Who She Wants to Be - Diary of a Transsexual

Two rows of converging lights appear in the mist like ghosts through the ethereal clouds as we descend towards the airport. The Air Canada jet touches down and through the window, in the dim light, I can see a thick layer of snow blanketing the edge of the tarmac. We roll to a stop, deplane and I step outside into the cold, Canadian air. It's probably in the low 30s. Standing in front of the signs, all in French, I have no idea where to go, so I follow the gaggle of passengers into the airport until we reach customs. I hand my passport to the custom's agent. He opens it, gives me a quick, stern look and stamps it.

Next to the baggage carousel; suitcases and bags go round and round, but mine's nowhere to be found. Glancing over at an adjacent carousel I see the two Canadian women who I'd sat next to on the flight. As I walk over here comes my suitcase, like it'd been waiting for me.

I find a pay phone and call Clark's Limousine Service. A pleasant-sounding gentleman answers and I tell him I'm at the airport. He says his son, Jean-Pierre, should be waiting there for me. Looking through the glass exit doors I see a young man, wearing a coat and tie holding up a sign that says, "Miss Tara Marie Taylor." I pick up my bags, hand the form that I'd been given on the plane stating I wasn't bringing any plants, or other dangerous material, into the country to the French-Canadian gentleman. "Merci, madam" he says and nods to let me pass. A few minutes later I'm on my way in a limousine to a recently-built, comfy, three-story building known as "The Residence," a home-like abode where patients stay before and after their surgeries. Each step brings me closer to my ultimate goal, a journey that began twenty years ago. Along the way Jean-Pierre joked with me, calming my nerves.

Why have I made the trip from Portland, Oregon to Montreal, Quebec on a dark, wintry night? In less than 48 hours I'll be unconscious on an operating table undergoing an irreversible procedure called vaginoplasty, or sex reassignment surgery. My male sex organs will be transformed into cosmetically realistic and functional female genitalia, though I won't menstruate nor be able to bear children.

Twenty minutes later we arrive at the Residence. Jean-Pierre carries my bags inside where Francoise, a kind-faced, diminutive woman is waiting. She shows me to my room; it's clean, neat and has three single beds, though I'm the only one in the room. On the middle bed are several forms neatly spread out along with a package of Fleet enema. I glance through the forms. They're the normal release forms one has to sign before any major surgery. Sitting on the side of the bed, I sigh and think to myself, "This is it!"

I'm hungry and find Francoise. Due to the time difference, it's well past dinner time and she offers me two pieces of German chocolate cake that I gladly wolf down. As she leads me back to my room we pass through a room with a TV, VCR and couches. There I met Sarah (who was having her surgery the same day as I) and Katie, who I'd first met online in a chat room. I shower, go back to my room, get in bed and am, to my surprise, quickly asleep.

The next morning I awake around 8:00 am, head downstairs to the dining area and living room. Normally, on weekdays patients and guests are expected to make their own breakfasts from a selection of breads, fruit, peanut butter, coffee and tea. However, today we had a special breakfast of French toast prepared for us. This "specialness" would follow me throughout my journey to womanhood.

After breakfast I talk to some of the other patients there, who were in various stages of transformation, pre-op and post-op, from male-to-female and female-to-male. Lunch was a tomato pasta dish and salad. The meals were always good and plentiful and there was always fruit and tea available. The Residence is cozy, with warm brown colors, cushy furniture and is spotlessly clean.

After breakfast Diane, one of Dr. Brassard's assistants, has me retrieve the forms that were lying on the bed in my room and we go over each one. They're the release forms informing me the surgery is irreversible and complications were possible. Around 3:00 pm I, and the three girls who are scheduled for their sex reassignment surgeries, are lead into a room where we'll meet with Dr.Brassard. A few minutes later a handsome, dark-haired man impeccably dressed in a suit walks in. He's friendly, personable and spoke excellent English. He asks if I had any questions. I wondered how long the surgery was and how he created the clitoris. The surgery took about two-and-one-half hours and the clitoris is created using the glans, or head, and nerves of the penis. He explains the possible complications and asks if I have any more questions. I had none.

Dinner is baked ham and potatoes and chocolate-vanilla pudding The three other girls and I who were scheduled for surgery the next morning are told to pack our things for the hospital. At 7:00 pm a taxi arrives and the four of us pile in. Each step like this, riding the limo to the residence, filling out the forms, taking the taxi to the hospital, confirmed that this was really happening. What had been a fantasy was now reality. Yes, I had butterflies!

At the hospital we're each admitted and signed more forms. While filling out my form the nurse wrote [male sex icon] to [female sex icon] and for some reason this finalized my decision (If you can call it that) and did our final enemas. We were asked if we wanted a sedative, my roommate accepted it while I didn't. However, I couldn't sleep, got up and asked the nurse for one. "Should I get a baseball bat?" she asks in the dry, French-Canadian humor. I take the sedative and am soon asleep.

I'm walking down a neighborhood street in broad daylight dressed in women's clothes, makeup and a wig. I'm 20 years old and pre-hormones. A group of people sitting on picnic tables in a park spot me and start making derisive comments and whistles. One yells, "mahu!" (A Hawaiian word for gay male.) Across the street, a young boy waves and says, "Hi lady." I wave back. Embarrassed, I turn around, but don't give in to the urge to run and quickly walk back to my apartment.

At 8:30 the next morning the anesthesiologist comes in and asked us questions, and if we wanted a sedative before surgery. I did. Outside the hospital room window it's snowing heavily and did so for nearly our entire stay. At 9:00 am they come and get my roommate. I was next. At 12:00 noon a nurse comes in, gives me a sedative and leads me to the operating waiting room and tells me to lie down on a gurney.

From my bed, I can see into the recovery room. One of the girls who'd just had her surgery by Dr. Menard (the other Montreal surgeon who performs sex change surgery) was there, she was still out. I alternated between nervousness and anticipation.

Dr. Brassard walks over and asks, "Are you ready?" I nod, say "yes" and reach out my hand. He takes it in both of his and squeezes it. Then the anesthesiologist wheels me into the operating room.

The anesthesiologist hooks up the various monitors and sensors, telling me what each one is for; I found this calming. He says I'll become more and more relaxed. I look up at the cluster of operating lights above me and watch them slowly go out of focus....