I was shooting the shit with a co-worker after work one day last week, and we ended up on the topic of travel. I told him that I wanted to go to Turkey, that I’d had enough of Western and Central Europe.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

I started listing countries: France, England, Germany, Austria, Poland, Czech Republic, Hungary, Scotland. “I spent a month in Sweden,” I said. “I’ve been there twice.”

“Twice?”

“I’ve been to Costa Rica twice, too,” I said. “And I’ve been to Australia three times.” I was getting carried away. I told him about the two dozen or so stamps I have in my passport, how I traveled alone for months in places like Thailand, Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia. I told him that I’d done the math and I’ve spent a year and some change outside of the US.

“Would you just work, work, work, save your money, and then take off?” He asked.

I used to keep my work history a secret from my co-workers. I figured if anyone found out that I spent most of my employed life acting as if $15/hr under the table was a good wage, they’d boot me out of my cushy job for being a fraud with no experience for my position. “Yes.” I said. “But sometimes it doesn’t take much to travel. I spent a month in Laos on $300.”

My co-worker was fascinated by me, and I was enjoying a warm bath in the attention. “That’s just abroad,” I said. “I rode my bicylce from Vancouver to Tijuana.” I waited for the usual surprise and awe. By now I knew what I was doing. Under the dim flourescent lights of a shared cubicle on the 7th floor of the downtown office building where I’ve worked as a contractor for ten months, I wanted, no I needed, to recount my entire travel resume. “I lived as a snowboard bum for a winter, too. In Jackson Hole.”

“You really had some adventures,” he said, his eyes still wide from a few of my digressive stories.

I used to love the idea that anything could happen. I had so many dreams, or shower-time fantasies as I call the hopeful, and usually outlandish, futures we imagine for ourselves while washing our hair. I imagined myself falling in love with a British girl during my first night in London or with an Ozzie at the Gay Games in Sydney. I imagined losing myself for a year surfing on the coast of Costa Rica or scuba diving in Thailand or working on a farm in New Zealand. I imagined that I might give up all my possessions and live on my bicycle, be a bicycling writer, much like my buddy from the road, the bicycling comedian. I thought that I might settle in a small ski town, live near my brother, and watch elk play in the snow until I grew old.

None of those things ever happened, but I didn’t mind. I got off on working five different odd jobs in a week, balancing my travel budget, owning so little that it was easy to store in a friend’s basement. I enjoyed living out of my backpack, never knowing or caring what came next. I thrived on the chaos, the uncertainty. The now was all I wanted and my next trip was as far as I could see. I had no idea what to do with myself, but as long as I kept busy–exploring, discovering, moving–I wouldn’t have to figure it out.

My co-worker kept firing questions about my favorite places, foods, and people, but I let my nostalgic montage fade out. “I signed the papers,” I said. I sounded like I’d committed myself to a rehab center or a mental institution. And that’s how I felt. “I’m employed here.”

I hadn’t told anyone other than my close friends that I’d accepted my first actual employment with a company in seven years. The whole idea was disturbing. It had taken me two weeks to read through the offer packet, which was full of words I rarely paid attention to, like vesting, stock units, 401k, health insurance, dental coverage. By signing on to a job whose benefits increase significantly with each year, I understood, even if it was only temporary, that there was an underlying comittment.

“You’re not signing away your life,” a different friend said to me. “You can always go on another adventure.”

I could plan a trip right now. I could go to the bookstore, collect a huge stack of Lonely Planets, envision myself in Morocco and Bolivia and South Africa, eventually chosing one place, like India. I could go there for three or four months, making sure I wasn’t too broke to start over here, again, as I’ve done so many times before. I thought of the book I’m working on, but don’t mention because it’s torturing me. I thought of building something here in San Francisco, what I don’t know, but something that requires a foundation. I thought of the weak and boring wish that I’d made and posted on my blog almost a year ago and that is no more exciting now that it has come true: “I’d like to have a job that doesn’t suck. With a boss and co-workers who aren’t lame. And it’d be nice if I made enough money to pay my rent and health insurance and school loans.”

“I know my life isn’t over,” I said to my friend. “I know I can go on a big trip.”

But the thing that surprised me the most, the thing that I’m still trying to accept, is that I don’t want to.

It’s official. I’ve maintained this blog for one year. I’ve written 76 posts. Woa. And received 99 comments. Thank You! I’m pretty damn pleased. In honor of this anniversary, I thought I’d point out some of my favorite posts. The choices are inspired by your input. But feel free to comment on your favorite post of the year, or just review some of the links.

