(Many of the conversations in this chapter should be in colloquial French but are shown in English. They are not a translation but a re-telling in English.)
I had my hysterectomy exactly a year ago today. Physically I have recovered from the operation. Mentally, I havenât. I donât think Iâm a woman any more now the important bits have been removed.
I know Iâm being silly. I still have a vagina. I still have the breasts that my husband Simon loves. I still look like a woman and my body is in good shape for my age. I wouldnât have wanted any more children but now I canât.
Simon has been very patient and understanding but I know he is frustrated and occasionally irritated with me. We used to be active sexually. Since the operation I have rejected him. I canât even hold hands with him. I canât stand his verbal expressions of love.
I know Simon loves me. I know he wants my body. I donât love my body or myself. Iâm not female. Iâm not male. Iâve been neutered.
I tried psychotherapy on the National Health Service but it was a disaster. Sitting around in a hospital waiting room made me feel that I was ill. Iâm not. Physically I am fit. I walk, cycle, do all the things I used to do except anything remotely sexual. The conventions tell me that I should dress as a woman but I donât feel like it. I rarely wear skirts or dresses now. I live in slacks and T-shirts with sensible shoes. My face is devoid of cosmetics; my hair is cut short so all I need to do in the morning is run a comb through it.
Iâm not wholly depressed. I can laugh, cry, enjoy a good book or film and even have a meaningful conversation with Simon. I just canât pretend to be the woman Iâm not.
***
When I wrote that on the end pages of my diary that is how I felt. It wasnât wholly true because I had left out the important bit. I was screaming desperately inside to find the desire to be a woman. I needed to find my essential female nature. I knew I did. I had lost it and couldnât find it. I was afraid I never would.
The trigger that started my search back was ridiculous. I woke up on the fourteenth of February, St.Valentineâs Day, with a sense of foreboding. I knew that Simon would declare his love for me in some way or other and I just couldnât face it. The twin bed he slept in was empty. I remembered that he had to go to a breakfast conference that always seems as if the employer just wants more from the staff than the hours that are paid for.
Simon wouldnât return until seven oâclock in the evening so my worries were deferred until then. They came back with a rush when I saw that he had left a packet for me on the breakfast table. I didnât dare to open it until after the second cup of coffee. Inside was a large padded envelope with a letter addressed to me. It wasnât from Simon. The handwriting was vaguely familiar. I opened it gingerly as if it might be a bomb. I relaxed as I saw the address. It was from my university friend Joyce. She had married a Frenchman and lived in Pas de Calais where she practised as a doctor.
âDear Hazel,
I am writing to you with an invitation to visit me in France for a few days. I have discussed it with Simon. He has agreed to look after himself and the children while you are with me so you canât use them as an excuse.
I want you to come on Friday evening. The tickets are inside the packet, as is your up-to-date passport and travellers cheques. Simon arranged that with me.
Also inside is a smaller padded envelope. I want you to bring that to me UNOPENED. It isnât dangerous or illegal. If the customs want to open it they can but if possible I want it to arrive with you as it is.
Please come. I havenât seen you for years and I would like to speak some English again. I would like you to see my daughters and I hope you will enjoy some good French cooking, not mine! If you remember from University I was always a bad cook and you saved me from culinary disasters. I have a lady who cooks, and a Ukrainian Au Pair who helps with the daughters.
I will have time for your visit because I have a few days holiday from the doctorâs practice.
I will see you in Calais just beyond the customs hall on Friday evening. Be there.
Love from Joyce.â
I sat down on my chair with a thump. This was a surprise. A nice surprise and there was nothing from Simon that I could be worried about, no sickly Valentine Card, no expression of the love I knew he had for me, no present except an arranged trip to see an old friend. While I was in France I could forget Simon for a few days and relax my prickly guard against him.
Friday evening? This was Thursday morning. If I were going to be in Calais tomorrow evening Iâd have to work fast. There was washing to do, meals to prepare, things to cancel â the whole works.
The rest of the day was a blur as I rushed around. I was actually enjoying myself and I gave Simon a peck on the cheek as he arrived home. He seemed surprised but didnât over react as Iâd feared he might as soon as Iâd given him that kiss. I was the first one I given him for over a year.
He reassured me about the arrangements while I would be away. Only one daughter was still living with us but she wasnât in often. She was studying at the local university and often came home late. Sheâd need less looking after than Simon. She might even help by ensuring that he ate proper meals. Iâd rung her mobile phone at lunchtime and told her Iâd be away. I donât think she was surprised. I think she knew even if she didnât say she did.
In bed that night I had difficulty going to sleep. My brain was whirling with all the things I still had to do. One thing in Joyceâs letter puzzled me. She had an Au Pair to help with the daughters? Surely they were as old as our youngest so why did Joyce need an Au Pair? Never mind, I told myself, Iâll find out tomorrow evening.
I drifted off to sleep happier than Iâd felt for a long time. I even felt some gratitude to Simon. Iâd give him a goodbye kiss before he left for work. It would be an effort but he deserved something.
I almost enjoyed that kiss. It had something of a happier past about it. If only I could get back the feelings I had then.
The journey was boring. Train from Victoria to Dover, lugging my suitcase on to the connecting bus, off the bus into the departure lounge and then it was checked in. Iâd see it again in Calais. I had a shock when I saw that my return ticket wasnât valid until after fifteen days in France.
I ate a Danish pastry with my coffee on the ferry. It was passable but didnât have the real Danish taste. For a while I stood on the upper deck watching the White Cliffs of Dover recede astern and the two Caps getting larger ahead of us. The evening sun was shining on the sands of Calais Plage as we approached the port.
Another bus took us from the ferry to the terminal. The frontier police didnât seem interested in my passport. I collected my suitcase and wheeled out into the arrivals area. Joyce and her daughters swamped me with an effusive French welcome kissing me on both cheeks. I had to respond â this welcome was for either sex.
As I had thought Joyceâs daughters were too old to need an Au Pair. I had forgotten that they were twins. These daughters were natural blondes, tall and elegant and very much Frenchwomen. They were female in a way that I had never been even when young. They looked as if they gloried in being young and female. Joyce was elegantly dressed as a mature but still attractive woman. I appreciated the art that went to their appearances. I felt even more asexual and just plain dowdy beside them.