Chapter Eight

‘Chicago’

We arrived in Chicago in the middle of October. Well, close to Chicago. The Sears Tower, once the tallest manmade structure in the world, was just visible on the horizon from our hotel window. I covered it with one thumb. If only all manmade structures were so easily removed. The testosterone that had coursed through Vicky’s body all her life had certainly done a lot of damage. Ending up with the wrong genitalia was the most obvious problem, but there were many others. The thickening of the brow bone, the jaw, the flattened cheek bones, an Adam’s apple, all these things gave her an obviously masculine appearance. There were subtler things too. The distance between the bottom of the nose and the top lip is shorter in females. You may not think you are aware of such things, but evolution has programmed all of us to constantly make this same assessment again and again. Male or female, potential partner or potential threat?

We were met at the hotel by a member of the surgeon’s staff called Lisa. She was petite and the closest to bottled sunshine I have ever met in a human being. We both liked her immediately. This was a good thing because Lisa had been engaged to provide twenty four hour care for Vicky for the week post-op. She would sleep on the couch in our hotel room for the first week, and in one of the twin beds for the second week, after I had gone back to London.

Lisa drove us to the clinic, chatting all the way. She had supported many transgendered women through their facial feminizing surgery and was ready with the answers to a dozen questions we hadn’t even thought about yet.

At the clinic we met Doctor D. again. He was a human whirlwind of energy and I began to see why the English and the Americans have always had such complex emotions about each other. I’m sure he found us bemusingly unenthusiastic to the point of rudeness, but then I found him equally hard to take, his brash self-confidence more appropriate in my eyes to a used car-salesman than a skilled surgeon who was about to take Vicky’s face apart and rebuild it according to his own beliefs about what was ‘good’.

I suppose I had been raised on a diet of paternalistic English doctors, who had decided the general public, bereft of a medical degree, must all be gibbering fools. I expected to be talked down to, quietly, and allowed, if I were good, to have some treatment. Doctor. D. Was quite clear goodness had nothing to do with it. Can you afford it, do you want it and do I think I can do it. Yes? Well all right then. He was also refreshingly open about the risks involved. What could go wrong, with operations in general, anaesthetics and all that, but also what could go wrong with facial surgery, loss of sensation, loss of sense of smell, taste and so on, infections, tissue rejection, oh yes, and death. Death is always a risk with any general anaesthetic, medical teams do everything they can do avert it, but ultimately, it’s a gamble and you went into this with your eyes open. The surgery would make Vicky look more conventionally female, it could not guarantee beauty. If he could do that, Doctor D. told us, he’d be a millionaire.

The first thing to do was take some photo’s of Vicky so we could compare and contrast afterwards. She was at the moment, so to speak, the crumbling kitchen with out of date boiler and 70’s decor, any minute now it would be all chrome and glass splash-backs. Doctor. D. talked Vicky through everything she would need to do pre-op, and everything she would have to do post-op if she wanted a good outcome. One thing I liked very much about Doctor. D. He always referred to me as Vicky’s ‘Honey’. I liked that. Not wife, not partner, but something to sweeten her life.

Doctor D. Looked at the pictures Vicky had paid to be computer generated, giving a possible outcome to surgery. He was confident he could do better and that Vicky would still look like a member of her family, like Anthony’s sister. He showed us some photographs of a young transgendered lady we’d met at his conference in London called Sarah. She was only a few months post surgery but she looked amazing, no, she looked beautiful. A beautiful young woman who would go into the world and live a normal life. How wonderful.

The major challenge was going to be the speed of healing because of the under-active thyroid condition. It would take longer for the swelling to go down, but how much longer was difficult to predict. Even in normal circumstances it could take up to a year for a nose to return to its fully unswollen condition. The jaw line might well take close to that to emerge and the eyes were anyone’s guess.

I’m sure Vicky felt a pang of regret looking at the pictures of that young woman. What might her life have been like had she been able to transition at 20? The myriad of problems that could have been avoided by being always recognised as a woman, never having to ‘tell’ people, to go through the whole battle for acceptance, loosing friends, work, being jeered at in the street. Surely it would be a lot better if all transgendered people could get the treatment they needed early. Part of that would be about public acceptance of the condition, so that a person wouldn’t have to be afraid to say, ‘I think I might be the wrong gender’. On the other hand the emotional challenge that acknowledging oneself as transgender presents, is not one I would want to face at twenty. Maybe sometimes it is better to wait til you have the emotional maturity to cope. I suppose that is an individual’s decision and you can’t legislate for it either way.