An Interview with the Blogger – About Me

A Day in the Life of an Unemployed Writer - December 7, 2007

Lying for a Job - January 23, 2008

The Denial of Death – June 24, 2008

My Name – October 12, 2008

My Big Day: December 3, 2008 – December 2, 2008

They say it’s easy to start a blog. Pick a template, name your site, and you’re up in 5 minutes. It took me at least a month to get my blog up. First, I had to teach myself basic HTML so I could customize the layout. (This resulted in complicating my index page and making it hard to alter the template of my blog without relearning HTML). Then, I had to organize a titling committee and wait for a spark of creativity. (Thank you, EverydayCaitlin.) Of course, I also had to stress about what I was going to write about. So, I glued my forehead to a baseball bat and spun myself in circles until I was too dizzy to care about writing in a straight line.

I wrote about my passions–writing, books, sports, queer, and transgender issues. And I watched the subjects of my posts change as my life changed and I got a job, went through a break-up, pursued top surgery. I discovered I love blogging–the power of self-publishing, the immediacy of communicating my emotional state and getting a response from my readers, a connection to friends, near and far, as well as strangers, some of whom I’ve written about and others who stumbled upon this blog through links and acquaintances. The quickest way into my heart is to tell me that you read my blog. I will blush, smile, say thank you, and never forget that you take time out of your life to read my words. It is something I return to again and again when I doubt my ability to write, when I forget one of my main reasons for writing–sharing my experiences with others makes me feel a little less lonely.

I also discovered that blogging is hard. That some days, I just have to throw something up there to fill the space and keep the momentum. But other days, I don’t know how I’d survive without a blog, days when *something* triggers me, and my mind is moving so fast to structure a story that I’m sweating puddles, and I’m so pre-occupied writing and re-writing descriptions or sentences or something humorous in my head that I nearly get nailed by a taxi while jaywalking across the street.

Happy anniversary to www.ninaherenorthere.com…

The first time I had to deal with my new chest, I almost passed out. One of the best parts of those seven post-surgical days was that I was wrapped with a chest binder, much like a large Ace bandage, and forbidden to open it. The doctor unwrapped me twice, once to remove the drains and then to take out the nipple sutures. He told me everything looked good; I smiled. I had no responsibility. On day seven I was finally rewarded with a shower. With it came the daily maintenance–the gauze and tape and ointment and scabs–associated with a site of intense healing.

I am squeamish. I quit pre-med my sophomore year of college in large part because I find the human body, especially the wounded human body, kind of disgusting. When I first looked at my chest alone, I noticed the skin ballooned on the left side where fluid had pooled underneath. I pushed the skin and it rippled like a water bed. My head went light and I needed to lie down.

At least I understood the situation. Brownstein had noticed some excess fluid a couple days before. He drained me with a needle that I refused to look at. Then, when I stood up, my head went pins and needles, a thickness filled my ears, and I felt like I was on fire. Being that close to passing out is scary. I was not pleased when Brownstein said the fluid might come back. I was less pleased when I noticed it by myself, again, alone, and my head went fuzzy.

I’ve had fluid drained three times now, and each time it’s less and less of a big deal, and I’m getting much, much better at dealing with my healing chest. But I wanted to share that first horrible experience of unwrapping my binder to make it clear that having surgery doesn’t mean I’m going to love my chest all the time. During my whole trans discovery process, I mistakenly believed that if the changes I was entertaining were meant to be then they’d feel perfect while they were happening. This just isn’t true. There are moments of awkwardness and doubt and nearly passing out at the sight of the chest that you’ve wanted for so long. I wonder if it’s because we spend so much time proving ourselves, forcing our therapists to write us permission slips and telling everyone time and time again that we are absolutely positive we are doing the right thing that there is no room for us to be less than 100% happy or sure. Or maybe months and years later we forget about the hard parts. It’s taken me a long time to realize that most trans people experience uncertainty. Some of us may even pass out looking at our near-dreams in the mirror.

The doubts and gross-outs and painful drainage moments are there. They just pale in comparison to the first time I put on a t-shirt without the binding. That feeling, without a binder, sports bra, regular bra, or flesh hanging off my chest, is one of the best I’ve ever experienced. I feel naked, not vulnerable naked, but shout-from-the-rooftop glorious and free naked. Because I’m still supposed to wear the binding, I’ve only been that free for a few pre- and post-shower minutes. But after ONE MORE DAY, I will throw away that soiled binding. I will give away my binders and sports bras. And I will be free for the rest of my life.

