These Days
These Days
By Robyn Kanner
Everything hurts but everything feels rightOct 15, 2026I'm wondering what exhaling feels likeAug 18, 2026A Series of ObservationsJul 16, 2026These DaysDec 30, 2025

Everything hurts but everything feels right

Oct 15, 2026

It’s 10:45pm and I’m watching the Chicago White Sox. I love rooting for this team. Murakami is so cool. And we’ve been on a hot streak. We swept the Houston Astros in the Wild Card and then went up two games against the Guardians in the ALDS. But then we started to cool off. We’ve done this all season: hot streaks, cold streaks. Now it’s game five. Series is tied. We’re down 0-2 in the last inning of the deciding game. Tristan Peters is at the plate. He’s our last hope. He’s got a great beard.

When my vaginoplasty was scheduled for August 20th, I started to organize time through sports. My little way of having the perception of control in lieu of actual control. This season opened back on March 23rd when the White Sox squared off against the Brewers. I was exactly 150 days away from having vaginoplasty. I was 68 days away when the Knicks beat the Spurs in the NBA Finals. And I was 40 days away when Linda Nosková defeated Karolina Muchová at Wimbledon.

It’s been 51 days since I had vaginoplasty. And Tristan Peters has just struck out, ending the White Sox’s hope of a World Series. Damn. Ok. There’s a lot to catch you up on. Let me just tell you about the first week. It was one hell of a week.

I’m awake. In the shower. In a car. In a waiting room. In an operating room. It’s cold. Somewhat bigger than what I expected? Everything is metallic. It’s not beautiful but it’s kind of beautiful. I wish I could have brought my film camera in here. There are, I don’t know, maybe ten people in the room. Everyone has a job. Not a lot of chit-chat. Someone puts a warm blanket over my legs. I’m comfortable. When I was a kid, little old ladies used to come up to me in the grocery store to tell me they loved my red hair. Did you know redheads require more general anesthesia than everyone else? Look it up. It’s true. The anesthesiologist puts a mask over my face and tells me the medicine might taste funny. This feels like an important moment. I want to remember this. I want my last thought before going under to be something good. But the medicine makes me cough. I’m there and then I’m not.

Surgery starts at 7:30am and wraps around 10:00am. I wake up around 1:30pm. I love organizing time. I whisper for my partner and fall back asleep. I’m awake again. I look at my phone. It’s later in the day. I have a MyChart message. It’s the surgeons. They’ve recorded a selfie video letting me know everything went well. Lmao. Incredible. What a time to be alive.

I’m in the hospital for the next six days. Everything hurts but everything feels right. Does that make sense? If you get it, you really get it. I finally have my film camera with me. I find myself taking pictures of my surroundings in the brief moments no one is around. It's so peaceful. A little something for me.

I drift out. I drift in. I ask for sautéed spinach and mushrooms. I don’t know. It does sound good though, right? There’s this unofficial Discord channel for people who are having, or have had, this surgery with these surgeons. We share a bunch of tips and talk a little shit. There’s a message in the chat about the mushroom ragù someone else had while they were recovering. That also sounds good but apparently it was only a special and is gone by the time I arrive. It’s annoying. But I do like the idea of a hospital having specials. It’s so civilized.

Sitting up is going to be hell. Everyone has told me this. I’d been lying flat for quite some time when the nurse came in and told me it was time to give it a go. She was empathetic but stern. A good nurse. I had no core or lower body strength to propel myself up. Thankfully I’d spent the last few months in the gym lifting kettlebells to mitigate my stress. My upper body strength was a lifesaver. Still, it did suck. All the swelling in my body rushed down to the surgical site. Like a wave crashing on the shore. Ouch. I was able to sit up for a few hours and eat dinner. My partner found some mushrooms and peas down in the cafeteria. Perfect. Delicious.

I had been working on wrapping up a bunch of projects before heading out for surgery. One of them was the mascot for the WNBA’s Portland Fire. A cool project. Rose is a bright pink glitter-breathing dragon baddie. I loved getting to work on her. I loved the team that I got to work on her with. I had hoped to celebrate with everyone in the arena for the big reveal but I’m still here. In the hospital. My partner and I watch on an iPad from my room. Fans love Rose. Told you. It’s a cool project.

I haven’t looked at my body yet but I know there are a couple of tubes, packing, and a bunch of bandages holding everything together. There’s really no way to be coy in writing about this stuff, so I’m just going to be very specific. One tube was for the catheter. Another for swelling. The vaginal canal is essentially an open wound. My job for the rest of my life is to keep this wound open. This is called dilating. While I’m in the hospital my vagina is packed with a balloon inflated by some sort of liquid. If you’re wondering if this is a foolproof method, it’s not. I’m actually in the group that’s testing out this new method. Before they just packed the vagina with a bunch of gauze. Yikes.