Once the photos had been taken we were dispatched to a nearby clinic under the confident care of Lisa, to get Vicky’s blood tests. America really does look like the movies. All the houses look like film sets and the police are in costume. The outskirts of Chicago look ripe for a Spielberg coming of age drama, all wide avenues and clapboard porches. Golden Retriever ownership may be a state requirement for all I know, there were certainly enough of them.

Next to the supermarket which was the size of Dorset and contained a huge pharmacy that would have made more sense as a large high street shop rather than plonked next to the fruit and vegetable stands. With Lisa’s guidance we stocked up on cotton gauze squares, sterile eye-drops, various gels and unctions for spreading on Vicky’s post-operative face and a baby feeding spoon, because that, apparently, was the biggest thing she’d be able to get in her mouth. It was all pretty alarming, but Vicky had her eye on the prize and nothing was going to put her off now.

We also stocked up on food, for though the hotel had a restaurant, our room had a small kitchen, and I was determined to help Vicky’s recovery as much as I could with some proper home cooked food. I couldn’t work out what the various cartons of milk were in terms I might understand. 4%? , 6%? Fat, I assumed, but did that make it the creamiest liquid known to mankind or little more than white tap water. I asked Lisa which one was semi-skimmed. What, she wanted to know, did that mean? Two nations divided by a common language. Anyway, I got milk. I think it was a bit creamier than we normally used. It may have been cream.

Cucumbers. Cucumbers are an entirely different object in the U.S. Bumpy thick skinned things, looked more like courgettes, which as I’m sure you know, aren’t courgettes but zuchinni..or is that aubergine? I had certain issues shopping in America. Luckily I wasn’t planning on making my legendary cucumber and courgette skimmed milk custard, so it didn’t matter.

Finally we went back to the hotel and flopped. It had been a long day. The next morning we went down to breakfast, which was a combination of very good and deeply upsetting to the entrenched Englishwoman who doesn’t drink coffee and expects marmalade as a human right. There was porridge though and fruit, which may have been placed there for decorative purposes, but I put it to better use.

It had been suggested that we might like to go into Chicago to do some sight-seeing. I found the idea very strange. This was not a holiday and to wander around Chicago as though it were, would have been to ignore the reality of imminent, life-changing surgery. Nothing could have been further from our minds. Both of us just wanted to get this safely over and done with. Being so far from home gave the whole thing a disconnected quality. Also being surrounded by people who were completely at ease with having a transgendered woman in their midst. The hotel regularly supported post-operative recovery and they had no trouble getting Vicky’s gender right. In my head everything had gone on hold. I was so wrapped up with the necessity of getting to grips with how the hotel worked, where the shops were, what time meals might be available, I couldn’t think of anything else.

My aunt, wise wise woman, once had my cousin then a teenager, say to her, ‘I’m so wrapped up with my work I can’t think of anything else’. Her reply was, ‘ I wonder what the anything else is that you can’t face thinking about?’

Well exactly. Focussing on getting the right skimmed milk blotted out the awful thought that the face I had fallen in love with, was about to go. I would never see that nose again, or that chin, or, anything I recognised. My wedding photos would show someone who physically no longer existed. Would this be the moment at which Anthony finally died, and not accidentally, but quite deliberately with pre-purchased eye-drops and baby feeding spoons? I had no control over this, though Vicky frequently asked me if it was still OK to have the surgery. What was I going to say? ‘No, I insist you spend the rest of your life being mistaken for a man and jeered at for believing you are female’. How could I, could anyone else, have the right to determine such a thing?

A thought occurred to me that cheered me up. The eyes would be the same. A thing that had not changed through all the changes. I could look into those eyes and still see the person I had fallen in love with and still loved. In every other respect the person who was going to emerge from the surgery in 24 hours time, was going to be utterly unrecognizable. So I focussed on her eyes. I’ll know you, I thought. Even under all those bandages.

