Easy As Falling Off A Bike.
by Angharad
part 236.

I had spent a night getting used to the sounds of hospital. I was still dozy and drifted in and out of sleep. My groin didn't feel much different, in fact I couldn't feel much at all, which I hoped was just down to painkillers, morphine and friends.

I had nearly forgotten about enemas and bowel washes, which had been my entry into this artificial world where people were born and died. I wondered what the nurses thought of me. It wasn't that important, but I preferred to be liked rather than disliked.

In one of my more lucid moments, I actually felt my groin, it was all wrapped up with a catheter emerging which I presume went into a bag somewhere. I just had to remember in event of a fire take the bag with me or leave my bladder behind with it.

Actually it wasn't entirely numb, I had all sorts of strange twitches and tics from down there. I began to wonder if there was such a thing as phantom willie syndrome. I hoped not.

I still had a line into the back of my hand with some sort of clear fluid going into it, presumably dextrose or something similar, making up any fluid I'd lost, at least there was no blood transfusion, so maybe I hadn't lost too much.

I became aware I was hungry, yet it was only five in the morning and I had a horrible feeling I wasn't to be allowed solids for at least a week. My stomach rumbled, obviously irritated by such a regime. I understood the reason, no solid food or as they put it, non residue food means no faeces and less risk of infection, plus the vagina that is formed is made to lie quite close to the bowel, so they don't want bowel movements. If only I didn't feel so hungry.

I reached over to my locker and managed to grasp the glass of water and drink some. If I was full of water I might not feel so hungry, a trick I believe anorrhexics do. I thought for a moment, if I drink too much I'll keep peeing but then that's all taken care of.

I was still in a hospital gown, I'd be glad to get into one of my own, then I might feel less of an object and more like a human. However, I wondered how they'd get it over the drip. My mind was fuddled, perhaps the anaesthetic or perhaps simply my body had suffered a major trauma and was dealing with it. I thought I felt something move down my catheter, was the sensation returning.

At six they appeared with a drink for me, tea without milk - yuck, or black coffee. I settled for the latter, I was also allowed to semi-recline. Later I would be encouraged to sit up and use pressure of sitting on my surgery to help stop bleeding. In which case maybe I should ask Simon to bring a bike in, that would really put pressure on things, especially with a race saddle.

Breakfast was apparently a cup of Bovril. Oh boy, this was not going to be easy. Frustration nearly killed me before, now it appeared starvation was going to finish the job.

I drank my Bovril and thought about things. Finally I had managed to sort out something which had felt wrong since I was a kid. I was now to all intents and purposes as much a woman as anybody else. Okay, I couldn't have kids but then neither could a significant number of genetic females.

Life is what you make it, and I had made mine more to my liking than it had been. I was in a private room and was listening to the radio when I met my creator.

"How are we this morning?"

"Mr O'Rourke, thank you for helping me realise a dream."

"Well now young lady, I wish all my patients could say that, instead they tend to grumble at me for long waiting lists or playing with their prostates. So, you have made my day."

He beamed a toothy smile at me and part of me wished the raw flesh down below had healed some months before - owww, there was a twinge! Something was working.

"Are there any questions?" he asked.

"How long did it take?"

"Five or six hours, it took some time with the clitoroplasty, but it looks quite a good job. I think you'll be pleased."

"When do I pay you?"

"Pay me? This is NHS."

"Goodness, wow! Can I get Simon to bring you in a bottle of your favourite tipple?"

"Now dat sounds interesting, some Oirish Whiskey if you please."

"Any particular brand?"

"No surprise me."

"Okay, I will. When can I get up?"

"Not until the graft has taken, at least a week, which is when you can eat normally again."

"What about the catheter?"

"About ten or twelve days, you need to be able to pass urine before you leave."

"When can I ride a bike?"

"What a push bike?"

I nodded, "A race bike."

"Not for two t' tri months. But sex, sometime after six weeks." He smiled at me. I smiled back wishing I could reverse the figures.

The next week was bit of a blur, everyday seemed the same. Simon would visit when he could, Stella came in everyday, often with Tom. Once or twice some of my students came in. I even did a sort of tutorial with one of them who was stuck with her assignment.

Then after several days, I was given an injection and was told my packing was out. Then came the joys of dilation, the nearest thing to self-flagellation I can think of. How anyone in their right mind can shove a bullet shaped piece of perspex into a fairly new wound, defeats me, but that is what I was doing. It hurt too. I won't dwell on the details, it may put you off your dinner, but it certainly gives new meaning to picking scabs or spots as an activity. It was like some mediaeval torture of impaling, maybe Mr O'Rourke's middle name was Vlad.

At last I could eat real food and was also allowed out of bed, for salt baths. These help to heal the wound but dry the rest of your skin to hell. I was still on the catheter, so that complicated things a little. I was walking up and down the corridor to try and get my leg muscles back, when who should I bump into but Vlad O'Rourke, himself.

"Please thank Simon for the gift."

"What did he get you?"

"A whole case of different whiskeys, an amazing selection."

"You are pleased then?"

"Oi am over da moon, young lady."

"I shall tell him."

"How's da dilation?"

"Sore, I can't believe this is going to become pleasurable."

"Oh Oi tink you'll foind it does, but it takes toime."

"Okay, I'll persevere."

"You do dat, an' take me word for it, it gets better."

"Okay, I will, what about the catheter?"

"Oh dat can come out in da morn." He wished me good day and set off at a pace down the corridor.

Stella came in that afternoon and brought me the latest Cycling Weekly, the bike tests had me almost pining for one of my two bikes, it didn't matter which.

I used a mirror to plunge the perspex into the hole, actually the hole was covered by a muscle which acted as the inner labia, and which had to be negotiated carefully. However, whilst I had been dilating, I hadn't actually examined myself, I felt quite shy about it all, which was silly, but was how I felt.

This afternoon after Stella had gone, I did the necessary with my KY and plunger! Afterwards I actually had a little explore with the help of the mirror. It was very clever stuff, and although swollen and discoloured, looked like the real thing. If it could eventually receive the corresponding device, it would certainly make Simon happy.

If I could get some pleasure too, so much the better, but I was quite pleased that at least I now resembled the woman I really felt I had been for a long time. For me that was the reward of all this pain and discomfort. I was complete now, another chapter was over. However, I knew this wasn't the end of the story, rather it went to a new level and began again, with more things to learn and experience.

I looked forward with some enthusiasm and not a little trepidation.