Not A Crossdressing Story

Okay, I admit it, this story is here under false pretences. The closest link I can make is that it is a story by a crossdresser... I hope it's close enough but more importantly, I hope it gives you a laugh or two and maybe even brighten your day.

MAS - An Adventure Not For the Faint of Tummy
(All conversations related verbatim, with the aid of fantastic memory assisted by vivid imagination)

Standing on the scales one day, listening to the mechanism groaning, whilst being mesmerised by how fast the dial spun up to over 100kg, I realised that in order to read the whirling dial when it finally stopped I had to lean slightly forward to glance over the veranda I’d developed. My winter fat store had somehow become a repository suitable for the next ice age. More disconcerting though was what I thought was an unusual bump on the bump. A small amount of pressure and the bump disappeared. That in itself was a worry.

I frantically looked around, wondering if Sigourney Weaver was lurking in the shadows waiting for the alien head to burst from my tummy. I couldn’t recall having ever had an octopus-like creature smash through my face mask and attach itself to my dial but perhaps that lack of memory was purely the effect of a neural-dimming substance injected by the creature. Alas, no Sigourney. Not that I wanted to be incubating a new life form, it’s just that she would have been nice to grab an autograph from. Her unavailability to sign my buttocks with marker pen (let’s not go there) meant that I had to find some other reason for the bump. My last option was to consider a medical reason.

The outcome of an encounter with our modern speed medical system was a referral for an ultrasound that told me, at great expense, what I already knew – something inside my tummy was trying to get out. I wanted to name it a ‘weakness of the abdominal wall, above my hidden six-pack (oh, how well hidden it is) that allows some of my ice age stocks to seek escape’. The doctor, boring as he is, said “We already call it a hernia. Besides, you’d have to call it ‘weaknesses’ because you’ve got two of them.” Then, with a disturbing smile he said “I’m going to give you the contact details for an ace knife man. Give him a bell.”

The end product of that ‘bell’ was finding myself scheduled for surgery to have that weakness of the abdominal wall, above my hidden six-pack, that allows some of my ice age stocks to seek escape, repaired. Actually, now that I think about it, maybe hernia is a bit easier to type. I am tired, after all. Let’s run with that. Now, the ‘knife man’ went to a lot of effort to explain the procedure he’d perform. I just hoped his skill with a scalpel was significantly greater than his skill with a pen when diagrammatically explaining how he was going to carve me up.

After his deft artwork and explanation that it was a relatively straightforward procedure, he picked up a sheet of paper that seemed covered in a table. Then, with an almost inaudible, potentially throwaway line “Of course as the operation is actually major abdominal surgery, there can be some risks”, he began working through the table. He mentioned “clotting”, I sort of heard “nausea” and I’m fairly sure he said something about “some pain” but most of it was drowned out by my brain screaming. “Say What? Major Abdominal Surgery? Major?” Holy crap (phrase borrowed freely from Beauty and the Geek’s ‘Gimli’) – He said Major Abdominal Surgery - MAS!

My mental state was nudged a tad closer to despair when ‘Mack the Knife’ then turned the form over and doubled the list of “possible complications”. Okay, okay, you’re the Doc, I’ll take your word for it. Do you reckon that was good enough for him? Do you think he’d had his fun? No way. “That list is for you to take home, if you want to find out more about any of the conditions.” Oh sure, I thought, I’ll look them up straight after I’ve buried my face in a blender. I’ll enjoy that experience almost as much. Still, I had my salve, his words from earlier – “It’s a straightforward procedure” and another crumb of hope he flicked to me while working through the list, “I haven’t had anyone die on me yet.” You know what? That last line would have helped. That was, right up until he’d finished it with “yet”. Oh crap.

I’m mentally tough, a powerhouse of inner strength (stop bloody laughing) so I was completely unruffled in the lead up to the chosen date. Then the damned mobile phone rang. “We’ve got you scheduled for the end of next month, in seven weeks’ time, but, hey, how would you like to hop up on the table next week? We’ve had a cancellation.” Holy Crap (thanks Gimli!). “Yes, sure. Bring it on.” “Okay, we’ll see you then.”

Following that there were some frantic calls to rearrange the hectic lifestyle that we retirees live but then all was set. Just a few people to notify, including my mother, but that’s easy. “Hi Mum. I’m going in to have a hernia repaired.” (Off stage – in the kitchen – voice joins conversation “Your son is going in for Major Abdominal Surgery.”) Oh, right, I’d almost forgotten…

Naturally, I had support at home; shared experience is support, isn’t it? “Well, it is Major Abdominal Surgery, you know, like when I had a caesarean section.” Holy Crap! I remember being there for that. That’s bound to make me feel better! Still, I chanted my mantra “Ommm, ommm straightforward…” and I was fine.