There was lots of to-ing and fro-ing the day before surgery. Lots of checks and tests, forms and instructions. We had an enormous folder full of instructions of what to do post surgery. How to ensure the best possible outcome. If things didn’t end up looking as good as they could, it would be Vicky’s fault for slacking on her self-care.

The day went and it was evening. Vicky was going down to the clinic at five in the morning, to be collected from the hotel by Lisa. I was not invited. My job was to wait until I got a call saying Vicky was out of surgery and then I should come down to the clinic to help bring her back to the hotel. So I would wave her off at 5am the next morning and that would be the last time I would see that face. Oh yes, and no crying. That was my own rule but I had no idea how I was going to do it.

We sat in the hotel room watching rubbish TV, with which most channels were generously stocked, then there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find a slim middle aged transgendered lady standing outside. Her name was Angelique and she had just arrived. She was due to have her facial surgery the day after Vicky and she had come to give us a bit of support.

Angelique’s life had been very hard indeed. She had once saved up the money for her surgery but before she could book in had been so viciously attacked on the street that she had had to spend all the money on medical expenses. Her family had rejected her, she had struggled to find work, or love, or kindness. Our lives seemed absolutely blessed by comparison. The things we fretted about bore no comparison to the challenges Angelique faced every day. She was here on her own, no support and she was uncomplaining. She was the kindest, gentlest person and she wanted to look like a film star. Well, why not? There are worse things to dream about.

Angelique decided I should not have to be alone to see Vicky off at 5am and determined she would be there to hold my hand. I was so relieved to discover at the eleventh hour that I would have someone to talk to while Vicky was in surgery.

We phoned home, everyone said good luck, call us when it’s over. We checked Vicky’s bag for the hospital, everything was in order and we went to bed.

At 4am the alarm went off. Vicky was already awake, I think she’d been lying awake for some time. She told me, not for the first time, that if I wasn’t able to cope with this that she would back out. I know she meant it, but really once you are living life as a woman, dressing and speaking and expecting to be identified as a woman, walking around with a square jaw and manly brow can only make life harder, for everybody. I knew this operation would make life easier for both of us, and maybe would help people see the truth of who Vicky really was. Vicky didn’t want to look monstrous, I just wanted her to be safe. We went down to the foyer and waited for the car to arrive.

Angelique was there, bless her heart. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to see someone keep their promise. The car came and we waved Vicky off. I nearly cried, but Angelique gave me a big hug and said, ‘Right, lets get some breakfast’. It was just what I needed, no big fuss but lots of support.

After breakfast we decided to go to a huge shopping mall about half an hours drive away, where I could get a ‘get well soon’ balloon and other things that Vicky was unlikely to be able to see for the first 48 hours. Still, I wanted to do it, so that when she could open her eyes, there would be something to smile about.

We eventually found a card and balloon shop where I got a card and a butterfly shaped balloon for Vicky. All pink I’m afraid, whatever other improvements in her sartorial decision making there had been, her allegiance to pink was undiminished.

Every hour or so I would get a call from the surgeon, a thing I had not expected, telling me that the chin or neck or whatever was all done and they were moving on to the nose, eyes, brow, etc. Vicky was doing great and all was well. I have to admit part of me wanted to say, as to the pilot who starts mingling with the passengers, ‘shouldn’t you be, um, flying the plane?’ so to speak. I was, nevertheless very grateful to have these regular updates. It was strange too to know the exact moment at which Vicky’s face altered forever. ‘He’ was going, inch by inch, feature by feature. It seemed to be taken as read that, as I was there, I was good with it all. Supportive, loving and untouched by regret. No, they couldn’t have been that dumb. They must have known what I was going through, but what use would it have been to start talking about it? That would have to be some other time.

There was a strange disconnection that day. My husband’s face was being removed from my partner. The last two years were being given physical form, everything had been leading to this irreversible conclusion and I was wandering a round a Chicago shopping mall with a transgendered lady I’d only met 12 hours ago looking at tropical fish swimming around inside an armchair. Well I suppose if your husband can turn out to be a woman, why shouldn’t they put goldfish in furniture. Normality is an illusion and conformity not all it’s cracked up to be. Better to float along the river than try and swim against it all the time. It was also much better than sitting in a hotel room on my own worrying myself sick with no information.