I didn’t know if I wanted to look. I am aware that the body takes time to recover, that I was literally cut open last week and that this would show. I was afraid that when Dr. Brownstein unwrapped me and threw away all of the gauze and padding, there would be Frankenstein’s monster below my neck. But I was curious, too curious. Thousands of dollars and three years of waiting curious.

I was lying on the table when he handed me the hand mirror. What I saw was similar to the images in post-surgical pictures, YouTube videos, on the chests of friends. Small nickel-sized nipples, two long incisions covered with clear tape. The neck and collarbone and trunk, all parallel and perpendicular lines, hard lines drawn with a ruler. Without the distraction of the curves, the extra heaping of flesh, the sternum appeared so close to the surface, as if it was trying to breach the skin.

My chest looked exactly like any other post-surgical chest until I angled the mirror ever so slightly. Then I saw it. My face. It was attached, part of the same body with this perfectly flat torso, the male chest I’ve been admiring, revering, glorifying. Even when Brownstein pointed out the yellow color of my skin, the indentations that would go away, my eyes couldn’t focus on them. I couldn’t even will myself to see that my nipples probably looked like “sausages,” as often described post-op. But then again, I never could see my breasts as attractive either, no matter how many friends and lovers told me, no matter how many times society told me I should.

I only had a chance to hold the mirror for a few seconds. But in that moment, I saw beauty. I wonder how I knew, how I could’ve been so sure that I was there, invisible underneath this breast suit, hidden inside this female casing. But in that moment, the flicker of an image in a small mirror, I saw something I’d never seen before: Me.

I’m not sure if blogging qualifies as “operating dangerous machinery,” but be forewarned, I’m on Percocet.

My surgery went well yesterday. Or so the doctor told me. I slept through it.

I do remember arriving at the surgery center, which also happens to be in the same building as my dentist, signing a bunch of liability forms, and changing into my gown, compression stockings, booties, and whatever you call that head covering that looks like a shower cap. I looked into the mirror and said, “You can do this, buddy.”

The nurse sat me in a reclining chair, took my vitals, and put in an IV. My mom, whom all the nurses called “The Boss,” looked like she had eaten some bad sushi. This made me feel like I had eaten bad sushi. I wished my two friends who were originally going to accompany me to surgery were there in the room. They would’ve petted me and told me that everything was going to be fine. Maybe my mom read my mind. “Excuse me,” she said to the nurse and pushed her out of the way like a New Yorker hailing a taxi. “I just want to give her a kiss.” My mom planted a big wet one on my lips and told me she loved me.

I started to cry, just a little. The nurse handed me a box of tissues and said, “Don’t worry, all of Dr. Brownstein’s patients do well. They are healthy. This is elective surgery.” My first surgery, I thought. Elective. Why would anyone chose to do this? But I knew.

So, Brownstein, a man who is not known for his bedside manner, but whom I sincerely like and trust, walks in and sees the box of tissues. “Tears, already,” he says. “I hope those are tears of joy.”

When he was about to do the markings on my chest, he asked if my mom wanted to leave. But she stood her ground, protecting her taxi. As Brownstein drew lines on my breasts, my armpits started to rain. “You sure are sweating a lot,” he said. “I am about to have surgery,” I replied. My mom just sat that there, library book open on her lap, pretending to read David Baldacci’s The Whole Truth.

A nurse walked me into the freezing surgery room. I hopped up onto the heated bed, and a few minutes later, the anesthesiologist talked me to sleep. When I woke up, I looked at the clock. It was 12:15. I had arrived at the center only a few hours ago, at 9. “Hiiiiii,” I said to my mom.

The nurse asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10 with 10 being the highest. I said 2 or 3. Then I asked for more pain meds. She asked me to rate it again. 1 or 2. Then I asked for more pain meds. And she gave them to me. I was floating, breastless and painfree. It was heaven.

We were walking down the street, me and an acquaintance. He asked me what I’ve been up to, a harmless enough question, but one that has been stumping me lately. I try to keep any discussion about my job at my job, and I can always talk about my writing. However, there is one thing that has been the centerpiece of my mind’s lazy susan.

“I’m having top surgery on Wed,” I said.

“Wow,” he replied. “I’m probably a year away. I’m really scared.”

