Monday 28 May 2007
I've been finding that my family has been calling me ridiculously often these last few days.
Yesterday evening, surprise: my sister on the phone.
I was truly astonished. I thought we wouldn’t speak before … at least 3 months considering our last conversation. Which just goes to show, life is full of surprises.
She started by giving me a brilliant demonstration on the limits of cheekiness by launching immediately, and most serenely, into a detailed and enthusiastic tale of her last holiday.
Except that recently I haven’t been able to concentrate on long egocentric monologues.
Briefly, after about fifteen minutes, I started thinking about something completely different, scattering “uh huh” her and there, while she took a breath.
Obviously she quickly realised that I wasn’t listening any more. “Are you doing something else at the same time, or what? You’re not listening!” I replied that I was asking myself some questions about the medications I was taking (“Is it absolutely sure and certain that I must stop the Brexin after 10 days? Wouldn’t it be better to continue until my next consultation with Dr Foldès? And should I call him to confirm it *?”).
“Ah. So it’s done then?” she asked me (she didn’t know that my operation had taken place because the only time I had spoken to her about it, on that disastrous Sunday of humiliation, the date of the procedure hadn’t been mentioned…)
“Yes Wednesday 16 May” I replied.
Silence at the other end of the line.
I waited (once bitten twice shy), then when it seemed to me that she was waiting for me to say a bit more to her, I carefully started to describe my misfortunes in the realm of pain.
That’s when it happened. It’s ridiculous this gift my sister has for stopping me short in a few words.
“Don’t speak in French! Don’t speak in French! Speak in Mandingue” she said, sounding panic-stricken.
“Huh? Why? What’s happening?”
“My hands are full and I’ve put you on the speaker-phone!” she said. Before adding, in Mandigue: “He’s in the room with me, he could hear!”
!!!!!!
I stayed speechless. Literally.
Her partner didn’t know. He didn’t know she had been circumcised.
My God!
The moment I realised what she had just said, a surprising weight of sorrow and worry for her came down on me.
My God!
But what was she going to do? Was she going to hide it from him all her life? Had she the right to say nothing? Is that not fatal for the couple?
Is it not too late to speak to him any way? What I mean to say is, they’ve been together several years and they’ve lived together two years… So if she decided to tell him now, would he not be angry with her for having hidden it all these years?
At the same time it’s all very well for me to shout catastrophe while I didn’t have to ask the questions. In truth, I don’t know if it’s so important, or if it’s necessary to panic.
Because before he was my acknowledge lover, my man was a friend, even a very good friend. A friend in whose arms I had cried hot tears after that horrible visit to the gynaecologist who told me my circumcision didn’t matter (“it’s done, it’s done, what do you want …” with this slightly reproachful tone which crucified me) and that well, so, I wouldn’t ever have an orgasm, and I had to accept that (“there are women who have never had an orgasm in their life and you are one of them, that’s all”).
So when we went out together, he knew I had been circumcised. And I hadn’t had to experience that moment which I suppose is very, very difficult, of telling my lover.
The conversation ended inconclusively with a whisper from her (“I’ll call you again during the week”) which left me thinking that she wanted, at last, to talk to me about her circumcision. I felt overcome.
But what was she going to do?
Little by little I am feeling sorry for my sister.
And I no longer know what to do with the war hatchet.
* I called him and I really must stop the Brexin after ten days.
[Original in French]
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Monday, 29 May 2006
Saturday, 27 May 2006
All the same, he's there
Saturday 26 May 2007
My father called me this morning.
I was surprised. He is in Senegal at the moment and I thought that would give him an excellent excuse for not contacting me. I haven’t had any news of him since 16 May, when my mother passed him to me on the telephone. I admit I haven’t missed him, because of that exasperating neutral tone he had.
On the contrary, I really didn’t want him to succeed in bring down his barriers to come closer to me on such an occasion. But really! What would be needed for him to take a step towards me? Would I have to be on the point of death?
Of course I have repeated to myself that he wasn’t going to change as if by magic, just by reading my letter, and talk to me about his feelings and emotions. I told myself and told myself again that touched on a painful subject for him. But all the same! It’s about me and being there for me. That doesn’t seem to me to be so insurmountable.
Yet these last few days, my anger has diminished, and leaves disappointment in its place. My father disappoints me. No more the general, no more the pedestal. Just a man and his limits. No more magic powers, no more heroism. Just a man who can’t express his emotions. Not even that damned pride that he normally feeds me. Oh that, I was truly upset.
As a result, when I heard him asking me how my convalescence was going, the joy and gratitude that I felt, really surprised me.
It gave me such pleasure that he had approached the question himself that I couldn’t hide it. OK, I didn’t go into any details but I told him how I was feeling today, and explained to him that I was in considerable pain to start with, that I couldn’t walk but that today the pain and the dragging sensations were gone and I had returned to walking normally if slowly…
I am de-light-ed that he phoned. There, just telling you about the call, I’m smiling again.
[Original in French]
Next post
My father called me this morning.
I was surprised. He is in Senegal at the moment and I thought that would give him an excellent excuse for not contacting me. I haven’t had any news of him since 16 May, when my mother passed him to me on the telephone. I admit I haven’t missed him, because of that exasperating neutral tone he had.
On the contrary, I really didn’t want him to succeed in bring down his barriers to come closer to me on such an occasion. But really! What would be needed for him to take a step towards me? Would I have to be on the point of death?
Of course I have repeated to myself that he wasn’t going to change as if by magic, just by reading my letter, and talk to me about his feelings and emotions. I told myself and told myself again that touched on a painful subject for him. But all the same! It’s about me and being there for me. That doesn’t seem to me to be so insurmountable.
Yet these last few days, my anger has diminished, and leaves disappointment in its place. My father disappoints me. No more the general, no more the pedestal. Just a man and his limits. No more magic powers, no more heroism. Just a man who can’t express his emotions. Not even that damned pride that he normally feeds me. Oh that, I was truly upset.
As a result, when I heard him asking me how my convalescence was going, the joy and gratitude that I felt, really surprised me.
It gave me such pleasure that he had approached the question himself that I couldn’t hide it. OK, I didn’t go into any details but I told him how I was feeling today, and explained to him that I was in considerable pain to start with, that I couldn’t walk but that today the pain and the dragging sensations were gone and I had returned to walking normally if slowly…
I am de-light-ed that he phoned. There, just telling you about the call, I’m smiling again.
[Original in French]
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Friday, 26 May 2006
The price of truth
Friday 25 May
It’s official. I’ve been walking normally since yesterday. I dare not make any sudden movements, nor do anything a bit risky, but my gait is normal.
I have definitely left the indeterminate state of constant pulling. I can now talk about occasional cramp.
My sick leave finishes today and I am very pleased. Because I am going up the wall here, from being confined indoors.
Loneliness is weighing a bit heavily on me, in spite of the daily telephone calls from my cousin. Not having any goal ahead such as my operation is leaving me aimless and a little disorientated…
The reality of having to answer questions from my colleagues, neighbours, friends and in-laws is also very much on my mind at the moment. They all want to know why I have been off sick for 10 days.
Each time I hesitate as to how to reply.
To tell them the truth is hard for me. Yet I’m not ashamed, from now on I have no reason for self-reproach as far as my circumcision is concerned. No, it’s something else. But I don’t know exactly what.
Perhaps it’s what I imagine I will see in their faces that holds me back?
I am afraid of no longer having the same status in their eyes. I am afraid of being categorised VICTIM whereas I am more than that. I don’t want to be the embodiment of “the woman who was circumcised when she was little”. I don’t want to be reduced to that.
I believe, deep down, that I don’t have much confidence in people since I can’t get rid of this fear.
Nevertheless, lying is repellent to me. So I equivocate according to the information they have.
I avoid questions from people who don’t know I’ve had the operation (colleagues, neighbours), contenting myself with saying that I’m much better and that I will be back at work on Monday. For those who know about an operation, I talk about a gynaecological problem. Some stop at this explanation but others ask for details. And there I feel caught.
I don’t want to explain that my operation was a clitoris reconstruction. I no longer want to explain it. When I do, I can’t avoid watching the reaction of the person asking. And too often, it disappoints or annoys me.
Most often, he or she says “Oh good, OK” and stops there. No question, not even a sign of emotion, nothing at all. No interest. And I am disappointed, even wounded.
On the other hand, a sympathetic reaction very quickly seems to me to be suspect, as if dictated by propriety. I can’t prevent myself from thinking it sounds false.
In this case, you’d say that the person I was speaking to hadn’t heard the part of my conversation where I explained that I had moved on and that the operation was a reconstruction. As a result I have to endure all sorts of conventional phrases about the brutality of men in Africa, on the necessity of stopping this abominable practice. And it annoys me. A lot, even. Because in the end, these sentences are very general and a long way from myself and what happens to me. Only thinking about it makes me want to snap.
In reality, I believe no reaction truly suits me. You could say that what’s happening to me is costing me a lot because it comes down to lifting a veil on a very intimate subject, something that is very dear to my heart. It’s like a precious gift. And inevitably, conversely, it’s hard to be arrogant about it.
When I think about it, it’s perhaps a poisoned chalice which I’m offering…
At the same time, I don’t want to damage my relationships with them by not being honest. I have the feeling I “owe” the truth to some (like my in-laws or my close friends) at the risk of harming our relationships for ever.
And then, if I can’t confide in them when it’s important things, are they truly my friends? What can you expect of those you consider to be friends, in the end?
It irritates me to be so caught up in this way and not to be able just to say things without caring about their impact on the person I’m speaking to.
So what can I do? Keep the secret or always tell the truth?
For the moment, I take each case as it comes. But I think I’ll have to work on this question in therapy. Can’t wait till Monday.
[Original in French]
Next post
It’s official. I’ve been walking normally since yesterday. I dare not make any sudden movements, nor do anything a bit risky, but my gait is normal.
I have definitely left the indeterminate state of constant pulling. I can now talk about occasional cramp.
My sick leave finishes today and I am very pleased. Because I am going up the wall here, from being confined indoors.
Loneliness is weighing a bit heavily on me, in spite of the daily telephone calls from my cousin. Not having any goal ahead such as my operation is leaving me aimless and a little disorientated…
The reality of having to answer questions from my colleagues, neighbours, friends and in-laws is also very much on my mind at the moment. They all want to know why I have been off sick for 10 days.