Angelique and I found our way, not only out of the mall, but to the right car-park, which believe me was an achievement. We drove back to the hotel to wait for the call telling me to come in and collect Vicky. We waited and waited. The 8 hour operation had now taken 11 hours. I knew she was alright because I’d had the regular updates, but I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t been asked to come in yet. Finally Angelique, whose own operation was the next day, decided we should go in anyway and wait in the reception area. Better there than pacing about an empty hotel room.

The staff were slightly nonplussed to see me there quite so early, but they went and told the surgeon I was outside. Lisa came out in surgical scrubs, she had been assisting with the operation. Everything had gone wonderfully she told me. Vicky was in recovery but I would have to wait out here. She went back in and I sat obediently in the waiting area. A few moments later she came out again, not to invite me in, but to say that Vicky was rather distressed. This sometimes happened with anaesthesia but it might take a little longer until she calmed down. She went back in.

The third time she came out she was looking slightly puzzled. ‘We’re not quite sure why’, she told me,’ but Vicky is meowing’. Immediately I relaxed, meowing, I knew, was quite normal in our household. Friendly morning greetings, sorry I was grumpy, I’m really happy, all these and more could be and regularly were, communicated in our family with a simple ‘meow’. Vomit all you like, that’s how we are. Sometimes on school runs we worked our way through the Led Zeppelin back catalogue entirely in meows. Ellie Vicky and I all meowing away with never a blush.

Obviously Vicky was disorientated and in pain, of course she was meowing. “just let me come and hold her hand’, I said, ‘we meow a lot’. I was led through to the recovery room. Vicky was lying on a gurney wrapped in bandages and wadding so that her face was, barring a triangle of eyes and mouth, utterly covered. She was indeed, meowing. ‘Meooooowwww’, she cried. ‘I’m here darling, meow meow, it’s all over, you’re safe. Mow mow.’ Vicky immediately became calm. Lisa was astonished, apparently meowing is not as common post operatively as we would have thought. The surgeon came in to see how Vicky was doing, and was very pleased to find everything calm at once. ‘We need to make a note of that meowing thing’ he said, ‘that’s one for the journals’.

He was pleased too with how Vicky was looking. Either he was one of life’s ‘glass half full people’, or I had missed something. She did completely resemble a bowling ball, round and shiny and entirely the wrong size for a head. Her eyes were swelled shut and her lips looked not so much bee stung as swarm attacked. We gently helped her into a wheelchair and sat with her while she adjusted to being upright. I would not have been in Angelique’s shoes for any money. As we wheeled Vicky through the reception area to the car, she could see the full horror of this very recent surgical procedure. Tomorrow it would be her.

We drove back to the hotel and Vicky was helped by Lisa and myself into her wheelchair. The staff at the desk smiled and congratulated Vicky as we passed them, they had seen this many times before and were not in the slightest bit fazed. It was nearly Halloween and we looked good and ready.

In the room we got Vicky into bed and Lisa began the hourly application of moisturisers and lubricants that would be necessary over the first week to aid her recovery. Keeping the eyes moist and sterile was particularly important. Thank God for Lisa, I can’t begin to imagine how I would have begun to do this without guidance. I was terrified of hurting Vicky, she was in so much pain already, and that was in spite of a hefty range of pain killers. Her eyelids, that had less skin than before and were in a different position had to be kept wet constantly, drops had to be somehow got onto her eyeballs, which, so far, were completely swollen shut. Her ears were also swollen shut, her nose filled with wadding which would remain in place for the next 48 hours. She couldn’t open her mouth, and she could only drink through a straw. There were so many things that needed doing in just the right way and they were all covered in the hefty handbook, but much like having a baby, there is no book yet written that can prepare you for the reality. As I said, thank God for Lisa.

We helped Vicky to the bathroom. She could barely stand and needed both of us to manouvere her onto the loo. She could barely communicate either, which wasn’t surprising, but working out that she wanted a drink, or that her pillows were hurting her was tricky.

