react? What if I’ve made some terrible mistake? What then?

I think of all the times Elaine tried to talk me out of it and emotion wells up inside me again. I steady myself and take another sip of water. I didn’t think it mattered that we would be the same sex afterwards. We never had a massive sex life anyway - and you don’t have to be lesbians to be friends, to continue living together, do you? I still couldn’t get my head round her rejection. She said she would always love me. All the time she said it, right up until the day I told her. Even then, she promised that she’d always be my friend. But, for all that, two weeks ago I got a brief message saying that she never wanted to see me again.

I should have guessed long ago, but I suppose I was deluding myself. She was – she is - ashamed of me. Deep inside I always knew that. She never said as much, but I could see it in her eyes every time I persuaded her to meet me dressed as Sandra. I tried hard. I spent hours getting ready every time. A dress that made me look good, that disguised my lack of waist and my too-broad shoulders. Make-up – not too much, and tasteful. I kept my hair nice and filed my nails. For the first time in my life I felt good. I wanted her to be proud of me. I wanted her to like me.

But I could see it in her eyes. The distaste. I could see it in the way she drew back from me at the slightest touch. The way she began to have prior engagements when I suggested meeting. I could see her slipping away from me little by little, every day for that last year. Just, I guess, as she saw the man she had married, disappearing as well, right before her eyes.

I reach for a tissue and blow my nose, reflecting on the sadness of it all, but holding on to the hope that I have begun to feel in this last year. The promise that my new life was already offering me. With all the pain and the hurt and the expense, it is worth it. I’d far rather have nothing, and be me, than take any of it back. And I’d do it all again, every little bit of it – even this last five days – if I had to. Even so, it feels unreal - being here, laying in this bed, swaddled in this huge nappy, a drip coming into my arm and a catheter coming from between my legs. I keep thinking that this is the sort of thing that happens to other people. But no, it’s me, centre stage, about to be unveiled.

Suddenly I don’t know how I feel anymore, and I’m scared. I’m wrapped so tight that there is no sensation in my groin. Not even a soreness. Even an itch would be re-assuring. My mind drifts and I think about people who have amputations and can still feel the missing limb. Is it the same with this operation? Will I forever be condemned to have a phantom penis? And what will I look like? I’d had no choice but to trust the surgeon. He promised to do a good job. Shit, I hope he has. There’s no chance of a refund. And it’s too late to change my mind.

The door begins to open and I close my eyes tight, trying to get a grip of myself. I’m shaking. I feel ill from lack of food and tiredness. And I’m sick with sudden excitement and fear.

When I open my eyes again, the door is still ajar, his hand curled around its side, holding it open, tantalising me. I can hear his voice on the other side, talking, giving instructions. It seems like an eternity before anything happens.

Finally, he enters the room with a flourish, wearing his Sunday sports jacket and a pale green shirt, looking like he’s just popped-in on his way to the golf course.

‘Good morning, Sandra!’ he says brightly, standing over me, swinging a big torch as if he’s about to lift the bonnet of a car and tinker with the engine.

‘Today’s your big day then.’

He says it as if he’s commenting on the weather or the décor in the room and I blink at the lack of drama in his voice. My belly churns. And, through all this, a small part of my brain still has time to wonder if the torch is standard hospital issue.

He takes his jacket off as the nurse removes my sheets and, before I can even think about it, I’ve spread my legs wide and the torch is shining brightly onto my bandaged groin. I smile to myself at the thought of the spotlight on my new sex. All I need is a fanfare and the occasion will be complete. But that is already swelling up inside me, the grief and fear slipping away, yielding to the excitement that is taking over every molecule of my body.

‘Now then m’dear, let’s see how you’re doing.’ He mutters amiably, carefully cutting the bandages, one by one. Stripping them away until all that remains is one dressing, which he removes carefully, bathing the area around it. I can see nothing, but I notice that the pad has blood on it and, quite irrationally, this makes me happy. I concentrate and try to sense my new bits. But, instead of feeling what is there, my mind registers what is not there. And for the first time in my life I feel how I knew I should feel.

There is space between my legs and air around my crotch – and it feels right.

‘Good… good…’ The man mutters quietly to himself, pausing, reflecting. Like some great sculptor studying his new creation. Then he carefully removes the catheter and takes hold of a pair of forceps, gently tugging at the packing which is holding my new vagina in place.

‘This may hurt a little.’ He looks up at me, and sees that I don’t care if it hurts a lot.

As he tugs I can feel the stitches pulling. Like sharp, scalding needles threading upwards inside my groin. But the pain feels clean and good. A sacrament to my moment of re-birth.

And, suddenly, it’s all over.

‘There you are Sandra.’ He stands back and smiles. This strange midwife in his open-necked shirt.

‘The nurse will run your bath, then you can go and take a look at yourself.’ He pulls the drip from my arm and waves it in the air. ‘You’re not going to need this any more… Have a bath, then you can have breakfast. I’ll see you again tomorrow.’

I think of Elaine again as I let the nightdress fall from my shoulders in the privacy of the bathroom. She was horrified that I was going to take the ultimate step. Mutilation she called it, and nothing would convince her otherwise. But now, standing here, looking at myself in the mirror, I feel like I’ve been healed. I feel beautiful. I feel at peace.

After a few moments, I look away from the mirror and down, at the clear space between my legs. And carefully, gingerly I examine the folds of my soft new labia. Funny, I expected it to feel odd at first …stitched together, new. But it doesn’t feel that way at all. It feels like me. Like it’s always been there, hiding, just beneath the surface, waiting.

I stand perfectly still for a while, relishing the moment, absorbing the wonder of being myself at last. Then I look up and grin broadly at my image in the mirror, throwing my arms in the air and shouting with pure joy.

You’ve made it Sandra. You’ve fucking well made it.

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