The Transplant II

© 2017 by Nom de Plume

By my third week of motherhood, I was feeling good enough to begin taking my baby on short walks. Bundled up in her stroller – it was the dead of a midwestern winter – she gurgled and cooed while we made our way to a nearby market or drugstore, and I was insanely proud of the fawning comments she got from passersby! I almost always wore pants those first few months, which were much more comfortable against the winter winds, paired with a blouse that I could unbutton or pull up to feed my baby.

Nicole had referred me to her pediatrician, who assured me that my daughter was perfectly normal, in fact she was breastfeeding better than most infants at that stage. She slept a lot during the day, but she woke me up frequently during the night, and I had a lot of time to think as I held her against my breast in the rocking chair in her nursery. Three issues preoccupied me:

1. Her name. When a birth certificate was prepared at the hospital, I’d been too overwhelmed to give it much thought – my name was given as the father, my wife’s name was listed as the mother, and it seemed right and natural to name the baby after her, so I did.
2. Her grandparents. My wife’s parents were totally unaware that their son-in-law had given birth to their grandchild! I knew that I had to tell them about her, and soon.
3. The rest of my life! I had never intended to become a woman, but now that I was a mother, I had to face some hard facts. Perhaps if my baby had been a boy, I might have had my breasts removed, and tried taking massive doses of testosterone in the hopes of regaining some semblance of my lost masculinity. But every time I looked at myself in the mirror, I knew that this was a lost cause. Months of female hormones, and of course my castration, had feminized my body beyond the point of no return. My penis now dangled uselessly in front of my empty scrotum, and I was beginning to think of it as a nuisance every morning when I put on my panties!

So in addition to the pediatrician, I’d been referred to a specialist in gender reassignment surgery. Almost by default, I’d crossed all of the required clinical thresholds, like living as a woman for the past year, and the very fact that I’d subjected myself willingly to the removal of my testicles and the transplant of my wife’s uterus into my body, not to mention my resulting pregnancy and childbirth, had resolved any doubts in the minds of the medical community. My path may have been untraditional, to say the least, but the final transformation of my body from male to female was clearly indicated.

And after much soul-searching, I had decided that I really wanted to complete my journey. Living as a woman had become second-nature to me by now, and I’d gotten used to styling my hair, putting on makeup and wearing women’s clothes. I thought ruefully about how much I missed wearing a pretty dress and heels, now that my daughter was taking up 100% of my time! Some days I’d be so exhausted I’d spend the entire day in a nightgown, robe and slippers.

Of course, my daughter was the real reason that I finally decided to have the operation: it would be much more natural to raise my little girl, to put her in frilly dresses and braid her hair, if her mother was a woman too. So I was trying to figure out how to tell my wife’s parents, and to arrange for someone to watch my baby while I underwent the final surgery, when fate intervened in the form of a letter written by my late wife, shortly before her death. It was delivered by messenger exactly one year later, from the office of the lawyer who had drawn up our wills. At first I thought it was just some routine correspondence, until I opened the envelope and saw that it was a letter addressed to my wife’s parents, with a copy to me:

Dear Mom and Dad,

By the time you read this, I will be in Heaven (at least that’s where I hope I wind up, although sometimes I think that I might have committed an unpardonable sin by the way I pushed my husband into doing the unthinkable). I’m choosing my words carefully, because what I’m about to tell you will be very hard to understand.

Brace yourselves for a shock: you are grandparents! I don’t know whether your grandchild is a boy or a girl, but I know that he or she is mine, and I know that you will love him or her with all your hearts.

The baby’s father is my husband, but you’d better brace yourselves for another shock: he is also the baby’s mother. When I found out that I had incurable cancer, I was determined to have a baby before I died, but the doctors told me that I would be unlikely to live long enough to deliver a healthy child. The solution was a medical miracle: I got pregnant in a hurry, and the embryo was frozen so it could be implanted in a surrogate mother. Now here’s the hard part: I was deathly afraid that the surrogate mother might abuse herself during the pregnancy, or try to keep my baby for her own (this has happened). Then another medical miracle: after I died, my womb was transplanted into my husband’s body, the embryo was subsequently implanted, and he carried our baby – your grandchild – to term and delivered a healthy child.