All of this stuff has to come out before I’m discharged. The surgical team swings by my room bright and early. The first thing to go is the swelling tube. They tell me to lift my butt up. The part of me that loves working out is very excited to do a bridge. In hindsight, it should have been obvious to me that they had to remove the bandages before the swelling tube. But I’m still loopy. It was a lot of anesthesia. They start to rip the bandages off. I can feel myself begin to panic. I’m all out of sorts. They tell me to count to three and breathe. What the hell happens at three? I’m terrified. I feel very human. The whole thing is over in about a minute. Bandages and the swelling tube are gone. A resident pulls out an iPhone and takes a photo of my vagina. He does not tell me he’s going to do this. He just does it. I do not feel very human. They leave the room. I’m happy. I’m sad. I fall apart.

Next to go is the catheter. The nurse tells me to drink a bunch of water. They want to know if I can pee before I can go. I drink too much water. My body hasn’t learned how to pee yet. Whoops. It’s a whole thing.

The final thing to leave my body before I leave this hospital is the packing. For me, being a part of this trial group, it’s a good thing. It’s very easy to remove. What a relief. A very smart and caring man teaches me how to dilate. It’s a lot of information. Multiple nurses, residents, and I don’t know, other people, come by my room as my partner and I pack. They’re all saying a bunch of words. I can barely hear them. I’m still tired from the anesthesia, the bandage removal, the catheter mishap, and like, you know, the surgery itself.

I take a couple more pictures of the room. And then I’m in a wheelchair. I’m outside. I’m in a cab. I am acutely aware of every single pothole from Manhattan to Brooklyn. Back when I was an aimless twenty-something, I hung out with a bunch of musicians. I had this one friend, Jacob Augustine, who wrote this big, majestic song. I haven’t thought of it in years but the refrain starts to loop in my head on the ride home. Peace comes. I promise. Hold on.

All this time spent worrying about what exhaling would feel like. I never stopped to consider what would come next. Of course. It's another breath. That feels nice.

Ok! Time for the endnotes.

  1. I want to thank everyone for sending along movie recommendations for recovery. They were really helpful. My friend Scott told me to watch Being There, a 1979 film directed by Hal Ashby. It's perfect. I highly suggest. He also told me to watch Cool World, a 1992 film directed by Ralph Bakshi. It's not perfect. I do not suggest. Take Scott's suggestions with a grain of salt.

  2. I spent many hours thinking about and watching Louise Weard's work. She's capturing the air we're all trying to capture. It's a very special thing. Find the Castration Movie Anthology. Watch it.

  3. I've got a very important Fantasy Football matchup this week. I'm stuck between starting Woody Marks or Jeremiyah Love. My gut says Woody. What do you think?

thanks for reading <3
robyn

Image
These Days
These Days

Everything hurts but everything feels right

Oct 15, 2026

It’s 10:45pm and I’m watching the Chicago White Sox. I love rooting for this team. Murakami is so cool. And we’ve been on a hot streak. We swept the Houston Astros in the Wild Card and then went up two games against the Guardians in the ALDS. But then we started to cool off. We’ve done this all season: hot streaks, cold streaks. Now it’s game five. Series is tied. We’re down 0-2 in the last inning of the deciding game. Tristan Peters is at the plate. He’s our last hope. He’s got a great beard.

When my vaginoplasty was scheduled for August 20th, I started to organize time through sports. My little way of having the perception of control in lieu of actual control. This season opened back on March 23rd when the White Sox squared off against the Brewers. I was exactly 150 days away from having vaginoplasty. I was 68 days away when the Knicks beat the Spurs in the NBA Finals. And I was 40 days away when Linda Nosková defeated Karolina Muchová at Wimbledon.

It’s been 51 days since I had vaginoplasty. And Tristan Peters has just struck out, ending the White Sox’s hope of a World Series. Damn. Ok. There’s a lot to catch you up on. Let me just tell you about the first week. It was one hell of a week.

I’m awake. In the shower. In a car. In a waiting room. In an operating room. It’s cold. Somewhat bigger than what I expected? Everything is metallic. It’s not beautiful but it’s kind of beautiful. I wish I could have brought my film camera in here. There are, I don’t know, maybe ten people in the room. Everyone has a job. Not a lot of chit-chat. Someone puts a warm blanket over my legs. I’m comfortable. When I was a kid, little old ladies used to come up to me in the grocery store to tell me they loved my red hair. Did you know redheads require more general anesthesia than everyone else? Look it up. It’s true. The anesthesiologist puts a mask over my face and tells me the medicine might taste funny. This feels like an important moment. I want to remember this. I want my last thought before going under to be something good. But the medicine makes me cough. I’m there and then I’m not.

Surgery starts at 7:30am and wraps around 10:00am. I wake up around 1:30pm. I love organizing time. I whisper for my partner and fall back asleep. I’m awake again. I look at my phone. It’s later in the day. I have a MyChart message. It’s the surgeons. They’ve recorded a selfie video letting me know everything went well. Lmao. Incredible. What a time to be alive.