Each time I hesitate as to how to reply.
To tell them the truth is hard for me. Yet I’m not ashamed, from now on I have no reason for self-reproach as far as my circumcision is concerned. No, it’s something else. But I don’t know exactly what.
Perhaps it’s what I imagine I will see in their faces that holds me back?
I am afraid of no longer having the same status in their eyes. I am afraid of being categorised VICTIM whereas I am more than that. I don’t want to be the embodiment of “the woman who was circumcised when she was little”. I don’t want to be reduced to that.
I believe, deep down, that I don’t have much confidence in people since I can’t get rid of this fear.
Nevertheless, lying is repellent to me. So I equivocate according to the information they have.
I avoid questions from people who don’t know I’ve had the operation (colleagues, neighbours), contenting myself with saying that I’m much better and that I will be back at work on Monday. For those who know about an operation, I talk about a gynaecological problem. Some stop at this explanation but others ask for details. And there I feel caught.
I don’t want to explain that my operation was a clitoris reconstruction. I no longer want to explain it. When I do, I can’t avoid watching the reaction of the person asking. And too often, it disappoints or annoys me.
Most often, he or she says “Oh good, OK” and stops there. No question, not even a sign of emotion, nothing at all. No interest. And I am disappointed, even wounded.
On the other hand, a sympathetic reaction very quickly seems to me to be suspect, as if dictated by propriety. I can’t prevent myself from thinking it sounds false.
In this case, you’d say that the person I was speaking to hadn’t heard the part of my conversation where I explained that I had moved on and that the operation was a reconstruction. As a result I have to endure all sorts of conventional phrases about the brutality of men in Africa, on the necessity of stopping this abominable practice. And it annoys me. A lot, even. Because in the end, these sentences are very general and a long way from myself and what happens to me. Only thinking about it makes me want to snap.
In reality, I believe no reaction truly suits me. You could say that what’s happening to me is costing me a lot because it comes down to lifting a veil on a very intimate subject, something that is very dear to my heart. It’s like a precious gift. And inevitably, conversely, it’s hard to be arrogant about it.
When I think about it, it’s perhaps a poisoned chalice which I’m offering…
At the same time, I don’t want to damage my relationships with them by not being honest. I have the feeling I “owe” the truth to some (like my in-laws or my close friends) at the risk of harming our relationships for ever.
And then, if I can’t confide in them when it’s important things, are they truly my friends? What can you expect of those you consider to be friends, in the end?
It irritates me to be so caught up in this way and not to be able just to say things without caring about their impact on the person I’m speaking to.
So what can I do? Keep the secret or always tell the truth?
For the moment, I take each case as it comes. But I think I’ll have to work on this question in therapy. Can’t wait till Monday.
[Original in French]
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Monday, 22 May 2006
Analysis of the pain
22 May 2007
Today I am walking almost normally. Almost. Because I am holding myself oddly when upright. I’m exaggerating the arch of my spine and as a result, obviously, I have backache after several minutes standing.
The daily reduction of the pain has been a lovely surprise on awakening since Thursday. I can’t really even say pain, at the time of writing these words. It’s more of a dragging feeling. As a result I have started to ignore my best friends, the painkillers.
Nevertheless, contrary to what you might think, it’s not better to be dragged than to be in pain. Far from it even.
The dragging is worrying enough that I have the impression that something is going to give way, causing a haemorrhage or destroying all the work of the surgeon. So I take note of my feelings, I change position when I feel tension increasing in the region of the operation. When I am sitting or lying down I need one or two minutes to find a comfortable position. And so, standing up, I hold myself in a way that minimises the tightening while letting me find my balance, to the detriment of my back.
The pain and the stinging have a use all the same: that’s what makes me diligent in the care I need to give myself. In effect, I have to carry out intimate cleaning 4 times a day with the sterile swabs soaked in dilute red iodine. And I have to rinse thoroughly. Which means using the shower head. And so I take a mini-shower each time. Four times a day. When waking (well that’s not too much of a problem it’s true, as I take a full shower in any case), at about 2:00pm then about 7:00 pm and finally before going to bed. It’s frankly annoying. So it’s fortunate that there is this pain, that there is this pulling. If I didn’t feel anything at all it would be very difficult not to skip some of the care.
The clitoris is a very long organ (approximately 11 cm/4 inches) of which only a little is found outside the body. Circumcision consists of cutting this end which protrudes, while damaging the labia minora at the same time.
In order to do the repair, the surgeon therefore had to remove the scar tissue from my circumcision, then he cut and disengaged my clitoris. He reconstituted a clitoral gland at the end which he then repositioned so that it would protrude. So that the clitoris would not retract to its anterior position (so that it doesn’t “go back” again) he “wedged” it and sutured it with reabsorbable thread in front of the labia majora so that they keep it in place.*.
In my case he also injected a product into my labia minora so thet they would take on the normal shape again.
The pulling and pain are from where? All my genital area is swollen, tight and sensitive. I also have a slight pink discharge (nothing compared with the haemorrhage I imagined when I saw the giant sanitary towels in the clinic on Tuesday evening, nor with periods either) but the flow is not much at all.
At the time of my daily cleaning, I use a little mirror to see how things are going. The day before yesterday, for the first time, I noticed a little pink button between my labia majora. My clitoris. The little piece of flesh, that was my clitoris!
Damn! My mouth drops open.
I have been so obsessed by the pain since leaving the clinic that I completely put to one side part of the reality: I HAVE FOUND MY CLITORIS AGAIN! For good!
Damn, damn, damn, it’s coooolll!!
So, true, I don’t feel it at all at the moment. I can only wait for the pain, the stinging, the pulling to pack up for good. That should be before next Wednesday at the latest. At that time I believe I will notice its presence (and that will surely be reeeaaally strange to feel I have an extra organ). For it’s own sensitivity, to “feel it internally”, that should happen after six weeks of healing.
I still don’t know too much of what awaits me on the healing of my labia minora …
I am not in any rush to know what I am going to feel. For now, my need, what I am looking forward to, is the moment when I will no longer have any disagreeable feelings.
I understand perfectly now what that lady meant when she said she “still felt circumcised in her head, in spite of the operation”. For the moment, I feel no matter what has changed in my body, there are unpleasant things which prevent me from feeling it and so realising it. And nothing notable has happened in my head. It has certainly noticed the theory of what happened last week, it knows my body has been reconstructed, but it remains an abstraction.
I am waiting, I am waiting, I know that it will come ….
*sources
- Victoire sur l’Excision, Pierre Foldès, le chirurgien qui redonne l’espoir aux femmes mutilées, l’excellent livre d’Hubert Prolongeau (Editions Albin Michel)
- Urofrance, le site de l’urologie française
- Excision - On peut soigner les femmes victimes d’excision - Doctissimo
[Original in French]
Next post
Today I am walking almost normally. Almost. Because I am holding myself oddly when upright. I’m exaggerating the arch of my spine and as a result, obviously, I have backache after several minutes standing.
The daily reduction of the pain has been a lovely surprise on awakening since Thursday. I can’t really even say pain, at the time of writing these words. It’s more of a dragging feeling. As a result I have started to ignore my best friends, the painkillers.
Nevertheless, contrary to what you might think, it’s not better to be dragged than to be in pain. Far from it even.
The dragging is worrying enough that I have the impression that something is going to give way, causing a haemorrhage or destroying all the work of the surgeon. So I take note of my feelings, I change position when I feel tension increasing in the region of the operation. When I am sitting or lying down I need one or two minutes to find a comfortable position. And so, standing up, I hold myself in a way that minimises the tightening while letting me find my balance, to the detriment of my back.
The pain and the stinging have a use all the same: that’s what makes me diligent in the care I need to give myself. In effect, I have to carry out intimate cleaning 4 times a day with the sterile swabs soaked in dilute red iodine. And I have to rinse thoroughly. Which means using the shower head. And so I take a mini-shower each time. Four times a day. When waking (well that’s not too much of a problem it’s true, as I take a full shower in any case), at about 2:00pm then about 7:00 pm and finally before going to bed. It’s frankly annoying. So it’s fortunate that there is this pain, that there is this pulling. If I didn’t feel anything at all it would be very difficult not to skip some of the care.
The clitoris is a very long organ (approximately 11 cm/4 inches) of which only a little is found outside the body. Circumcision consists of cutting this end which protrudes, while damaging the labia minora at the same time.
In order to do the repair, the surgeon therefore had to remove the scar tissue from my circumcision, then he cut and disengaged my clitoris. He reconstituted a clitoral gland at the end which he then repositioned so that it would protrude. So that the clitoris would not retract to its anterior position (so that it doesn’t “go back” again) he “wedged” it and sutured it with reabsorbable thread in front of the labia majora so that they keep it in place.*.
In my case he also injected a product into my labia minora so thet they would take on the normal shape again.
The pulling and pain are from where? All my genital area is swollen, tight and sensitive. I also have a slight pink discharge (nothing compared with the haemorrhage I imagined when I saw the giant sanitary towels in the clinic on Tuesday evening, nor with periods either) but the flow is not much at all.
At the time of my daily cleaning, I use a little mirror to see how things are going. The day before yesterday, for the first time, I noticed a little pink button between my labia majora. My clitoris. The little piece of flesh, that was my clitoris!
Damn! My mouth drops open.
I have been so obsessed by the pain since leaving the clinic that I completely put to one side part of the reality: I HAVE FOUND MY CLITORIS AGAIN! For good!
Damn, damn, damn, it’s coooolll!!
So, true, I don’t feel it at all at the moment. I can only wait for the pain, the stinging, the pulling to pack up for good. That should be before next Wednesday at the latest. At that time I believe I will notice its presence (and that will surely be reeeaaally strange to feel I have an extra organ). For it’s own sensitivity, to “feel it internally”, that should happen after six weeks of healing.
I still don’t know too much of what awaits me on the healing of my labia minora …
I am not in any rush to know what I am going to feel. For now, my need, what I am looking forward to, is the moment when I will no longer have any disagreeable feelings.
I understand perfectly now what that lady meant when she said she “still felt circumcised in her head, in spite of the operation”. For the moment, I feel no matter what has changed in my body, there are unpleasant things which prevent me from feeling it and so realising it. And nothing notable has happened in my head. It has certainly noticed the theory of what happened last week, it knows my body has been reconstructed, but it remains an abstraction.