While you’re recovering from the twin shocks, let me assure you that my husband was a very reluctant participant in this incredible drama. But he went along out of devotion to me, even though it meant the loss of his manhood. I won’t go into all the grisly details, but in order for him to be able to successfully deliver my baby, he had to take hormones, and submit to surgery, which will make it impossible for him ever to father another child. I thought long and hard about the sacrifices he was making, and I have to confess that I begged him to do it, because deep in my heart I knew that he would be a perfect, loving mother, and I can only hope that somehow he’ll forgive me for all that he had to go through. I always thought that he would have been a beautiful woman if he’d been born a girl, and once I started him down the path towards motherhood, I dressed him up in my clothes and with very little coaching, he proved me right.

Knowing my husband as I do, I’m certain that he hasn’t told you any of this, and my purpose in writing this letter is to bring him – and your grandchild – into your lives. For he – or rather, she – is the one who is in need of your love, understanding and support now!

Your loving daughter

Another, shorter letter was clipped to the back of my copy. It was from our lawyer:

Your wife entrusted me with the attached letter shortly before her death, with strict instructions not to deliver it unless certain conditions took place, specifically the successful transplant of her womb, your pregnancy, and the birth of your daughter. These conditions having been fulfilled, her letter has been hand-delivered today per her instructions to her parents and yourself.

I sat staring at her letter in a complete state of shock when the telephone rang. My God, were her parents calling already? I wasn’t sure I was ready to talk to them….I picked up the phone, and was relieved to find that it was Dr. Richardson, the surgeon who had transplanted my wife’s womb into my body, and delivered my baby by Caesarian section. “I’ve been meaning to call to see how you and the baby were doing,” he said.

“Oh, we’re fine doctor, thanks very much. She’s an angel.”

“As you can imagine, the media has been all over me to reveal any details about you and your child. Of course, I’ve refused all interviews, and they have no idea who you are or where you live.”

That was reassuring. “Thank you, doctor, so much.”

“Not at all. I’m not sure if I’ve ever told you this, but if you are ever interested in having another child, I believe that would be fairly straightforward.”

I was astonished. “How can that be possible?”

“Well, as you may recall, we preserved a sperm sample before your orchidectomy.” I remembered, all right – my last male orgasm, a bittersweet handjob into a cup in the doctor’s office the day before he castrated me. “And at my suggestion, after we removed the fetus from your wife, we harvested several eggs from her ovaries before she died.”

“I had no idea.”

“You see, I thought it would be advisable to give you the option to try again if the first procedure failed, and once I explained this to your wife, she readily agreed.”

“So if I ever wanted to have another baby, how would that happen?”

“We would simply fertilize one of her eggs with some of your sperm in vitro, implant the fertilized egg into your uterus as we did before, and the rest would follow the same as your first pregnancy.”

My first pregnancy…my God, the doctor was telling me that I could be a mother again! “Doctor, this is all such a surprise. I don’t think I’m ready to think about that now.”

“Of course, of course, you’ve just had your first baby and it’s certainly premature. I only brought it up because I imagine you’re going to have to make some decisions about your future, and I thought this might be an important consideration.”

“You mean, before I ask you to try to turn me back into a man?”

“In so many words, yes.”

“Doctor, I don’t think I have any alternative but to live out my life as a woman. That’s why I asked you to refer me to a surgeon specializing in gender reassignment surgery,” I reminded him.

“So you’ve decided to proceed with the operation?”

The doctor was getting on my nerves. “You’ll be the first to know,” I said before I hung up.

My daughter was waking up, and it was time to breastfeed her again.

* * *

A few days later, I decided to put on a dress for the first time since my baby was born. After she settled in for her morning nap, I treated myself to a luxurious bubble bath, shaving my legs and washing my hair. After moisturizing all over, I wrapped a terrycloth wrap around my body, applied my makeup and dried and styled my hair, which was becoming easier every time I did it.

Then I slipped off my wrap, clipped on a nursing bra, and tucked my diminishing penis back between my legs. There was nothing left to reveal that I’d once been a man! I used to feel a little depressed when I got dressed as a woman, but those feelings had vanished with the birth of my daughter. I was a young mother now, and my destiny was sealed, so I concentrated on selecting the rest of my lingerie – matching panties, a slip and silky sheer pantyhose – and put on a pretty dress with a bow in front that I tied like I’d been doing it all my life. I stepped into my heels and fussed with the hem of my dress to make sure it covered my slip.