Finally, at about ten o’clock in the evening Lisa told me to go to bed, she would do the night shift, getting up on the hour every hour and applying eye drops and anything else Vicky needed. I would need to take over for part of the day so that she could get a few hours sleep. How anybody does that when it’s not their own baby I don’t know. When I had my son he was, to put it mildly, a poor sleeper. For the first year of his life he preferred the 10 minute cat nap to any of that boring all night nonsense. I was exhausted and when my husband was away for work my twin sister offered to come and stay the night, sharing the night shift with me, letting me sleep for at least some of it. At midnight she turned to me and with utter confidence announced, ‘I am here for you’. She then fell immediately asleep and didn’t stir, despite my baby’s best efforts, until 7am. She was mortified but I think that’s completely normal and I have no idea how Lisa found the energy to keep going the way she did.

I climbed into bed, exhausted and grateful that it was all over. I thought to myself, my husband is gone and I will never see him again, Anthony is no more. Then, as quietly as I possibly could, I cried myself to sleep.

I was crying for many reasons, not least tiredness. I was crying for all the pain Vicky was in, and all the pain we had gone through as a couple to get to this point. I was crying for myself because I wanted someone to hug me and look after me, to tell me it would be all right. I was crying because my lovely Anthony was gone and I would never see him again. I’m crying as I write this, because that pain, that sadness will never leave me, anymore than the sadness over the death of my brother. Every now and then I will still sit down, remember and have a good cry. It doesn’t mean I don’t accept the situation. My brother came off his bike at 70mph, hit by a car. That isn’t something you can survive. Death was inevitable. Anthony should never have been called Anthony, she was female all along, this had to happen, it was the right thing. Vicky had to get her body put right, and if I really loved her, I would want her to get her body put right too. I did really love her, it’s just I really loved him too, and his loss hurt.

The next morning I awoke to find Lisa quietly tending to Vicky. I got up and dressed quickly and quietly then went and sat in the living room. Vicky was sleeping. Drugged up to the eyeballs, it wasn’t surprising, but I hadn’t expected the days to be so quiet post surgery. Lisa and I sat drinking tea and waited for Vicky to wake up. When she did we helped her to the bathroom again, plumped up her pillows and washed her eyes and lips. She couldn’t speak but would hold her thumbs up to let us know she was fine. Well as fine as a swollen bowling ball could be.

Doctor. D. arrived to examine her. He came in his usual whirlwind of energy, and asked me to take pictures as he removed the bandages, so that Vicky could examine them later and get an idea of how she was looking. This moment that I had dreaded for so long, was not going how I had imagined. I had seen myself asking Vicky to remove the dressings while we were on our own, giving me time to take in each alteration, one by one, at my own pace. Silly really, why I thought we would be allowed to do such a thing. As far as Doctor. D. was concerned, I was part of the care team and my feelings didn’t enter into it. Vicky would want to see photographs, he and Lisa had their hands full removing the dressings, I was just standing there, why shouldn’t I take the pictures.

So I did, recording bit by bit as the bandages came off and Vicky’s new face was revealed. She looked horrific. Stitched and swollen, the victim of some terrible attack. I could see that her nose was now a gentle slope, and her brow was utterly different, smaller, flatter. Her eyes were impossible to gauge. There were so many stitches. Her ears looked like they had been taken from someone else and stitched onto her head as an afterthought. The bruising was extensive and a variety of black blue and yellow. Doctor. D. Was absolutely delighted with the outcome. Particularly the neck. That had, apparently, been something of a challenge, it had needed a lot of internal stitches and was very very changed. Despite her fragile state, Doctor. D. Was insistent that there should be daily facial massages to help the process of healing and to reduce the swelling. It seemed very brutal to push at the bruised skin around the neck and cheeks, Vicky wincing in pain as the fluid beneath was clearly moved about. Doctor. D. Swears by it, and his results speak for themselves so Vicky submitted to this twice daily torture. She was re-wrapped, her hair sticking out between the bandages like an unruly carrot top. She got to choose the colour of her outer bandages. It goes without saying, but I shall say it anyway, she chose pink.

It was a brutal way to see that new face. At least it was done. From now on, each fresh view would be showing improvement, we would never have to do that bit again. Vicky’s lunch was a small pot of vanilla yoghurt, worked gradually into her barely open mouth with the baby spoon. It was an exhausting process for her, trying to get this little bit of nutrition in. I’m sure the effort involved far outweighed the calories ingested, but we had to try.