I’m in the hospital for the next six days. Everything hurts but everything feels right. Does that make sense? If you get it, you really get it. I finally have my film camera with me. I find myself taking pictures of my surroundings in the brief moments no one is around. It's so peaceful. A little something for me.

I drift out. I drift in. I ask for sautéed spinach and mushrooms. I don’t know. It does sound good though, right? There’s this unofficial Discord channel for people who are having, or have had, this surgery with these surgeons. We share a bunch of tips and talk a little shit. There’s a message in the chat about the mushroom ragù someone else had while they were recovering. That also sounds good but apparently it was only a special and is gone by the time I arrive. It’s annoying. But I do like the idea of a hospital having specials. It’s so civilized.

Sitting up is going to be hell. Everyone has told me this. I’d been lying flat for quite some time when the nurse came in and told me it was time to give it a go. She was empathetic but stern. A good nurse. I had no core or lower body strength to propel myself up. Thankfully I’d spent the last few months in the gym lifting kettlebells to mitigate my stress. My upper body strength was a lifesaver. Still, it did suck. All the swelling in my body rushed down to the surgical site. Like a wave crashing on the shore. Ouch. I was able to sit up for a few hours and eat dinner. My partner found some mushrooms and peas down in the cafeteria. Perfect. Delicious.

I had been working on wrapping up a bunch of projects before heading out for surgery. One of them was the mascot for the WNBA’s Portland Fire. A cool project. Rose is a bright pink glitter-breathing dragon baddie. I loved getting to work on her. I loved the team that I got to work on her with. I had hoped to celebrate with everyone in the arena for the big reveal but I’m still here. In the hospital. My partner and I watch on an iPad from my room. Fans love Rose. Told you. It’s a cool project.

I haven’t looked at my body yet but I know there are a couple of tubes, packing, and a bunch of bandages holding everything together. There’s really no way to be coy in writing about this stuff, so I’m just going to be very specific. One tube was for the catheter. Another for swelling. The vaginal canal is essentially an open wound. My job for the rest of my life is to keep this wound open. This is called dilating. While I’m in the hospital my vagina is packed with a balloon inflated by some sort of liquid. If you’re wondering if this is a foolproof method, it’s not. I’m actually in the group that’s testing out this new method. Before they just packed the vagina with a bunch of gauze. Yikes.

All of this stuff has to come out before I’m discharged. The surgical team swings by my room bright and early. The first thing to go is the swelling tube. They tell me to lift my butt up. The part of me that loves working out is very excited to do a bridge. In hindsight, it should have been obvious to me that they had to remove the bandages before the swelling tube. But I’m still loopy. It was a lot of anesthesia. They start to rip the bandages off. I can feel myself begin to panic. I’m all out of sorts. They tell me to count to three and breathe. What the hell happens at three? I’m terrified. I feel very human. The whole thing is over in about a minute. Bandages and the swelling tube are gone. A resident pulls out an iPhone and takes a photo of my vagina. He does not tell me he’s going to do this. He just does it. I do not feel very human. They leave the room. I’m happy. I’m sad. I fall apart.

Next to go is the catheter. The nurse tells me to drink a bunch of water. They want to know if I can pee before I can go. I drink too much water. My body hasn’t learned how to pee yet. Whoops. It’s a whole thing.

The final thing to leave my body before I leave this hospital is the packing. For me, being a part of this trial group, it’s a good thing. It’s very easy to remove. What a relief. A very smart and caring man teaches me how to dilate. It’s a lot of information. Multiple nurses, residents, and I don’t know, other people, come by my room as my partner and I pack. They’re all saying a bunch of words. I can barely hear them. I’m still tired from the anesthesia, the bandage removal, the catheter mishap, and like, you know, the surgery itself.

I take a couple more pictures of the room. And then I’m in a wheelchair. I’m outside. I’m in a cab. I am acutely aware of every single pothole from Manhattan to Brooklyn. Back when I was an aimless twenty-something, I hung out with a bunch of musicians. I had this one friend, Jacob Augustine, who wrote this big, majestic song. I haven’t thought of it in years but the refrain starts to loop in my head on the ride home. Peace comes. I promise. Hold on.

All this time spent worrying about what exhaling would feel like. I never stopped to consider what would come next. Of course. It's another breath. That feels nice.

Ok! Time for the endnotes.

  1. I want to thank everyone for sending along movie recommendations for recovery. They were really helpful. My friend Scott told me to watch Being There, a 1979 film directed by Hal Ashby. It's perfect. I highly suggest. He also told me to watch Cool World, a 1992 film directed by Ralph Bakshi. It's not perfect. I do not suggest. Take Scott's suggestions with a grain of salt.

  2. I spent many hours thinking about and watching Louise Weard's work. She's capturing the air we're all trying to capture. It's a very special thing. Find the Castration Movie Anthology. Watch it.

  3. I've got a very important Fantasy Football matchup this week. I'm stuck between starting Woody Marks or Jeremiyah Love. My gut says Woody. What do you think?

thanks for reading <3
robyn

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