It felt almost natural now to dress myself this way. Good thing, I said to myself, since I’d be teaching my daughter how to dress herself as she grew into girlhood, and became a young woman herself. After putting on some simple jewelry and a spritz of cologne, I was ready for my expected visitors.

I peeked in on my sleeping daughter and checked to make sure the baby monitor was on and working, before I went downstairs to make some coffee. I had just finished preparing a little tray with cups, sugar and cream when the doorbell rang. Smoothing down my dress on my way to the front door, I took a deep breath and opened it to welcome my wife’s parents.

We hadn’t seen each other, or even spoken, since my wife’s funeral. I’d sent them an email the day after receiving my wife’s letter, inviting them to come see their new granddaughter, and they’d readily accepted. I was relieved when they declined my invitation to sleep on my living room sofa and loveseat (the nursery occupied the spare bedroom in my townhouse) and reserved a room at a nearby hotel.

You can only imagine the shock on their faces when I opened the door to greet them. My mother-in-law later confided that they’d been expecting some kind of freakish half-man half-woman, and the sight of their son-in-law in a stylish dress, heels and stockings, with a cute hairdo and perfect makeup, was almost too much for them. Fortunately, my wife’s letter had prepared them for the shock, but actually seeing me in silk and lace was something else, and my father-in-law couldn’t stop staring at me as I invited them in and took their coats. After an awkward hug from my mother-in-law, I whispered, “The baby’s sleeping, but I’m sure you’re dying to see her, so let’s peek into her nursery, and then we can talk and have some coffee till she wakes up.”

They followed me upstairs, and when they saw her for the first time, sleeping blissfully in her crib, tears rolled down both of their faces. She stirred a little bit, but she was still sound asleep, so we made a hasty retreat back downstairs, and they sat down on the sofa while I poured them each a cup of coffee. After I sat down demurely in the facing loveseat, crossing my legs in ladylike fashion, we sipped our coffees in silence until my mother-in-law finally broke the ice. “She so beautiful,” she sniffed. “It’s such a miracle. We have so many questions,” she said, nodding at her husband, “but right now I can hardly think straight.”

“This was all your daughter’s doing,” I said in the soft, female voice that I’d perfected over the past twelve months. “She had strength and determination that I never imagined, and once we found a way to have a baby, it made her last months so much better for her.” Looking at her father, I said, “I never wanted this for myself, but I did it for her, and I’m glad I did.”

“Will you stay this way?” my mother-in-law asked gently.

“Yes. I wasn’t sure at first, but it just seems right to me now, and I’m sure it will be better for my daughter to have a mother. Don’t get me wrong, your daughter will always be her real mother, but after carrying her for nine months and bringing her into the world, I feel like her mother too.”

“I wish you’d have told us!” she finally said. “There’s so much we could have done for you.”

“I wish I’d told you too, but at the time, it all seemed so strange, and to be honest with you, I was embarrassed about what I’d done to myself. It wasn’t until that little girl was born that I realized what a gift your daughter had given me.”

“She’s a perfect baby. How old is she now?”

“She’ll be one month old tomorrow.”

“Oh my. Are you having any trouble getting her to take a bottle?” Although I didn’t realize it at the time, we were instinctively falling into a mother-daughter relationship….

“I’m breastfeeding her,” I said softly.

“What?” my father-in-law blurted out.

“How is that possible?” his wife asked.

“I had to start on hormone therapy in order for your daughter’s womb to be successfully transplanted in me,” I explained. Looking at my father-in-law, I added, “I had to have my testicles removed too.” I could tell that he was stunned. “That was the hardest part. But once I did, with all those female hormones running through me, my body began to change in a hurry.” Looking down, I said, “These breasts are real, and they’re full of mother’s milk.”

The silence that followed was finally broken by the squawking of the baby monitor. “Oh oh, somebody’s awake, and it sounds like she’s hungry,” I smiled. “I’ll be back in a little while, and I’ll introduce you to your granddaughter. You have a lot of catching up to do.”