I felt like a swine, sitting next door eating real food, even the smell of it cooking seemed unnecessarily heartless. Vicky didn’t complain though, and Lisa was determined I should look after myself too.

We needed more supplies, and Vicky couldn’t be left so I decided to walk to the local supermarket with Lisa. I determined to make chicken casserole, mashed potatoes, stewed apples and custard. Comfort food, soft and mushy. Even if Vicky couldn’t eat all of it, I could liquidize the mash with gravy from the casserole. I searched high and low for a potato masher but was more successful with a whisk for the custard. I’d only made custard from scratch once before, but I knew the general principal. What could possibly go wrong?

Walking back through the sunshine with my bag of winnings I felt all hunter gatherer. We are coping, I told myself. This is ok and I can deal with it. It was nice being out on my own, nobody knew me or anything about me. It was a kind of privacy.

The cooking gave me something positive and genuinely useful to do. So far I had only watched in awe as Lisa had expertly lubricated Vicky’s eyes and helped her get the pills into her mouth. No mean feat, as Vicky’s mouth was still almost entirely swollen shut. At least by cooking some familiar foods, I hoped I could bring a little bit of home, if only the smell, back to Vicky. Unfortunately right now, she couldn’t smell anything. Her nose was still filled with wadding. When smell goes, as anyone who had had a blocked nose can testify, taste goes. Oh well, I thought, at least she can enjoy the texture.

Trying to cook chicken casserole on an electric ring hob intended for the reheating of pre-cooked waffles is a challenge. It was, with hindsight, probably rather over-ambitious and the mega mart could almost certainly have provided something I could have stuck in the microwave with almost identical outcome, but I was determined. This was the thing I could do to help and I was bloody well going to do it. I had to borrow a second saucepan from Angelique’s room to make the mashed potatoes and my bain-marie for the custard was a danger to itself and others, being about as stable as a two-legged stool. Somehow, after an hour or so though, there was food. Vicky had a tiny cup of mash and gravy, and a baby spoon of custard before falling back exhausted on the pillow. It was a brave effort. I had considerably more of all of it and did indeed, feel comforted.

Angelique came to visit, she was going down to surgery the next morning. Knowing what we had just been through, understanding how she must be feeling I felt angry on her behalf. I didn’t care how traumatized her family felt discovering their son, brother, whatever was female. No one should have to face such a procedure alone without a single good luck or get well soon. I was far less tolerant of other people’s reactions than my own. Her family should, I felt, get over themselves and get with the programme. How quickly I had forgotten.

We fell into a pattern. It was hard to imagine we had ever done anything else. Lisa and I became a coordinated team, caring for Vicky day and night. Lisa took the night shift and I the day. Doctor. D. would visit every day, examining and changing the dressings. Vicky began to recover. The wadding came out of her nose, her eyes began to open more and the all covering bandages were replaced by what I can only call a ‘face bra’. A combination of stretchy cotton and velcro strips, it was designed to reduce swelling and left Vicky’s face encircled, like a nun awaiting the black cloth to go on top. Not a good look. The best thing though, was that I could finally see her eyes. ‘There you are’ I thought, ‘I know you’. As Vicky recovered and began to look brighter, Lisa and I began to look more and more tired. It had been a tough few days, I admired Lisa hugely for all the care and skill she managed to deliver on so little sleep. We no longer had to carry Vicky to the bathroom, she could shuffle there herself. For longer trips, down to the restaurant on the ground floor, she had a wheelchair, but she was already trying to walk a little bit too. Her swelling was pretty bad, she looked not so much swollen as chubby. The tightness of her skin also made her look very young, more like a twenty something than someone in their early forties.

After a week Lisa was replaced by another carer, Jennifer. She was not as experienced as Lisa, but every bit as kind and Lisa was only ever a phone call away if Jennifer felt unsure about how to proceed. One last Doctor. D. Story. The day before I left Chicago, after he had examined Vicky for the umpteenth time, he turned to me and gave me the most backhanded compliment I have ever received. He stared at my face for a few moments and then said, ‘I could make you beautiful’. The time was coming for me to go home.