The fateful day dawned and we made our way out to Calvary Hospital. I figured that if I was going to cark it then there couldn’t be a better way for an atheist to hedge his bets than to do so in a God-botherers’ hospital. Duly we fronted the reception desk for Day Surgery (there’s the ‘S’ part of MAS again) and I checked in. Struth, it’s like being in a POW camp, without the barbed wire. “Please recite your full name and date of birth.” Geneva Conventions requirements satisfied we waited in the reception lounge before being called by the Admissions Clerk. She then took me in and after again having me recite my name, rank, serial number and date of birth, well, some of that anyway, she tested her scales with my weight, checked to see if I had heart enough to pump blood, clipped an ID bracelet about my wrist and then gave me my cute Operational Attire.

Having donned my stylistic, one-size-fits-all, see-through cloth undies and the powder blue, tie-up-at-the-side gown I sat to await fitting of my final fashion item. Now, I like a nice pair of knee-high stockings as much as the next man and I’m sure this classy white ensemble, which may or may not have had blue lettering on them, was among the nicest I’ve seen so far but there was one aspect of them that concerned me. The right leg was fully enclosed but there seemed to be a tailoring error with the left leg. The big toe was open to the air. Why, I wondered, then realisation dawned. I’ve seen CSI. I’ve been there when Gibbs visits Ducky at his place of work. I know what the open toe is for – toe tag! “Holly Crap!” (again) MAS (again)

After the Admissions Clerk fitted my stockings she took my right leg and quickly clipped another ID tag about it. “Holy Crap. Where the heck is my right leg likely to go that my right arm, also identified, isn’t going?” I admit that right about this moment my powerhouse of inner strength seemed to be running a bit lean. It was only the fear of frozen assets that stopped me bolting, right there and then, out into the most aggressive storm Canberra has had. I was doomed.

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee”… though in this case it wasn’t a bell. It was the cheery voice of the ‘Lady With The Chair’ who had come to convey me to my fate. I was wheeled away, I was accompanied by my guardian angel but even she deserted me at the doors to The Holding Pen. Abandoned to misfortune I was once again interrogated for my name and date of birth. A quick check of both my wrist and my ankle, thankfully still in company with each other, revealed the lie of Michael J Mouse and I was duly marked off as the correct lamb being led to slaughter. Shortly after, the ‘knife man’ arrived, reminded himself what he was there to do and then, with a marker pen (alas, not the one I was hoping Sigourney would use, but, again, let’s not go there) he drew the hopefully-appropriate ‘cut along dotted line’ marks, then shook my hand and left. Did he just wish me luck? Holy crap. Do I need it?

Shortly after, naturally just as I got interested in a magazine article a nurse had lent me, I was taken away and wheeled in to the operating theatre. Thereupon a moustachioed character in a bright floral cap introduced himself in a burst of what sounded like Farsi but in fact was probably just his name. It was my anaesthetist. He too quizzed me about my name and number. The jig was up and I admitted who I was and surrendered to his care. He jabbed a hollowed-out six-inch nail into my unidentified arm (gee, I hope that one doesn’t come off), attached some plastic tubing and then wheeled me under the operating lights.

My final indignity came when my trolley reached the operating table and I had to transfer my carcass onto it. The Persian Moustache told me to “slide onto the table on your right side” after his assistant ensured that my powder-blue gown was untied. I duly did so and the gown parted, showing off my cute undies before they corrected my action by telling me to lie on my back (as I first thought I should have) on the table that was on my right side. All that flashing, for nothing. Finally in position I heard the words “Now for some happy juice”, to which I responded “Oh, altered consciousness….”

And awoke as a tube was pulled from my throat and I heard my name being called. It seems I had survived after all. Soon afterwards, I was conveyed, bed and all, to a ward for my overnight stay. Whilst I awaited the arrival of my Guardian Angel I was at least able to do a brief inventory – right leg, check. Right arm, check. Left arm, complete with tube attached to nine inches of jagged iron embedded deep within, check. Most happily, though, was left leg, with naked big toe sans toe tag! Yup, I’d made it. I had survived MAS.

The next 24 hours of that survival, though, is another story. For now, did I mention how much it hurts?