Amputations

My closest climbing buddy (who’s also a badass mountaineer) lost one of his toes on Denali, in Alaska, a few years ago. 

My European genderqueer ex-lover had to have a big chunk of their tongue cut off when they had cancer a little over a decade ago. 

From these two people who are both AMAB (the former cis-man, the latter non-binary) I received a type of sympathy, or empathy, and even questions & comments around my masculinizing mastectomy that were different from what I got from other friends. It wasn’t the same kind of deep empathy and recognition that I got from my trans/non-binary friends who also got gender-affirming surgeries, of course. But there was a level of empathy that went beyond the loving support and validations that other friends who hadn’t had some surgery involving the amputation of a part of their body could offer. 

I have a vivid memory of a hike that I did with my climbing buddy only about a month after my gender-affirming surgery and him asking me specifically if I could feel the amputation, if I could still feel the sensation of having — or having had — breasts, feel it physically in my body. And him sharing about his physical feelings when he lost his toe, how he could feel it, the “ghost toe”, even months later, intermittently, sometimes unexpectedly. 

And another clear memory of a conversation with my European genderqueer ex-lover when they were asking me about my feelings of all of a sudden having an externally, visibly, different body, a body that suddenly looked different in the mirror because a piece of it was gone. And them sharing how they had felt when all of a sudden they could hardly recognize themself in the mirror because the amputation of a big chunk of their tongue had changed their face in ways for which they hadn’t been prepared. 

It’s been almost nine months since I had my masculinizing mastectomy and back then, when I was having that conversation with my climbing buddy, I hadn’t really had the sensation of “ghost breasts”. I had had the feeling of hardly recognizing my chest, both when seeing it in the mirror and when feeling the flatness & hardness of my chest when resting my hand on it while falling asleep at night. But my feelings, once I got past the first week or two of almost constant panic for something going wrong post-op, were more of genuine surprise and trying to joyfully wrap my head around this new chest that I suddenly had.

This past week, instead, I’ve had the feeling of “ghost breasts” a couple times, mostly when falling asleep or snoozing in bed lying on my stomach, but sometimes even in the daytime. I don’t miss my breasts — I never cared for them, I always at best just ignored them, and I love my chest as it is now. But sometimes I can feel that “something” was there and now it’s gone — I can feel it physically. After all, I did have my breasts amputated (after having lived with them for a quarter of a century).

Last night or, rather, early this morning, I experienced the feeling of another type of amputation. The amputation of a part of my soul. 

For the second time in the past 2-3 weeks, early this morning my European genderqueer ex-lover came to visit me in my dreams, and it woke me up. I could also just say that I had an incredibly vivid dream about them, but it it felt more intense than that. The physical and emotional sensation of their presence was so real it was incredible and almost intolerable — in fact, it woke me up at 4am and then I couldn’t get back to sleep anymore. 

With their departure almost three months ago and the silence between us which has now been total for almost eight weeks, a part of my soul has been amputated. 

When we had sex during their stay in Colorado, we truly “made love” (a phrase, the latter, that I rarely use because I find it a misleading or useless romanticization). What my European genderqueer ex-lover & I had was truly a “soul connection”, as John Welwood described it¹. And having sex with them, “making love” with them, apart from being wonderfully pleasurable, almost ecstatically pleasant from the physical viewpoint, was also and maybe mainly one of the most spiritual experiences of my life that I have ever shared with someone else. The intimacy between our bodies truly was also a mutual compenetration of our souls. Our souls met, they united, they melted together into something bigger while somehow still maintaining some form of individuality. 

So now that they’re gone, and that there’s total silence between us, a part of my soul has been amputated. And I can feel this amputation, this loss, physically as well as emotionally. 

And after the visit of my European genderqueer ex-lover in my dream this morning I know, I can feel it deeply and clearly, that it’s over, it’s really, really over. That part of my soul, that part of my life has been amputated, it’s gone.

Maybe it’s serendipitous or meaningful or physiological even that I feel this amputation, this loss, so clearly and deeply now, in this specific season, in autumn, as leaves fall off from the trees and are thus severed, or amputated, from their “main body”, too… 

1. “A soul connection is a resonance between two people who respond to the essential beauty of each other’s individual natures, behind their façades, and who connect on a deeper level. This type of mutual recognition provides the catalyst for a potent alchemy. It is a sacred alliance whose purpose is to help both partners discover and realize their deepest potentials. While a heart connection lets us appreciate those we love just as they are, a soul connection opens up a further dimension — seeing and loving them for who they could be, and for who we could become under their influence.” [John Welwood] ↩︎