I felt very strange about leaving Vicky in such a vulnerable state, but I wanted to see my children too and this was how we had planned it. I packed my bags and took a cab to the airport. On the plane the man sitting next to me got out his laptop and began reviewing his facial surgery patients photo by photo. Fine, I thought, whatever. I slept the whole way back.

These are the posts I made online from Chicago.

Hi ladies, I’m posting from Chicago in our hotel room, to let you all know that Vicky is, as we speak, in surgery having her facial feminisation surgery. She was already beautiful to me, but now maybe the whole world will get to see her true self. It’s eight hours to go and counting so send all your prayers and thoughts and atheist positivity to Vicky and me.

I am happy to say we have met a lovely T-lady called Angie who is due for surgery on Thursday. She came and saw Vicky off to the clinic at 5 am and gave me a big hug, now we’re going to go be shallow all day and look at clothes and shoes until it’s time to go and pick my Vicky up and bring her back to the hotel to start recovery.

I bought Vicky a necklace just before we came here, it was rather expensive, but if she shouldn’t have it then who? It’s a butterfly. Anyway, think of us and knowing Vicky as soon as she’s conscious, she’ll be posting!!!!

Tue Oct 26, 2010 6:42 pm

quick update... Vicky is halfway through, the lower part of her face is done and now the brow and nose are being sorted. Thank you everyone for your kind thoughts and words. Like I say, if you catch Vicky posting in the next couple of days, smack her wrist and tell her to REST!!!

So here we are the day after surgery, about 12 hours since it finished. what a difference a day makes. Vicky is certainly uncomfortable, but she is able to sleep and eat and get to the loo and talk pretty clearly. The nurse, Lisa, is giving us wonderful support and being very gentle with Vicky as she administers the necessary medicines and cleaning schedules. Because of Vicky’s underactive thyroid, the swelling may take a little longer than average to calm down, but, she’s on her path and she never has to do yesterday again.

Thank you everyone for your words of support and encouragement. If you feel very brave go on Vicky’s facebook page (Victoria Cantons), but probably not while you’re eating...

Vicky is improving daily. Her dressings have been changed and so we had a chance to see (and photograph) her new face. If you’re going down this road, I really recommend photographing such moments - not so you can do the world’s most astonishing holiday snaps, but because it all happens pretty fast and though you get to look in the mirror you can’t take it in fast enough before the dressings go back on.

After Doctor. D. came by yesterday ( something akin to a small tornado passing through the hotel room!) Vicky and I were able to look quietly at the pictures in our own time and see the amazing changes that have happened.

On another note Liza, Vicky’s nurse, and I have decided the appearance of the patient is in inverse proportion to the appearance of the care givers... in other words with each passing day Vicky looks better and better and Lisa and I look more and more zonked!

We’re getting there

I think FFS is a bit like a rebirth you know, and at the moment Vicky is like a 4 month old, just starting on pureed food with a baby spoon... so no I’m afraid, no chocolate :-( but believe me as soon as she can manage it, she can have as much as she wants!

She is very swollen at the moment, but on a positive note, her mum called about an hour ago and said ‘tell my daughter I love her’. Any of you who know Vicky’s mother’s previous level of acceptance will realize what a huge huge move forward that is.

Well, I’m off back to dear old Blighty! The cab comes to pick me up from the hotel in three hours and I have to leave Vicky behind to continue this journey on her own for the next week. Happily the wonderful Jennifer and Lisa, Doctor D.’s caregivers, are here to keep her safe and well. I spent the last two days on a cookathon making chicken casserole and bolognese sauce, mashed potatoes, cheese sauce and home made custard, ( I really hope Jennifer can tell the difference between the last two, they look worryingly similar!)

Vicky is being incredibly brave about the three times a day face massage. It is brutal but necessary to remove the excess fluid from her swollen face poor love :-( Still, she knows it will be worth it. I’ve told her to send me pictures as she gradually improves because I want to understand every step of her journey.

I managed to upgrade to business class for the flight home which is a real blessing. I need to sleep and be ready when I get home because Rob is turning up with his support worker tomorrow evening and staying overnight... I really hope I stay awake.

Anyway, Vicky is doing wonderfully. I guess this is what the marriage vows meant - in sickness and in health. So, we are moving joyfully towards health.