I remember when I said the exact same phrase, “a year away.” It was about three months ago and a couple weeks before I made my consultation with Dr. Brownstein. Hearing myself say “a year away” was one of the triggers that kicked me into action. If this was inevitable, then what was I waiting for? I had the money saved, sitting underneath my online mattress, safe from the crashing stock market, earmarked for this.

“I understand,” I said to my acquaintance. “I was scared for three years.”

“And you’re not anymore?”

“No,” I said.

I didn’t tell him that it was one hell of a journey to get here, that I took the long way, over Everest, that at times I didn’t know if I was actually going to make it. That I spent hundreds of hours lost in daydreams about something I wanted but could not, would not, did not allow myself to have. I thought of the knife, the drains, the scars. I thought about telling my parents, I thought about dying, me, them, wanting to die, wanting them to die.

What surprised me the most is that the moment I set the date for my surgery, the self waterboarding stopped. After years of torture, I felt calm, serene, like I was waterskiing on a glass lake.

December 3. It felt right when I heard it, like I already had a connection to it, like it was my birthday in another life.

I remember the first person who told me about his top surgery experience. The night before his surgery, he slept in my room. This was before I even lived in this house. I’m not sure why I find that little fact so comforting. Maybe he is watching over me. Not in that from-above-in-heaven kind of way, but as a leader showing me the way, the first of many who would. I remember when he told me he reached the point when nothing that could happen in surgery or after surgery could be worse than having breasts. I didn’t understand, but now I do. That is what I’ve been up lately, arriving here, at a place far from self-loathing, at a place where I am able to give myself and my body an enormous precious gift. I remember my friend said he couldn’t sleep the night before his big day. He was too excited. He felt like he was going to Disneyland. I wonder how much I will toss and turn tonight. I wonder whether Disneyland will be as magnificent as I imagine it to be.

My mother arrives in San Francisco tonight. It’s still a bit hard to believe she will be here to take care of me when for awhile I wasn’t sure I was going to tell her about my surgery. I find the thought of her presence comforting, even though she told me yesterday that she is worried about EVERYTHING. She is worried about what she will eat for dinner, if it will be cold in my house, if I have a hairdryer, what we will do if our cell phones don’t work when I am at the airport to pick her up. I am my neurotic mother’s neurotic child. She is scared that I’m having a mastectomy, that I am transgender. But she is coming anyway. Sometimes I think she is one the one being strong. But I am also my strong mother’s strong child.

My mother is a good distraction. I’m too busy drawing her maps of where she can pick up prepared gourmet food to think too much about what it will feel like to have “knives in my binder,” as someone recently described the experience to me. I am focusing on other people’s anxieties and fears, the same way that other people are focused on my impending surgery. Sometimes it’s easier to focus on others than on ourselves.

This morning I tried to do yoga, my last physical activity for at least a few weeks. And I say try because I had a hard time holding the poses. Go figure. I wanted to blame the teacher because her last name was “Lightseed” and she kept referring to the six of us in class as “ladies,” over and over and over again. But Lady Lightseed was also the first teacher to ever adjust me in Shavasana. That is the last pose, the most mentally challenging pose, the one where you just lie there, resting. She put her hands on my shoulders, which were stalking my ears, and pushed them down my back. Then she placed her hands underneath my head by my neck and pulled gently. My neck must have grown two inches in that moment. It was as if she’d coaxed a turtle out of his shell.

It’s how I know that I’m still afraid. I’m a little scared that I won’t have enough patience to sit through the recovery, that I won’t know how to calm my mind when I cannot run, bike, or do yoga, that I will be in too much pain to work on my book. At least I’m afraid of the stupid stuff, the disruption to my routine. It is always the uncertainty of change that is the hardest. I have some ideas though: board games and urban hikes and movie marathons and Percocet highs, maybe even Rest, a place that is so foreign to me I wonder if I’ll ever get past the culture shock.

I don’t want to dwell on the fear. I just want to let you know it is there, in case you are afraid of something, in case you are weighing what feels like two crappy choices. There have been times when I’ve been really angry about my available options. But there have also been times when I think about my friends and acquaintances and their experiences: a complicated pregnancy, a miscarriage, cancer, migraines, knee surgery, bunion surgery, the death of a parent, the death of a lover, a divorce, a break-up. Sometimes it seems like everyone I know is facing a challenge. I think of trans people who will commit suicide before being able to have surgery. I think of those who cannot afford surgery. I think of those who do not have mothers to take care of them after surgery. I don’t dwell in the fear because mostly I think that I am lucky.