I am waiting, I am waiting, I know that it will come ….
*sources
- Victoire sur l’Excision, Pierre Foldès, le chirurgien qui redonne l’espoir aux femmes mutilées, l’excellent livre d’Hubert Prolongeau (Editions Albin Michel)
- Urofrance, le site de l’urologie française
- Excision - On peut soigner les femmes victimes d’excision - Doctissimo
[Original in French]
Next post
Sunday, 21 May 2006
From the other side of the miracle
Monday 21 May 2007
When I opened my eyes I was in a bed in another room. And I was in terrible pain. I cried, saying “It hurts” again and again and the nurse, who, two minutes before had confirmed that “no, I wouldn’t be in pain” (when I think back I'm totally on edge again), put me on a drip to relieve the pain.
I believe the operation took around twenty minutes and the anaesthetic approximately an hour.
I don’t remember the trip back to my room very well, it was as though I was in cotton wool. My room mate wasn’t there. I don’t remember her returning. I was dozing, I felt very tired, I was in pain …
I remember however my room mate demanding something to eat and the explanations from the nurses (we had to wait several hours before eating, the time taken for the anaesthetic to wear off completely, for fear of suffocating from swallowing the wrong way). And I remember also the nurse taking my blood pressure 3 or 4 times during the day.
The first of my circle to show themselves was my man. He came to see me around 4 pm, just when we were brought our tea (stewed apple, two butter biscuits and a madeleine). I was so happy to see him that I cried when he left.
Then I received my phone calls. My best friend first. Then my cousin. Then my mother. I had given her the clinic’s number but I didn’t think she’d phone me.
I still don’t know exactly what I felt when I heard her, but there was some relief in any case, and also pleasure. She asked me lots of questions, how it went, how I felt, was I in pain, when would I be leaving etc. … She told me to make sure I explained the whole sequence to her as soon as I returned home. That really pleased me that my mother was interested in me like that, it touched me. It’s rather new for me.
My mother then passed me over to my father who had just come home. He still had his distant tone, embarrassed. He didn’t speak to me much, just asked how I was, I think. There too, I don’t remember the words we exchanged well. I didn’t want to speak to him, I held it against him, his tone of voice, this distance that I felt, this rigidity.
To say that I was afraid he would give me a hard time, I found his near-indifference worse in the end. I am disappointed when I think of my father. Disappointed and angry.
The night was difficult, I took a long time to go to sleep, unlike my room mate. I was in pain, in spite of the painkillers which a nurse brought to me. I wanted to pee but I dare not, I was afraid of even more pain. And then there was this giant sanitary towel which irritated me too.
Next morning I was impatient again. I wanted to go home. Quickly. A nurse came to tell us that Dr Foldès was coming to see us and we had to wait to see him before we could leave the clinic.
While waiting, I chatted a bit with my room mate. She was 36 and had 4 children by an unhappy first marriage. The operation, in her case, was because she felt sexually frustrated. And also because she was afraid of her second husband leaving her if she weren’t more “playful” in bed. She told me that each time she gave birth or each time she saw a gynaecologist, she asked in vain, if it were possible to do something for her and her total absence of pleasure. She had heard about Dr Foldès on television and called him next day to make an appointment.
The doctor came by in a gust of wind. He gave us, my room mate and me, a prescription and a leaflet entitled “Immediate after effects of surgery to repair the clitoris”. Then he signed me off work until 25 May. He then explained to us very rapidly the care we should take, and then left again. I didn’t have time to write down what he said, I didn’t have time to tell him that I was in more pain on the left side of my sex than on the right, I didn’t have time to ask him if it was normal.
Before leaving he told us to call in three weeks to find out which days he was consulting and to turn up without an appointment on a day he would be there.
A few minutes later, after a call from the clinic’s reception, I went down (at the speed of a tortoise and that still gave me plenty of pain) paid the excess charge of 300 euros for the surgeon and the 9 euros that the telephone and television cost me.
My man arrived just when the young woman at the reception gave me a slip for the patient to sign, a hospitalisation slip, each with three copies (one for me, one for social security and one for the insurance company).
I was in an excellent mood, I chirruped with my love on the stairs on the stairs while going back up to collect my bag. I couldn’t stop myself smiling I was so happy. I wanted to hug everyone. The atmosphere was strange though. The clinic was very quiet on this holiday Thursday [Ascension Day], I had the impression that nobody was there apart from the young woman in reception and Dr Foldès’ patients who were walking around the corridors (I recognised them by their way of walking, so like mine).
I came across one on the stairs as I went down again. I smiled at her but she had a glum air which I didn’t understand. Life was so beautiful, how was it possible to be so sad?
My man took me to the pharmacy when we arrived back in Paris. I bought:
- Brexin [anti-inflammatory] (1 tablet to be taken each morning for 10 days)
- DiAntalvic (2 to 4 tablets a day in case of pain)
- A bottle of iodine and a packet of 100 sterile swabs (I have to do my intimate toilet 4 times a day with dilute iodine and the swabs and rinse thoroughly afterwards)
- A packet of soft cotton sanitary towels
Then he took me to devour an enormous entrecote steak. With loads of chips [fries]. To make me forget the depressing, and rather light as far as portion size was concerned, food in the clinic.
When I switched my mobile phone back on, I had a message from my mother who wanted to know if I had returned home and who repeated that she was 100% behind me. I called her back, I was really happy to chat with her. I told her about my room mate, about the delicious steak I had just eaten, my treatments … Before ringing off, she thanked my man for looking after me so well. It gave me great pleasure to feel her so nearby. It was lovely. I felt soothed when I rang off.
I also called my cousin. I had all the same had time to ask Dr Foldès how women living abroad could proceed in order to benefit from the operation. In reality it’s quite simple: all that’s necessary is to have insurance which covers overseas and which will pay for the operation. She need therefore to come to be examined by Dr Foldès who will give an estimate to be sent to the insurance company. As soon as they agree, she can make an appointment for the operation.
My cousin was delighted. So was I.
So that’s how these important days went by. I am happy to have set down the details here. For me, for other circumcised women, for my children later on, for the whole world in fact. Yes, I am happy. Even if I found the exercise curiously difficult …
[Original in French]
Next post
When I opened my eyes I was in a bed in another room. And I was in terrible pain. I cried, saying “It hurts” again and again and the nurse, who, two minutes before had confirmed that “no, I wouldn’t be in pain” (when I think back I'm totally on edge again), put me on a drip to relieve the pain.
I believe the operation took around twenty minutes and the anaesthetic approximately an hour.
I don’t remember the trip back to my room very well, it was as though I was in cotton wool. My room mate wasn’t there. I don’t remember her returning. I was dozing, I felt very tired, I was in pain …
I remember however my room mate demanding something to eat and the explanations from the nurses (we had to wait several hours before eating, the time taken for the anaesthetic to wear off completely, for fear of suffocating from swallowing the wrong way). And I remember also the nurse taking my blood pressure 3 or 4 times during the day.
The first of my circle to show themselves was my man. He came to see me around 4 pm, just when we were brought our tea (stewed apple, two butter biscuits and a madeleine). I was so happy to see him that I cried when he left.
Then I received my phone calls. My best friend first. Then my cousin. Then my mother. I had given her the clinic’s number but I didn’t think she’d phone me.
I still don’t know exactly what I felt when I heard her, but there was some relief in any case, and also pleasure. She asked me lots of questions, how it went, how I felt, was I in pain, when would I be leaving etc. … She told me to make sure I explained the whole sequence to her as soon as I returned home. That really pleased me that my mother was interested in me like that, it touched me. It’s rather new for me.
My mother then passed me over to my father who had just come home. He still had his distant tone, embarrassed. He didn’t speak to me much, just asked how I was, I think. There too, I don’t remember the words we exchanged well. I didn’t want to speak to him, I held it against him, his tone of voice, this distance that I felt, this rigidity.
To say that I was afraid he would give me a hard time, I found his near-indifference worse in the end. I am disappointed when I think of my father. Disappointed and angry.
The night was difficult, I took a long time to go to sleep, unlike my room mate. I was in pain, in spite of the painkillers which a nurse brought to me. I wanted to pee but I dare not, I was afraid of even more pain. And then there was this giant sanitary towel which irritated me too.
Next morning I was impatient again. I wanted to go home. Quickly. A nurse came to tell us that Dr Foldès was coming to see us and we had to wait to see him before we could leave the clinic.
While waiting, I chatted a bit with my room mate. She was 36 and had 4 children by an unhappy first marriage. The operation, in her case, was because she felt sexually frustrated. And also because she was afraid of her second husband leaving her if she weren’t more “playful” in bed. She told me that each time she gave birth or each time she saw a gynaecologist, she asked in vain, if it were possible to do something for her and her total absence of pleasure. She had heard about Dr Foldès on television and called him next day to make an appointment.
The doctor came by in a gust of wind. He gave us, my room mate and me, a prescription and a leaflet entitled “Immediate after effects of surgery to repair the clitoris”. Then he signed me off work until 25 May. He then explained to us very rapidly the care we should take, and then left again. I didn’t have time to write down what he said, I didn’t have time to tell him that I was in more pain on the left side of my sex than on the right, I didn’t have time to ask him if it was normal.
Before leaving he told us to call in three weeks to find out which days he was consulting and to turn up without an appointment on a day he would be there.
A few minutes later, after a call from the clinic’s reception, I went down (at the speed of a tortoise and that still gave me plenty of pain) paid the excess charge of 300 euros for the surgeon and the 9 euros that the telephone and television cost me.
My man arrived just when the young woman at the reception gave me a slip for the patient to sign, a hospitalisation slip, each with three copies (one for me, one for social security and one for the insurance company).
I was in an excellent mood, I chirruped with my love on the stairs on the stairs while going back up to collect my bag. I couldn’t stop myself smiling I was so happy. I wanted to hug everyone. The atmosphere was strange though. The clinic was very quiet on this holiday Thursday [Ascension Day], I had the impression that nobody was there apart from the young woman in reception and Dr Foldès’ patients who were walking around the corridors (I recognised them by their way of walking, so like mine).
I came across one on the stairs as I went down again. I smiled at her but she had a glum air which I didn’t understand. Life was so beautiful, how was it possible to be so sad?