* * *

They stayed in town for almost a week. It was so wonderful having an extra pair of hands to help me with the baby! I’d accumulated a supply of breastmilk which I refrigerated before their arrival, and we were delighted to discover that my baby readily accepted a bottle. I got my first good night’s sleep since I couldn’t remember when, thanks to my mother-in-law’s firm insistence that I allow her to get up and feed the baby when she cried in the middle of the night.

By the end of the week, I was calling them Mom and Dad. I actually watched the Superbowl on tv with my new-found Dad (in women’s jeans and a Green Bay teeshirt that used to belong to my wife) while Mom cuddled and fed the baby. Their last night in town, they took us out to dinner at the Mexican restaurant that used to be my wife’s favorite, and it was so lovely being able to put on a nice dress, sip a margarita (go easy on the tequila, I’m nursing!) and reminisce about the good times.

Mom brought up the time my wife dressed me up in her cheerleader’s costume when we were dating in high school, which she vividly remembered. “You were so cute!” she said. “I was a little nervous when you two disappeared into her bedroom for what seemed like hours, but she was giggling so hard I figured you were behaving yourselves. When you came downstairs, I actually thought you were another girl!”

Dad, who had loosened up considerably over the past week, looked amused. “Maybe that wasn’t the first time you dressed up as a girl?”

“Believe it or not, it was, and I never did it again until your daughter asked me to, the day I agreed to have the operation. She told me she always thought I looked good as a girl, and I guess she wanted to prove it to me.”

“Was the operation very difficult?” Mom asked. “I understand that the surgery can be quite painful.”

“The depends on what operation you’re referring to! I’ve had four: the orchidectomy, which took care of my manhood (my Dad winced) was an outpatient procedure, followed by the uterus transplant, which was a major operation. Implanting the embryo in my uterus was no big deal, but my C-section was pretty painful, although they were able to do that under a local.”

“Wasn’t there another surgery? You know, that one that turned you into a woman?”

“I haven’t had it yet.”

“You could have fooled me,” Dad said.

“I suppose it isn’t really necessary,” Mom observed.

“Yes it is, to me at least. Before my daughter gets old enough to know, I want to be a complete woman. My days as a man are long over,” I added.

“Can we help you?” Mom asked? “Now that we know the baby can take a bottle, I’d be happy to come back and watch her while you’re in the hospital.”

I actually burst into tears. “Darn these hormones! Oh Mom, that would be so wonderful!”

* * *

The less said about my sex reassignment surgery, the better. I’m sure my surgeon was at the top of his field, and he assured me that the operation went off without a hitch, but that didn’t help me cope with the pain. I was in sheer agony for days! Mom and Dad took turns visiting me in the hospital, and I missed my baby terribly. By then, she was through breastfeeding and eating solid food, and every day I was laid up in the hospital I felt like I was missing out on some milestone in her life. When I was finally able to come home, it was heaven to hold her in my arms again, and Mom stayed until she was sure I was fully recovered.

As a single mom, I was busy 24/7 keeping house and taking care of my daughter. That first year flew by, and by the next spring I felt I was ready to have another baby. I know that must sound insane, but by then I was all woman, in both mind and body, and my maternal instinct was strong. Mom was thrilled when I told her, and Dr. Richardson, who had kept in touch with me, was very pleased. “It will have to be another Caesarian section,” he explained to me. “Even though you have a functioning vagina, your pelvic structure isn’t designed for childbirth.” When he told me that a fertilized egg was ready to be implanted into my uterus, it was a simple outpatient procedure, and his assistant Nicole watched my daughter while I was on the table.

Once again morning sickness hit me pretty hard, and there were some miserable days trying to keep an eye on my very mobile daughter before I gradually felt like myself again. As I write this, it’s almost time to break out the maternity clothes that I put away after my daughter was born, and begin preparing for another baby. At least I’ll have Mom there to help me this time! She adores her granddaughter, of course, and my little girl keeps asking me if she’s going to have a brother or a sister.

And there’s one more thing: Dr. Richardson, who is a confirmed bachelor, asked me if I’d like to have dinner with him on Saturday! I hope I’ll be able to find a baby sitter….