Ears hear before the eyes see. Nurses talk around me. It's a blur. All a blur. Nothing quite makes sense.

Metal taste in my mouth.

Oh. Morphine.

Guess I didn't die.

A nurse smiles and says good morning as I shift on the gurney. It's afternoon. She's a liar.

I fade out again.

Everything a blur.

They're removing the catheter. No complications. The doctor is telling me about options.

Hormones. Prosthetics.

All bullshit.

Can't have kids.

Sex? Ha.

What's even the point?

The doctor notices. He gets my attention, "This isn't the end. You are more than just a body part."

I don't believe him. How could I? I built my life, my self, around this "just a body part." Change ain't so easy.

I was dead. He was talking to a corpse.

A punchline.

How could I ever be anything more than a punchline?

More blur. The usual blur of a life ignored, repressed. But life, nonetheless.

I jab my leg, depress the syringe. It's a cold sharp rush as the T hits my muscle. My new routine.

It's not so bad.

Lost some friends who didn't get it. Made some new ones.

Still an asshole, but at least I've got a good reason for it now.

Better than the uncertainty of death? Don't know, honestly. But at least it's something.

I died that day, sure. But, shit, what came after wasn't all that bad. Different, sure. Familiar? Mostly.

Hard to go back to familiar when you've had your whole idea of self cut from you without ceremony.

Looking back--and this stays between us--I was an idiot. The doc was right. I'm more than just a body part. More than my ability to make kids. It's kinda fucked up I believed that lie for so long. Kinda fucked up that lie almost killed me dead.

Turns out, I'm stronger than all that bullshit. Stronger than the pity. Stronger than the jokes at my expense.

I'm still here, fuckers. Come at me.