My man took me to the pharmacy when we arrived back in Paris. I bought:
- Brexin [anti-inflammatory] (1 tablet to be taken each morning for 10 days)
- DiAntalvic (2 to 4 tablets a day in case of pain)
- A bottle of iodine and a packet of 100 sterile swabs (I have to do my intimate toilet 4 times a day with dilute iodine and the swabs and rinse thoroughly afterwards)
- A packet of soft cotton sanitary towels
Then he took me to devour an enormous entrecote steak. With loads of chips [fries]. To make me forget the depressing, and rather light as far as portion size was concerned, food in the clinic.
When I switched my mobile phone back on, I had a message from my mother who wanted to know if I had returned home and who repeated that she was 100% behind me. I called her back, I was really happy to chat with her. I told her about my room mate, about the delicious steak I had just eaten, my treatments … Before ringing off, she thanked my man for looking after me so well. It gave me great pleasure to feel her so nearby. It was lovely. I felt soothed when I rang off.
I also called my cousin. I had all the same had time to ask Dr Foldès how women living abroad could proceed in order to benefit from the operation. In reality it’s quite simple: all that’s necessary is to have insurance which covers overseas and which will pay for the operation. She need therefore to come to be examined by Dr Foldès who will give an estimate to be sent to the insurance company. As soon as they agree, she can make an appointment for the operation.
My cousin was delighted. So was I.
So that’s how these important days went by. I am happy to have set down the details here. For me, for other circumcised women, for my children later on, for the whole world in fact. Yes, I am happy. Even if I found the exercise curiously difficult …
[Original in French]
Next post
Saturday, 20 May 2006
The most important day
Sunday 20 May 2007
In spite of the sedative I swallowed, I opened my eyes very early on Wednesday morning. I don’t know the exact time but it was still dark outside.
My eyes open in the dark, I tried to work out the time I would go into the operating theatre. A nurse I had asked told me that they wouldn’t know till the next morning, that Dr Foldès started operating at 9:30 and that he had lots of patients.
I told myself that, having arrived the night before, I would no doubt be amongst the first, or at least before the ones arriving in the morning.
I was delighted when around 8 o’clock, a nurse came to tell me to go and take my shower. She brought me a little tumbler on which my name was written in ink., followed by “8:30”. In the tumbler there was a tablet like the one I had taken the night before and also a large effervescent tablet. She told me I had to take them, with a very small amount of water, when I returned from the shower, “even if I didn’t need a sedative” according to her.
It was with a big smile and very happy that I left the room, at the same time as my neighbour arrived. I was no doubt going to be operated on soon. If not the effect of the sedative would no doubt end up wearing off.
Returning from the shower, I dressed again in the dark blue garment which had been given to me the night before. (a sort of shirt to put on “backwards”, with your buttocks in the breeze) then I took the medications then I lay down on my bed and didn’t get up again, following the nurses instructions. She had explained that I would feel light-headed a little after taking the pills and I mustn’t take the risk of falling.
The minutes passed and my impatience grew. Impatience is really the word which characterised the morning of 16 May.
My room mate, in a blue shirt too, a tumbler on which was written “9:30” in front of her, smiled at me hesitantly. Then she asked me if I too were going to be operated on “down there”. When I agreed, she started to explain to me that she had never had any pleasure. Not an ounce. I didn’t know what to reply. I believe in fact that I didn’t want to reply. I was impatient for someone to come and fetch me. She asked where I came from, I asked her her first name, we smiled, then we were exhausted.
Around 10 o’clock a young man in blue pyjamas and a shower cap on his head came to fetch me. I left my bed to get on the stretcher he had brought. He covered me in a blue sheet then took me away. He was funny, he made jokes in the metal left which we took to the unit, two floors down.
I waited some minutes in a sort of antechamber, under a sort of survival blanket, with a shower cap on my head. It was cold. And my joy gently descended. I was almost there. I felt I was floating a bit.
Arriving in Unit 2, I was put on a funny table like the ones for gynaecological examinations, with stirrups at the end. Here the stirrups were made for your feet but also to support your calves. Correctly placed, I had my back on the table, my buttocks in the open, my legs slightly bent and my arms crossed, laid on some sort of armrests.
A nurse arrived to fix a machine to take my blood pressure on my right arm. Covering me, (it was really cold) she looked at me and then asked if I were worried. With a tiny little voice I said “Yes” before correcting “actually I’m upset I think”. “Everything will be all right” she replied rapidly before leaving the room.
I wasn’t sad but I wanted to cry. Minutes passed on the big white clock which I could see in the corridor. I asked myself vaguely whether, in the end, Dr Foldès hadn’t had an accident while coming in that morning.
Then, at about 10:15, Dr Iceberg arrived to give me the anaesthetic. “We’ve met before,” he said. “Yes I remember you,” I replied. He put a drip in my left arm, a sophisticated thing with two entry points, surrounded by an enormous sticking plaster. He then left to confer with other people in the corridor.
During this time, tears were welling in my eyes, overflowed, and started to run down my cheeks.
The arrival of Dr Foldès in the unit around 10:30 made my heart leap. He was there, alive, smiling, he was going to operate on me. THE moment which I had been waiting for for so long had arrived. It was like a miracle. I could no longer hold back my tears.
“Ah Miss XXX! So we are going to repair your clitoris and also…” He didn’t finish his sentence as if to verify what we had agreed. “We are repairing the labia minora too,” I hurried to say. “Yes, I’m going to find the product” he declared, leaving the room.
As soon as he left, Dr Icefield started to inject the colourless contents of a syringe into my drip. He also injected the milky contents of two other syringes, then put a mask on my face, asking me to breathe in it. “You’re going to sleep,” he told me.
I remember having a strange feeling in my head. Like tickling. Then I was suddenly asleep.
(to be continued. The story being quite long, I’ve divided it into several parts. The next tomorrow. Promise)
[Original in French]
Next post
In spite of the sedative I swallowed, I opened my eyes very early on Wednesday morning. I don’t know the exact time but it was still dark outside.
My eyes open in the dark, I tried to work out the time I would go into the operating theatre. A nurse I had asked told me that they wouldn’t know till the next morning, that Dr Foldès started operating at 9:30 and that he had lots of patients.
I told myself that, having arrived the night before, I would no doubt be amongst the first, or at least before the ones arriving in the morning.
I was delighted when around 8 o’clock, a nurse came to tell me to go and take my shower. She brought me a little tumbler on which my name was written in ink., followed by “8:30”. In the tumbler there was a tablet like the one I had taken the night before and also a large effervescent tablet. She told me I had to take them, with a very small amount of water, when I returned from the shower, “even if I didn’t need a sedative” according to her.
It was with a big smile and very happy that I left the room, at the same time as my neighbour arrived. I was no doubt going to be operated on soon. If not the effect of the sedative would no doubt end up wearing off.
Returning from the shower, I dressed again in the dark blue garment which had been given to me the night before. (a sort of shirt to put on “backwards”, with your buttocks in the breeze) then I took the medications then I lay down on my bed and didn’t get up again, following the nurses instructions. She had explained that I would feel light-headed a little after taking the pills and I mustn’t take the risk of falling.
The minutes passed and my impatience grew. Impatience is really the word which characterised the morning of 16 May.
My room mate, in a blue shirt too, a tumbler on which was written “9:30” in front of her, smiled at me hesitantly. Then she asked me if I too were going to be operated on “down there”. When I agreed, she started to explain to me that she had never had any pleasure. Not an ounce. I didn’t know what to reply. I believe in fact that I didn’t want to reply. I was impatient for someone to come and fetch me. She asked where I came from, I asked her her first name, we smiled, then we were exhausted.
Around 10 o’clock a young man in blue pyjamas and a shower cap on his head came to fetch me. I left my bed to get on the stretcher he had brought. He covered me in a blue sheet then took me away. He was funny, he made jokes in the metal left which we took to the unit, two floors down.
I waited some minutes in a sort of antechamber, under a sort of survival blanket, with a shower cap on my head. It was cold. And my joy gently descended. I was almost there. I felt I was floating a bit.
Arriving in Unit 2, I was put on a funny table like the ones for gynaecological examinations, with stirrups at the end. Here the stirrups were made for your feet but also to support your calves. Correctly placed, I had my back on the table, my buttocks in the open, my legs slightly bent and my arms crossed, laid on some sort of armrests.
A nurse arrived to fix a machine to take my blood pressure on my right arm. Covering me, (it was really cold) she looked at me and then asked if I were worried. With a tiny little voice I said “Yes” before correcting “actually I’m upset I think”. “Everything will be all right” she replied rapidly before leaving the room.
I wasn’t sad but I wanted to cry. Minutes passed on the big white clock which I could see in the corridor. I asked myself vaguely whether, in the end, Dr Foldès hadn’t had an accident while coming in that morning.
Then, at about 10:15, Dr Iceberg arrived to give me the anaesthetic. “We’ve met before,” he said. “Yes I remember you,” I replied. He put a drip in my left arm, a sophisticated thing with two entry points, surrounded by an enormous sticking plaster. He then left to confer with other people in the corridor.
During this time, tears were welling in my eyes, overflowed, and started to run down my cheeks.
The arrival of Dr Foldès in the unit around 10:30 made my heart leap. He was there, alive, smiling, he was going to operate on me. THE moment which I had been waiting for for so long had arrived. It was like a miracle. I could no longer hold back my tears.
“Ah Miss XXX! So we are going to repair your clitoris and also…” He didn’t finish his sentence as if to verify what we had agreed. “We are repairing the labia minora too,” I hurried to say. “Yes, I’m going to find the product” he declared, leaving the room.
As soon as he left, Dr Icefield started to inject the colourless contents of a syringe into my drip. He also injected the milky contents of two other syringes, then put a mask on my face, asking me to breathe in it. “You’re going to sleep,” he told me.
I remember having a strange feeling in my head. Like tickling. Then I was suddenly asleep.
(to be continued. The story being quite long, I’ve divided it into several parts. The next tomorrow. Promise)
[Original in French]
Next post
Thursday, 18 May 2006
Pre-operative ebullition
Friday 18 May 2007
It was in the rain that I set off for the Louis XIV Clinic, on Tuesday afternoon. In the rain and fairly serene. I was smiling, I was happy and calm. It was finally happening, the wait was over. I was no longer thinking about my mother’s call, I was thinking only of this miracle which was really happening and my heart was sparkling. I felt as though I were on holiday.
