Hello friends!
Earlier in the summer, I was asked by Vogue Australia to write an essay about what it means to dress as a woman for their September issue. I wrote this in the throes of my grief upon learning that I would not be able to conceive naturally, wrestling with my comprehension of my own womanhood. Upon completing this assignment, I had a sense of catharsis, but I suppose writing about Miuccia Prada and Begum Rokeya, the early 20th century Bengali feminist and writer, will do that for you! You can read it in the digital issue, or pick up a copy from your favorite esoteric magazine shop.
Two weeks ago I underwent surgery to remove my left and right fallopian tubes, which were blocked and filled with fluid. When I first saw images of the state they were in during a scan, between my tears and the shock of it all, I couldn't help but think they looked like Gossamer, the hulking hairy red character from Looney Tunes, or a cartoon rendition of sausage links. The procedure itself had been a bit more complicated than expected, with extensive adhesions fusing the left ovary to the left tube. When I awoke from my anesthetic sleep, having been instructed to eat, I discovered a latent love of plastic-packaged graham crackers and pretzels.
For the day of the surgery, and for a few weeks to follow, I was instructed to wear loose and comfortable clothing. Because there would be incisions in my stomach and both sides of the hips, and gas would be used during surgery causing me to swell like a helium balloon, this meant that my trousers and skirts would be out of the running. If there were ever a time to own McQueen bumsters! Eventually, I settled on a long black dress and a loose black tropical wool jacket with a zipper running down the center of the back, both by Yohji Yamamoto, and a pair of mary-jane Salomon sneakers.
It probably seems rather ridiculous to give so much thought as to what to wear to a hospital, only to have to change into a standard-issue cotton gown upon arrival. Clothing has long offered me a sense of security, and since childhood, it has been one of the primary mediums through which I express and assert myself, but it has also been a way to shield my private self in my outward presentation. Sometimes they have said exactly what I mean, and at other times, the total and complete opposite.
The clothes I wear have certainly feigned courage on my behalf when I myself lacked it, but they have also, on occasion, served as a means of escape. As children, why do we wear costumes of beloved characters, or dress as ballerinas or astronauts we hope to – but eventually may not – one day be? In a good dress, I could briefly elude the reality of the grief I felt somewhat buried under.
What I hadn't thought about was what I would and wouldn't be able to wear post-op, and I was unprepared for how it would make me feel. Like many women of and around my age, I have long had a dysmorphic relationship with my body. Bouts of cruelty in how I view myself are interrupted by moments of compassion. The way I dress has partly been shaped by the parts of myself I would rather not think about, and those I hesitantly love.
But now my body had taken on a new form; much of my clothes which were once a source of security, I could now not wear for some time. This temporary interruption (temporary, I have to repeat to myself like a mantra) is also a crude reminder that my body is not blooming with new life, but has instead lost a part of it. Gone was a part of myself I had before never given any thought, something now of great consequence.
A few days after the surgery, I finally understood what the source of this amorphous grief I had been feeling was, one that I had, till then, difficulty putting to words. I would never experience the spontaneity of the first stages of pregnancy, the not knowing and then the secret knowing, the uncertainty and the miraculous surprise. My experience would be different from those more commonly told, different from that of my cousin, my mother, my aunts, my grandmother. From day one, I will be holding my breath, expecting the worst and privately, shamefully, hoping for the best. It is an incredibly fortunate thing, to be able to do IVF, that it is even an option and that I have the resources to follow this course, but a lack of societal understanding and acceptance makes for an isolated experience, as if the process to and of motherhood is not sufficiently isolating.
My acceptance of such radical physical and emotional changes has not been easy, and I am exposing my vanity in admitting that I have struggled with seeing myself as I presently am. When the time came to change out of the nightgown I had been wearing far too long, the thought of what to wear next was more paralyzing than it ought to have been. I didn't want to wear loose-fitting comfortable clothing as advised by my doctor, the nurse, and the guidance I had been sent home with. I wanted to wear what would be too taxing on my healing body, I wanted to hide the evidence. Suddenly my roomiest dresses were not just that, but rather a magnifier of my weakness. It is not so simple to feel empowered when the armor no longer fits, when the shield is lost.
Ten minutes before I had to leave for my follow-up appointment a week later, and the first time I had the strength to leave my home, I was in a frenzy over what to wear. “Who do I want to be?” I asked, as I have done whenever I have felt uncertain of myself. I wanted to emerge in the disguise of someone untouched by my pain, whose life was following the trajectory we are told, in a body not so unruly, in something tough and assured.
But I couldn’t be anyone other than myself, my body was still healing, and there were no other possibilities. I reluctantly picked an airy pale blue and brown checkered dress by an Italian designer named Sara Lanzi, and pulled on a pale green jacket from Lemaire, which I had bought in Paris a few years ago on impulse and with a modicum of guilt. At that moment, she was not who I wanted to be, but I had to accept that this was who I would need to be.
Accepting my vulnerabilities has been difficult, and wearing them on my sleeve even harder. The clothes we wear are commonly perceived as protection, a defense from intrusion, but they can also leave us feeling quite exposed, forcing us to confront that which we may be hiding from. To deny my reality will make the process of healing only that much longer, so I am surrendering. This is who I am now, and I am slowly, surely, growing quite fond of her.
Header image is Etel Adnan’s Sans titre, 2012.
I had a full hysterectomy, including both ovaries and tubes at 30. I can’t pretend to know what you are going through because we are different people.Just know your body will heal and your mind will heal when you are ready to let it. Love and strength to both you and your husband❤️🩹