It wasn’t until we were married that my husband, finally feeling loved, admitted to himself that he was transsexual. Having conflicted feelings about men myself, the macho sort, I hadn’t realized the depth of his confusion. He had told me early on that he was ambivalent about his maleness but had made peace with it. I never felt my husband had deceived me, as some friends suggested. Our history of openness, affection and trust had kept me believing that our relationship would survive, even thrive. His wide blue eyes would not change, nor would his high-enough cheekbones or soft lips. Genital surgery would follow.Īlready, estrogen had narrowed and softened his face, and the alterations would be slight, the surgeon said. A few months later, his Adam’s apple would be shaved down and he would receive breast implants. In my husband’s case, this meant higher eyebrows, a smaller nose and a more pronounced chin. We were at the hospital for facial feminization surgery, a not uncommon procedure in male-to-female transitions, in which a surgeon carves out a more femininely proportioned version of a male face. “I’ve told you before, yes, I feel like a woman,” he said with an apologetic look.Īnd so the time when I “need to” had arrived.
How do you feel, hon? Do you really feel like you’re a woman now?” “I can accept that he’ll become a woman, but he’s still a man now. “But she’s a woman,” our therapist countered, her words slicing through my denial. “But for now he’s still a man to me.” I’d turned to my husband, dressed in jeans and a black button-down shirt. “I will when I need to,” I’d told her on our last visit. Still, on this day, when my husband would take his first surgical step into womanhood, I continued to say “him,” “his” and “he,” even though our therapist had suggested for months that I use female pronouns at home. His water transgression was deemed acceptable. He checked in, and a nurse led us to a room where she checked his vitals, all excellent. We were told the operation could last seven hours and recovery several more, so I came prepared, as on a trip, packing my laptop, phone, magazines, a blanket and a pillow. “What are you feeling, hon?” I put a hand on his leg, returned to the person I usually am with him.