On the RER which was taking me to Saint Germain en Laye, I had two surprising telephone conversations: first my father called me. Strangely, I can’t remember much of what he said to me. As a conversation, it was very desultory. And his tone was neutral, detached, which surprised and unsettled me. At one point it even came to mind that he was talking to me as if I were just going to have my wisdom teeth removed, without any particular emotion.
He first of all asked me how I was . Then he said that my mother had called him to talk to him about my operation and the letter. He told me he still hadn’t read it but he was counting on doing so as soon as he arrived home on Wednesday evening. He told me of my mother’s deception, of not being able to be at my side, told me that it was a pity that I had let them know so late, that she would have come to look after me if she had known sooner. He said he thought I was in good hands and wished me luck.
The whole conversation I held my breath, I was very uneasy and I gave him my habitual “standard issue responses” reassuring and automatic. I wasn’t at all frightened. Nevertheless, I had one feeling of urgency: to hang up. And it was with relief that I thanked him for calling when he said he’d better let me go.
Then my cousin called. I had spoken to her about my call from my mother the evening before. I told her I wasn’t sure whether to believe her. Her response surprised me: she said that it was very possible that my mother hadn’t participated in the organisation of our circumcision, since she had no say. “The poor thing, what would you expect her to do apart from submit to your grandmother’s wishes” she said.
It’s true that in Senegalese culture, a woman has a certain authority over her daughter in law, who owes her respect and obedience, and also over her grandchildren. So had my mother told me the truth? Had my paternal grandmother been the sole instigator of the butchery?
My cousin confirmed that my father himself had truly slavered (but I still don’t know what that means exactly). [in French you can faire baver de rage, jalousie etc but it sounds really odd in English and I can’t think of an equivalent - A.] While walking to the clinic, I asked myself if my father himself had a grudge against my mother because he really believed she was in league with my grandmother, or if it was because she had done nothing to prevent my grandmother from mutilating us, because she hadn’t protected us …
And then I arrived at the clinic and there I could think of nothing other than my relief at being there. I didn’t die on the way, the clinic hadn’t burnt down, it had really happened, I was going to have the operation….
I was put into a double room. I had asked for a telephone, not being allowed to use my mobile, and television, but I hadn’t particularly wanted to be in a single room. The very young male nurse who took me to my room told me the other bed would be occupied by another of Dr Foldès’ patients who would arrive next morning.
He had me fill in a form about my possessions (had I a mobile phone with me? A credit card? A cheque book? What was the number of the last cheque used? Did I have a digital camera? My papers? etc…) before asking me if I wanted to put anything in the safe, which I didn’t.
His questions gave me the feeling of having landed in some sort of no-go area, and that must have shown on my face because he assured me that there had been practically no incidents at the clinic, the questionnaire was simply a precaution, just in case. That reassured me only a little.
After the form, he verified that I was wearing no nail varnish, or jewellery (I had to leave my silver bracelets at home and without them I felt really quite strange). Then he mumbled, blushed deeply, and asked me very quickly if I had had all my body hair removed.
He showed me the showers, situated outside my room and told me I had to take a shower that evening before going to bed, and again next morning when a nurse came to wake me up. He showed me the iodine with which I had to wash myself meticulously, from head to toe twice, especially my hair, nostrils, nails (feet and hands), navel and the urogenital and anal regions.
When I returned to my room I had a visit from another nurse, who came to give me what looked like giant sanitary towels “for after the operation”. That worried me. Was I going to bleed a lot?
Then the duty anaesthetist that night came to my room. It was a woman with a Nordic accent. She told me that I would be given a sedative tablet that evening and another next morning. She asked me if I had any questions, to which I answered, no.
I felt lonely in that room. I phoned my man, then the meal arrived: vegetable soup, a portion of quiche and green salad mixed with quarters of tomato, bread, spreading cheese, and, for dessert, a yoghurt. That made me even more depressed, that dinner.
I read and watched television, then at about 20:30 I went to take my evening shower.
And that’s when I discovered the big difference between a room in a clinic and a room in a hotel: towels are not provided. Worse: they have none at all. I therefore had to dry myself with a sheet kindly lent to me by a night nurse, before putting my nightdress back on, and going to bed, my pill swallowed.
I felt a bit sad all the same, on Tuesday evening.
Sad and very impatient for Wednesday. To be finished at last.
(to be continued)
[Original in French]
Next post
It was in the rain that I set off for the Louis XIV Clinic, on Tuesday afternoon. In the rain and fairly serene. I was smiling, I was happy and calm. It was finally happening, the wait was over. I was no longer thinking about my mother’s call, I was thinking only of this miracle which was really happening and my heart was sparkling. I felt as though I were on holiday.
On the RER which was taking me to Saint Germain en Laye, I had two surprising telephone conversations: first my father called me. Strangely, I can’t remember much of what he said to me. As a conversation, it was very desultory. And his tone was neutral, detached, which surprised and unsettled me. At one point it even came to mind that he was talking to me as if I were just going to have my wisdom teeth removed, without any particular emotion.
He first of all asked me how I was . Then he said that my mother had called him to talk to him about my operation and the letter. He told me he still hadn’t read it but he was counting on doing so as soon as he arrived home on Wednesday evening. He told me of my mother’s deception, of not being able to be at my side, told me that it was a pity that I had let them know so late, that she would have come to look after me if she had known sooner. He said he thought I was in good hands and wished me luck.
The whole conversation I held my breath, I was very uneasy and I gave him my habitual “standard issue responses” reassuring and automatic. I wasn’t at all frightened. Nevertheless, I had one feeling of urgency: to hang up. And it was with relief that I thanked him for calling when he said he’d better let me go.
Then my cousin called. I had spoken to her about my call from my mother the evening before. I told her I wasn’t sure whether to believe her. Her response surprised me: she said that it was very possible that my mother hadn’t participated in the organisation of our circumcision, since she had no say. “The poor thing, what would you expect her to do apart from submit to your grandmother’s wishes” she said.
It’s true that in Senegalese culture, a woman has a certain authority over her daughter in law, who owes her respect and obedience, and also over her grandchildren. So had my mother told me the truth? Had my paternal grandmother been the sole instigator of the butchery?
My cousin confirmed that my father himself had truly slavered (but I still don’t know what that means exactly). [in French you can faire baver de rage, jalousie etc but it sounds really odd in English and I can’t think of an equivalent - A.] While walking to the clinic, I asked myself if my father himself had a grudge against my mother because he really believed she was in league with my grandmother, or if it was because she had done nothing to prevent my grandmother from mutilating us, because she hadn’t protected us …
And then I arrived at the clinic and there I could think of nothing other than my relief at being there. I didn’t die on the way, the clinic hadn’t burnt down, it had really happened, I was going to have the operation….
I was put into a double room. I had asked for a telephone, not being allowed to use my mobile, and television, but I hadn’t particularly wanted to be in a single room. The very young male nurse who took me to my room told me the other bed would be occupied by another of Dr Foldès’ patients who would arrive next morning.
He had me fill in a form about my possessions (had I a mobile phone with me? A credit card? A cheque book? What was the number of the last cheque used? Did I have a digital camera? My papers? etc…) before asking me if I wanted to put anything in the safe, which I didn’t.
His questions gave me the feeling of having landed in some sort of no-go area, and that must have shown on my face because he assured me that there had been practically no incidents at the clinic, the questionnaire was simply a precaution, just in case. That reassured me only a little.
After the form, he verified that I was wearing no nail varnish, or jewellery (I had to leave my silver bracelets at home and without them I felt really quite strange). Then he mumbled, blushed deeply, and asked me very quickly if I had had all my body hair removed.
He showed me the showers, situated outside my room and told me I had to take a shower that evening before going to bed, and again next morning when a nurse came to wake me up. He showed me the iodine with which I had to wash myself meticulously, from head to toe twice, especially my hair, nostrils, nails (feet and hands), navel and the urogenital and anal regions.
When I returned to my room I had a visit from another nurse, who came to give me what looked like giant sanitary towels “for after the operation”. That worried me. Was I going to bleed a lot?
Then the duty anaesthetist that night came to my room. It was a woman with a Nordic accent. She told me that I would be given a sedative tablet that evening and another next morning. She asked me if I had any questions, to which I answered, no.
I felt lonely in that room. I phoned my man, then the meal arrived: vegetable soup, a portion of quiche and green salad mixed with quarters of tomato, bread, spreading cheese, and, for dessert, a yoghurt. That made me even more depressed, that dinner.
I read and watched television, then at about 20:30 I went to take my evening shower.
And that’s when I discovered the big difference between a room in a clinic and a room in a hotel: towels are not provided. Worse: they have none at all. I therefore had to dry myself with a sheet kindly lent to me by a night nurse, before putting my nightdress back on, and going to bed, my pill swallowed.
I felt a bit sad all the same, on Tuesday evening.
Sad and very impatient for Wednesday. To be finished at last.
(to be continued)
[Original in French]
Next post
After the rain
18 May 2007
There it is, I can finally sit down sufficiently long without suffering to write a post.
I’VE HAD MY OPERATION! THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD MY OPERATION! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My God but I’m happy! If I could, I would dance from relief and joy.
But I can’t, it hurts when I move. Less than yesterday but all the same, it’s killing me. I’ve often read that after the operation, you don’t feel any pain, hardly any bother. Today I am in a position to state that it’s not necessarily true for everyone. For example, in my case, painkillers have recently become my best friends.
I can’t yet celebrate the event with champagne, my best friends instruct me to wait a bit, so I will tell you what has happened since Tuesday morning and my last post since before the Big Bang…
[Original in French]
Next post
There it is, I can finally sit down sufficiently long without suffering to write a post.
I’VE HAD MY OPERATION! THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD MY OPERATION! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My God but I’m happy! If I could, I would dance from relief and joy.
But I can’t, it hurts when I move. Less than yesterday but all the same, it’s killing me. I’ve often read that after the operation, you don’t feel any pain, hardly any bother. Today I am in a position to state that it’s not necessarily true for everyone. For example, in my case, painkillers have recently become my best friends.
I can’t yet celebrate the event with champagne, my best friends instruct me to wait a bit, so I will tell you what has happened since Tuesday morning and my last post since before the Big Bang…
[Original in French]
Next post
Monday, 15 May 2006
The incredible call
Tuesday 15 May
Yesterday evening, on the dot of 9 pm, my mother called me.
When I picked up the phone and recognised her voice, I felt enormously surprised and also, I think, relief. But not fear, anger, or sorrow. On the contrary, I was happy she called.
She said she had received my letter.
She told me she recognised the writing on the envelope, that she was afraid that I was writing to tell her of a catastrophe and that as a result she read it all at once.
In one way it pleased me that she said she was happy that I had written to her, that she understood the step I was taking, that it was my body and that it was important for me to speak to them about this operation. It touched me that she was disappointed I hadn’t spoken to her about it earlier and that she was sorry not to be able to be there with me tomorrow. Her questions on the progress of the operation and about the consultations with the surgeon and anaesthetist did me good. I liked it when she asked me for the clinic’s telephone number and said she would phone me there tomorrow evening. It warmed my heart when she said she would be thinking of me.
But there was this other part of the conversation. This part where she gave me another version of what had happened. The minutes when she said that she had nothing to do with the circumcisions of my sister or myself, that it was my paternal grandmother who had planned it all in secret, in the absence of my father who had left for Dakar (and not to look for my cousin as she herself had told me).
She told me that, on that morning, when she came to look for us in my grandmother’s hut where we were sleeping, my sister and myself, she hadn’t found us, that she asked my grandmother where we were and that she had said we had been sent to the circumciser.
She told me that it wasn’t something that was done in her own village, that her own mother had never done anything as abominable to her.
My mother told me that my father had never believed her, that he had always believed she had participated in this ignominy, and that during that year and well after she had suffered badly.
At the time I didn’t believe her.
I didn’t say anything, but I thought she was lying to me, that she wasn’t innocent. I don’t know, when she was talking to me she wasn’t crying, there wasn’t really any emotion in her voice. And in particular, she didn’t talk about me. She didn’t say that it made her feel as though we had been sent to the abattoir. She didn’t speak about when she saw me again afterwards. She didn’t tell me about her pain that I had been circumcised. I found that bizarre. I listened well, I felt nothing. In fact it was as if my excision was divorced from her, she was just wrongly accused of having participated in it. It was very strange. I had the impression that the drama for her was having been wrongly accused and not the fact that we had been circumcised, my sister and myself.
This morning, in the cold light of day … well I don’t know what to believe any more, if what she said to me is the truth. She told me, yesterday evening, that I was like her, that I had this reserve which prevents me from expressing my emotions (it’s confusing, my father told me basically the same thing, several years ago, but finding a similarity with himself). If that’s so, yesterday evening was it that her emotions didn’t show in her speech because she’s so much in the habit of not showing them? And in fairness, why would she lie to me?
Honestly, I don’t know what to think about it, I am focused on my going to the clinic soon so I think I’ll put it to one side for the moment.
Yesterday evening she told me that she had called my father who is away until Wednesday evening, to let him know that he too had received a letter, no doubt the same.
I don’t know if she made him aware of the contents but he said he would phone on his return, after he had read it.
I’d very much like to hear his version of the story, I hope he will speak to me about it…
[Original in French]
Next post
Yesterday evening, on the dot of 9 pm, my mother called me.
When I picked up the phone and recognised her voice, I felt enormously surprised and also, I think, relief. But not fear, anger, or sorrow. On the contrary, I was happy she called.
She said she had received my letter.
She told me she recognised the writing on the envelope, that she was afraid that I was writing to tell her of a catastrophe and that as a result she read it all at once.
In one way it pleased me that she said she was happy that I had written to her, that she understood the step I was taking, that it was my body and that it was important for me to speak to them about this operation. It touched me that she was disappointed I hadn’t spoken to her about it earlier and that she was sorry not to be able to be there with me tomorrow. Her questions on the progress of the operation and about the consultations with the surgeon and anaesthetist did me good. I liked it when she asked me for the clinic’s telephone number and said she would phone me there tomorrow evening. It warmed my heart when she said she would be thinking of me.
But there was this other part of the conversation. This part where she gave me another version of what had happened. The minutes when she said that she had nothing to do with the circumcisions of my sister or myself, that it was my paternal grandmother who had planned it all in secret, in the absence of my father who had left for Dakar (and not to look for my cousin as she herself had told me).
She told me that, on that morning, when she came to look for us in my grandmother’s hut where we were sleeping, my sister and myself, she hadn’t found us, that she asked my grandmother where we were and that she had said we had been sent to the circumciser.
She told me that it wasn’t something that was done in her own village, that her own mother had never done anything as abominable to her.
My mother told me that my father had never believed her, that he had always believed she had participated in this ignominy, and that during that year and well after she had suffered badly.
At the time I didn’t believe her.
I didn’t say anything, but I thought she was lying to me, that she wasn’t innocent. I don’t know, when she was talking to me she wasn’t crying, there wasn’t really any emotion in her voice. And in particular, she didn’t talk about me. She didn’t say that it made her feel as though we had been sent to the abattoir. She didn’t speak about when she saw me again afterwards. She didn’t tell me about her pain that I had been circumcised. I found that bizarre. I listened well, I felt nothing. In fact it was as if my excision was divorced from her, she was just wrongly accused of having participated in it. It was very strange. I had the impression that the drama for her was having been wrongly accused and not the fact that we had been circumcised, my sister and myself.
This morning, in the cold light of day … well I don’t know what to believe any more, if what she said to me is the truth. She told me, yesterday evening, that I was like her, that I had this reserve which prevents me from expressing my emotions (it’s confusing, my father told me basically the same thing, several years ago, but finding a similarity with himself). If that’s so, yesterday evening was it that her emotions didn’t show in her speech because she’s so much in the habit of not showing them? And in fairness, why would she lie to me?
Honestly, I don’t know what to think about it, I am focused on my going to the clinic soon so I think I’ll put it to one side for the moment.
Yesterday evening she told me that she had called my father who is away until Wednesday evening, to let him know that he too had received a letter, no doubt the same.
I don’t know if she made him aware of the contents but he said he would phone on his return, after he had read it.
I’d very much like to hear his version of the story, I hope he will speak to me about it…
[Original in French]
Next post
Sunday, 14 May 2006
At last
Monday 14 May 2007
I have had cold feet since yesterday. And then pins and needles in my legs. In other words I have been constantly afraid since Wednesday appeared on the horizon.
It’s afternoon. I will have my operation the day after tomorrow. I can hardly believe it. The day after tomorrow. Already.
I no have the feeling that time is flying. I’m afraid, but it’s not painful like anxiety. In truth I’m holding my breath as if not to break the spell, as if in front of something fragile. I especially must not whatever comes to upset the progress of the remaining days. So, I can’t sleep the whole night any more, my eyes are firmly fixed on 16 May which is no longer a mirage but remains a fragile miracle which I haven’t yet reached.
In secret (because you mustn’t tempt fate) I am nevertheless starting to rejoice. My God! It’s here! I’m going to have my operation. It’s here, it’s a reality! I’m going to take the plunge and the day after tomorrow, I’ll no longer be the person I am today. I will be enriched. I am going to rediscover my clitoris. Really. I am totally excited, totally happy. I have a big smile which I can’t manage to suppress….
I also want to cry. Emotion no doubt. Because I’m not sad. What’s making tears come to my eyes is that I’m allowed to hope something magnificent. And that it’s going to happen. It’s the first time I believe …
I am almost ready. In my head I’ve listed all I need to take with me:
- my nightgown
- my toiletries
- two books and a magazine
- a skirt and a pretty top for leaving the clinic on Thursday
- two pairs of pants and a bra
- an notebook and a pen
- the lucky charm which one of the therapists from the Saturday group sessions gave me.
I have removed my nail varnish and I have shaved myself. Those two things are necessary and required by the clinic. Besides, several young women who have already had the operation kindly told me about them.
All the same, I had a bit of a block at the idea of having to remove all the hairs from my sex. I didn’t know how I would manage it. A young woman who had the operation, of whom I asked the question, told me the nurses could do it at the clinic, but I didn’t want to entrust them with this intimate task. I neither wanted to shave myself (and what if I cut myself?) nor use a depilatory cream (what if I burnt my mucous membranes?). Finally I got myself completely depilated by a beautician. I didn’t feel overcome by modesty in front of her (contrary to what I expected) and it wasn’t too painful. My only regret will be not to have been able to “prepare” my body myself.
I now have the sex of a little girl, all smooth, all delicate, without the barrier of hair to protect it, and that disturbs me. I can’t stop thinking that the circle is complete and that I am going to present myself at the clinic as I was on that black day when I was four. It’s a strange sensation. Not really sadness, but a little all the same…
Time becomes solemn, serious, symbolic. And nevertheless, I want to dance …
It’s the day after tomorrow. At last ….
[original in French]
Next post
I have had cold feet since yesterday. And then pins and needles in my legs. In other words I have been constantly afraid since Wednesday appeared on the horizon.
It’s afternoon. I will have my operation the day after tomorrow. I can hardly believe it. The day after tomorrow. Already.
I no have the feeling that time is flying. I’m afraid, but it’s not painful like anxiety. In truth I’m holding my breath as if not to break the spell, as if in front of something fragile. I especially must not whatever comes to upset the progress of the remaining days. So, I can’t sleep the whole night any more, my eyes are firmly fixed on 16 May which is no longer a mirage but remains a fragile miracle which I haven’t yet reached.
In secret (because you mustn’t tempt fate) I am nevertheless starting to rejoice. My God! It’s here! I’m going to have my operation. It’s here, it’s a reality! I’m going to take the plunge and the day after tomorrow, I’ll no longer be the person I am today. I will be enriched. I am going to rediscover my clitoris. Really. I am totally excited, totally happy. I have a big smile which I can’t manage to suppress….
I also want to cry. Emotion no doubt. Because I’m not sad. What’s making tears come to my eyes is that I’m allowed to hope something magnificent. And that it’s going to happen. It’s the first time I believe …
I am almost ready. In my head I’ve listed all I need to take with me:
- my nightgown
- my toiletries
- two books and a magazine
- a skirt and a pretty top for leaving the clinic on Thursday
- two pairs of pants and a bra
- an notebook and a pen
- the lucky charm which one of the therapists from the Saturday group sessions gave me.
I have removed my nail varnish and I have shaved myself. Those two things are necessary and required by the clinic. Besides, several young women who have already had the operation kindly told me about them.
All the same, I had a bit of a block at the idea of having to remove all the hairs from my sex. I didn’t know how I would manage it. A young woman who had the operation, of whom I asked the question, told me the nurses could do it at the clinic, but I didn’t want to entrust them with this intimate task. I neither wanted to shave myself (and what if I cut myself?) nor use a depilatory cream (what if I burnt my mucous membranes?). Finally I got myself completely depilated by a beautician. I didn’t feel overcome by modesty in front of her (contrary to what I expected) and it wasn’t too painful. My only regret will be not to have been able to “prepare” my body myself.
I now have the sex of a little girl, all smooth, all delicate, without the barrier of hair to protect it, and that disturbs me. I can’t stop thinking that the circle is complete and that I am going to present myself at the clinic as I was on that black day when I was four. It’s a strange sensation. Not really sadness, but a little all the same…
Time becomes solemn, serious, symbolic. And nevertheless, I want to dance …
It’s the day after tomorrow. At last ….
[original in French]
Next post
Friday, 12 May 2006
Alea jacta est
Friday 11 May 2007
Finally I wrote to my parents to tell them I was going to have the operation. I needed them to know, both of them. It’s too big a step in my life. To let the operation pass in silence is like letting everything which has changed for me over the last months pass in silence. I need them to know who I am, that they know about the important event which the operation is for me.
Besides, I have this strange conviction that if I don’t speak to them BEFORE the operation, it will no longer be possible. I feel that afterwards I won’t talk about it. That would seem a bit like a confession and I have nothing to confess. I don’t want my reconstruction to be a secret that I will reveal to them one day after some years.
And also I’d like to break my habit of keeping them at a distance, I'd like to become a little closer to them.
I discussed this with my man and I decided to address the letter to both of them. I thought all day yesterday about what I was going to write. Nevertheless, when I set about it yesterday evening I had great difficulty in starting it, this letter.
I went round in circles for several hours, I started several drafts but I discarded them one after the other: I had the feeling I was justifying myself, looking for their approval, or even worse, minimising the importance of the operation for me.
So I thought about what I really wanted to say to them, in my letter, that is to say I loved them. And there, it came all by itself and I wrote my letter in one go, without any difficulty.
I am frankly happy with what I have written. In fact I have sent, perhaps for the first time, an adult letter to my parents.
I copied it out twice. I certainly wanted to address my words to both my parents at the same time, but I wanted each to receive a copy.
This morning, before going to work, I posted my letters. Normally they should arrive before 16 May.
At the time I felt happy, liberated. I even thought, “This time I have finished my preparations”.
But since then, I have become afraid of my father’s reaction. It’s ridiculous I know, but I can’t stop myself thinking that he is going to be terribly angry with me. As for my mother, I don’t think she will talk about it. But basically, his reaction matters little, here, this evening.
In spite of my fear, I have no regrets. The letters are posted and the die is cast.
[Original in French]
Next post
Finally I wrote to my parents to tell them I was going to have the operation. I needed them to know, both of them. It’s too big a step in my life. To let the operation pass in silence is like letting everything which has changed for me over the last months pass in silence. I need them to know who I am, that they know about the important event which the operation is for me.
Besides, I have this strange conviction that if I don’t speak to them BEFORE the operation, it will no longer be possible. I feel that afterwards I won’t talk about it. That would seem a bit like a confession and I have nothing to confess. I don’t want my reconstruction to be a secret that I will reveal to them one day after some years.
And also I’d like to break my habit of keeping them at a distance, I'd like to become a little closer to them.
I discussed this with my man and I decided to address the letter to both of them. I thought all day yesterday about what I was going to write. Nevertheless, when I set about it yesterday evening I had great difficulty in starting it, this letter.
I went round in circles for several hours, I started several drafts but I discarded them one after the other: I had the feeling I was justifying myself, looking for their approval, or even worse, minimising the importance of the operation for me.
So I thought about what I really wanted to say to them, in my letter, that is to say I loved them. And there, it came all by itself and I wrote my letter in one go, without any difficulty.
I am frankly happy with what I have written. In fact I have sent, perhaps for the first time, an adult letter to my parents.
I copied it out twice. I certainly wanted to address my words to both my parents at the same time, but I wanted each to receive a copy.
This morning, before going to work, I posted my letters. Normally they should arrive before 16 May.
At the time I felt happy, liberated. I even thought, “This time I have finished my preparations”.
But since then, I have become afraid of my father’s reaction. It’s ridiculous I know, but I can’t stop myself thinking that he is going to be terribly angry with me. As for my mother, I don’t think she will talk about it. But basically, his reaction matters little, here, this evening.
In spite of my fear, I have no regrets. The letters are posted and the die is cast.
[Original in French]
Next post
Monday, 8 May 2006
My father
My father called me a few days ago. When I put down the phone I felt yet again the resentment, sadness and frustration which so often marks our conversations.
It’s as though there is a constraint between my father and myself, something which prevents me from relaxing and simply being myself when I speak to him. I feel awkward, I feel he is gauche, and in the end we aren’t ourselves, we don’t manage to bridge the gap.
I talk reluctantly, I pepper my sentences with reassuring words. From “I’m very well” to “don’t worry”.
I have the feeling that our relationship is a big failure. Catastrophic even. Because we do love each other but can’t manage to express it naturally.
My father and I, we don’t hug each other, we don’t kiss, we keep our distance. We will always treat each other like respectful strangers. All the same we laugh together, we speak. But not really about himself, nor about myself. Or very little. We reveal very little to each other…
He told me once that I was like him, that, like he, I don’t express my feelings much. It’s true, I know that well, but I can never change this state of affairs with him.
Besides, it probably won’t happen, it won’t ever happen. I believe it’s too late.
These stiff and awkward encounters, they are those of a general and a soldier, who, when there isn’t a war, are embarrassed and simply don’t know how to speak to each other.
My combativeness, my values, I got those from my father. All my childhood was nurtured by his disgusted speeches about the place given to woman in Senegalese society, by the scorn he felt for those who don’t try, to those who don’t fight, for those who let themselves be victims. And also by the necessity for truth, justice and honesty above all, by the contempt for all cheating or all lying, which he professed non-stop.
My father wanted us to study well, my sister and me. He wanted us to be independent, self-sufficient. He kept us well away from the male chauvinist Senegalese circles. He repeatedly told us we could do as well as men. He wanted us to become strong women, proud women.
And why wasn’t he able to prevent our circumcision? Did he want to arm us so that we could defend ourselves the next time we were confronted by a threat, of whatever sort.
Basically did our circumcision have an influence on the way he educated us?
I don’t know, but I am certain that without him I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Without him, I wouldn’t have read, observed, listened, thought, and considered the world the way I do today, totally free.
Without him, I wouldn't have aspired to excellence, the only possibility of claiming respect legitimately. Without him, I wouldn't have set the bar so high, I wouldn't have been so demanding of myself. Without him, I wouldn’t have choked back my tears, I wouldn’t have gritted my teeth. Without him, I wouldn’t have built my armour. Without him I wouldn’t have become a warrior.
I am sure that, had I not doubted his love for me so much all these years, if I hadn’t so violently wanted him to love me, I wouldn’t have been able to keep to the road that I am following so far. I wouldn’t have become a soldier of whom he could be proud.
Today I feel a mixture of gratitude and resentment for what was imposed on me out of love for him.
I realise little by little the price I have paid. I realise that I have sacrificed intimacy, confidence, simple love. I have hidden my vulnerability from him for so long that I can’t reverse it.
I believe I have spent too long in my armour. It has rusted. And now, in front of my father all I can do is a military salute …
[Original in French]
Next post
It’s as though there is a constraint between my father and myself, something which prevents me from relaxing and simply being myself when I speak to him. I feel awkward, I feel he is gauche, and in the end we aren’t ourselves, we don’t manage to bridge the gap.
I talk reluctantly, I pepper my sentences with reassuring words. From “I’m very well” to “don’t worry”.
I have the feeling that our relationship is a big failure. Catastrophic even. Because we do love each other but can’t manage to express it naturally.
My father and I, we don’t hug each other, we don’t kiss, we keep our distance. We will always treat each other like respectful strangers. All the same we laugh together, we speak. But not really about himself, nor about myself. Or very little. We reveal very little to each other…
He told me once that I was like him, that, like he, I don’t express my feelings much. It’s true, I know that well, but I can never change this state of affairs with him.
Besides, it probably won’t happen, it won’t ever happen. I believe it’s too late.
These stiff and awkward encounters, they are those of a general and a soldier, who, when there isn’t a war, are embarrassed and simply don’t know how to speak to each other.
My combativeness, my values, I got those from my father. All my childhood was nurtured by his disgusted speeches about the place given to woman in Senegalese society, by the scorn he felt for those who don’t try, to those who don’t fight, for those who let themselves be victims. And also by the necessity for truth, justice and honesty above all, by the contempt for all cheating or all lying, which he professed non-stop.
My father wanted us to study well, my sister and me. He wanted us to be independent, self-sufficient. He kept us well away from the male chauvinist Senegalese circles. He repeatedly told us we could do as well as men. He wanted us to become strong women, proud women.
And why wasn’t he able to prevent our circumcision? Did he want to arm us so that we could defend ourselves the next time we were confronted by a threat, of whatever sort.
Basically did our circumcision have an influence on the way he educated us?
I don’t know, but I am certain that without him I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Without him, I wouldn’t have read, observed, listened, thought, and considered the world the way I do today, totally free.
Without him, I wouldn't have aspired to excellence, the only possibility of claiming respect legitimately. Without him, I wouldn't have set the bar so high, I wouldn't have been so demanding of myself. Without him, I wouldn’t have choked back my tears, I wouldn’t have gritted my teeth. Without him, I wouldn’t have built my armour. Without him I wouldn’t have become a warrior.
I am sure that, had I not doubted his love for me so much all these years, if I hadn’t so violently wanted him to love me, I wouldn’t have been able to keep to the road that I am following so far. I wouldn’t have become a soldier of whom he could be proud.
Today I feel a mixture of gratitude and resentment for what was imposed on me out of love for him.
I realise little by little the price I have paid. I realise that I have sacrificed intimacy, confidence, simple love. I have hidden my vulnerability from him for so long that I can’t reverse it.
I believe I have spent too long in my armour. It has rusted. And now, in front of my father all I can do is a military salute …
[Original in French]
Next post
Saturday, 6 May 2006
Seven minutes for an anaesthetic
Sunday 6 May 2007
Friday morning, on waking, I had a pain in my stomach. I felt anxious, nervous. I had a chaotic morning, disorganised, trying in vain to make myself concentrate on my work.
At 12:20 I was in the metro to go to my anaesthetist consultation. My appointment was 14:00 but like my appointment with the surgeon, I didn’t want to be late. And I wasn’t hungry. I was too nervous to stop to eat anywhere.
In the RER which was taking me to St Germain en Laye, I once again studied all the documents that I was asked to bring with me. Nevertheless, I had got them ready Wednesday evening, and checked them Thursday evening and that morning. But I needed to reassure myself and calm my agitation.
I had my last prescriptions, the results of my blood tests and questionnaires filled in and signed which were given to me 2 March (patient’s informed consent for surgery, HIV test, medical questionnaire for anaesthesia and patient’s informed consent for anaesthesia).
I had followed Claude’s advice and prepared a short list of questions:
- how exactly is he going to anaesthetise me?
- What is the sedative for which I will be given before the anaesthetic?
- How long will I be asleep?
- Will I be in pain when I wake up?
I really wanted to cry, there on the RER. There was this fear that interfered with everything and made tears come to my eyes. I felt as though I was going to a job interview. I had the feeling the surgeon and anaesthetist were doing me a favour by operating on me and that they could change their minds, without consulting me. Having the impression of depending on them and their good will totally troubled me. I felt powerless and I wanted to cry. For myself.
Finally I arrived, an hour early. Unable to stay there with nothing to do, I forced myself to have some lunch while waiting.
At 14:00 sharp I went into the waiting room, my legs a little numb. It was there that I had my consultation with Dr. Foldès. The anaesthetists’ medical secretary had given me a leaflet explaining the different types of anaesthetic, the precautions to take, the statistics of anything going wrong. I had only read half when the anaesthetist called me.
I spent exactly 7 minutes with Dr Ice-cube. 7 minutes opposite an iceberg who started by taking my blood pressure in a heavy silence. Then he asked me some questions with an uncommunicative face (what medicines do I take? Do I have any allergies? Have I had previous operations?) He then examined the results of my blood tests, and told me everything was all right. Then he delivered a rambling speech in a rapid voice, explaining to me that I wouldn’t be intubated, but I would have oxygen from a mask, that I would be asleep for approximately an hour and a half.
Completely without a glimmer of sympathy, Dr Cold told me I would have to be fasting from midnight from the evening before the operation. He didn’t tell me but I read in the information leaflet that fasting eliminates the risk of suffocating from untimely vomiting. He also said not to take any aspirin.
He got his breath back and asked me, while filling in the patient consent form for the anaesthetic, if I had any questions.
I asked him what the sedative was for which is given before the anaesthetics. He explained that the sedative helped reduce my nervousness, natural when faced with surgery, and so to help the anaesthesia. I also asked about waking up, I wanted to know if I would feel dopey. He answered no, that I would wake up as if after a night’s sleep. If I take the prescribed medicines, he told me, I will feel no pain. I spoke to him about my patch and he assured me I could keep it when I enter the clinic.
7 minutes went by this way and he took me back to the secretary. I paid 28 euros, 4 euros per minute, for this rather frosty anaesthesia consultation. I was a little irritated. Not because of the price, no, because of Dr Snow’s temperature.
So, all right, kindness, human warmth and sympathy aren’t rights, nobody is obliged to be warm and kind (although for the medical professions it is debatable) but all the same, the coldness of the anaesthetist troubled me, if not annoyed me. And then to have been dispatched in seven minutes, that downright worried me. I reassured myself as well as I can by saying to myself that I must be a commonplace and trivial case, but above all the fact of knowing Dr Foldès will be there and that I am his patient and not that of Dr Iceberg calms my anguish.
Paradoxically, the coolness of the anaesthetist has all the same allowed me to be less dramatic, be practical. In my eyes, that afternoon, my operation lost part of its symbolic extent and became more real.
Leaving the clinic I felt as though I was on holiday, light-hearted. It was fine, hot, and I thought that now, between the operation and myself, there were no more steps to take, no examinations, no questionnaires, nor phone calls to the insurance company.
There are only 12 days left.
[Original in French]
Next post
Friday morning, on waking, I had a pain in my stomach. I felt anxious, nervous. I had a chaotic morning, disorganised, trying in vain to make myself concentrate on my work.
At 12:20 I was in the metro to go to my anaesthetist consultation. My appointment was 14:00 but like my appointment with the surgeon, I didn’t want to be late. And I wasn’t hungry. I was too nervous to stop to eat anywhere.
In the RER which was taking me to St Germain en Laye, I once again studied all the documents that I was asked to bring with me. Nevertheless, I had got them ready Wednesday evening, and checked them Thursday evening and that morning. But I needed to reassure myself and calm my agitation.
I had my last prescriptions, the results of my blood tests and questionnaires filled in and signed which were given to me 2 March (patient’s informed consent for surgery, HIV test, medical questionnaire for anaesthesia and patient’s informed consent for anaesthesia).
I had followed Claude’s advice and prepared a short list of questions:
- how exactly is he going to anaesthetise me?
- What is the sedative for which I will be given before the anaesthetic?
- How long will I be asleep?
- Will I be in pain when I wake up?
I really wanted to cry, there on the RER. There was this fear that interfered with everything and made tears come to my eyes. I felt as though I was going to a job interview. I had the feeling the surgeon and anaesthetist were doing me a favour by operating on me and that they could change their minds, without consulting me. Having the impression of depending on them and their good will totally troubled me. I felt powerless and I wanted to cry. For myself.
Finally I arrived, an hour early. Unable to stay there with nothing to do, I forced myself to have some lunch while waiting.
At 14:00 sharp I went into the waiting room, my legs a little numb. It was there that I had my consultation with Dr. Foldès. The anaesthetists’ medical secretary had given me a leaflet explaining the different types of anaesthetic, the precautions to take, the statistics of anything going wrong. I had only read half when the anaesthetist called me.
I spent exactly 7 minutes with Dr Ice-cube. 7 minutes opposite an iceberg who started by taking my blood pressure in a heavy silence. Then he asked me some questions with an uncommunicative face (what medicines do I take? Do I have any allergies? Have I had previous operations?) He then examined the results of my blood tests, and told me everything was all right. Then he delivered a rambling speech in a rapid voice, explaining to me that I wouldn’t be intubated, but I would have oxygen from a mask, that I would be asleep for approximately an hour and a half.
Completely without a glimmer of sympathy, Dr Cold told me I would have to be fasting from midnight from the evening before the operation. He didn’t tell me but I read in the information leaflet that fasting eliminates the risk of suffocating from untimely vomiting. He also said not to take any aspirin.
He got his breath back and asked me, while filling in the patient consent form for the anaesthetic, if I had any questions.
I asked him what the sedative was for which is given before the anaesthetics. He explained that the sedative helped reduce my nervousness, natural when faced with surgery, and so to help the anaesthesia. I also asked about waking up, I wanted to know if I would feel dopey. He answered no, that I would wake up as if after a night’s sleep. If I take the prescribed medicines, he told me, I will feel no pain. I spoke to him about my patch and he assured me I could keep it when I enter the clinic.
7 minutes went by this way and he took me back to the secretary. I paid 28 euros, 4 euros per minute, for this rather frosty anaesthesia consultation. I was a little irritated. Not because of the price, no, because of Dr Snow’s temperature.
So, all right, kindness, human warmth and sympathy aren’t rights, nobody is obliged to be warm and kind (although for the medical professions it is debatable) but all the same, the coldness of the anaesthetist troubled me, if not annoyed me. And then to have been dispatched in seven minutes, that downright worried me. I reassured myself as well as I can by saying to myself that I must be a commonplace and trivial case, but above all the fact of knowing Dr Foldès will be there and that I am his patient and not that of Dr Iceberg calms my anguish.
Paradoxically, the coolness of the anaesthetist has all the same allowed me to be less dramatic, be practical. In my eyes, that afternoon, my operation lost part of its symbolic extent and became more real.
Leaving the clinic I felt as though I was on holiday, light-hearted. It was fine, hot, and I thought that now, between the operation and myself, there were no more steps to take, no examinations, no questionnaires, nor phone calls to the insurance company.
There are only 12 days left.
[Original in French]
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Monday, 1 May 2006
A stitch in my side
Tuesday 1 May 2007
In 16 days I going to be operated on. And nevertheless I’m a bit sad today.
What’s happening is that I’m fed up waiting. I can no longer check a thousand times that I haven’t forgotten anything. I can no longer bear feeling afraid. I’m not getting enough sleep. I am beginning to feel seriously tired.
I’d like to be able to think about something else. I’d like to be able to make some plans. At he moment I’m not capable of it. Even summer holidays, I can’t manage to organise anything. 16 May takes over everything.
I want to get away from the subject. I’d like not to think about it anymore, that the days would pass and hop, it’s 15 May and I’m going into the clinic.
I have the feeling of having started on an endurance course, a marathon, on 2 March last exactly when I said “Is it possible in the month of May?”. And, although I can see the finishing line over there, I have a stitch in my side …
I believe I have a type of indigestion, I’ve thought about it so much, I’ve pondered over my circumcision and its repercussions on my life, I have immersed myself so much in the question that I feel I’ve had something of a bellyful there …
[Original in French]
Next post
In 16 days I going to be operated on. And nevertheless I’m a bit sad today.
What’s happening is that I’m fed up waiting. I can no longer check a thousand times that I haven’t forgotten anything. I can no longer bear feeling afraid. I’m not getting enough sleep. I am beginning to feel seriously tired.
I’d like to be able to think about something else. I’d like to be able to make some plans. At he moment I’m not capable of it. Even summer holidays, I can’t manage to organise anything. 16 May takes over everything.
I want to get away from the subject. I’d like not to think about it anymore, that the days would pass and hop, it’s 15 May and I’m going into the clinic.
I have the feeling of having started on an endurance course, a marathon, on 2 March last exactly when I said “Is it possible in the month of May?”. And, although I can see the finishing line over there, I have a stitch in my side …
I believe I have a type of indigestion, I’ve thought about it so much, I’ve pondered over my circumcision and its repercussions on my life, I have immersed myself so much in the question that I feel I’ve had something of a bellyful there …
[Original in French]
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