I'm sorry my dear man. You've looked after me, cooked for me, tended me after my hysterectomy, but you can't bring me back to life. Many years we've been together, in birth (five of them for heaven's sake) bereavement (all four parents) in richness, sickness, poverty and health, but never in bed. No long kisses, no getting lost in your eyes.
Eventually, at 10 weeks post-op, we talk. I know you feel awkward, that my illness reminds you of your mother's illnesses long ago. But my sex has been surgically removed, I am castrated, that other woman is dead. Now the new one must be bought to life and she needs someone to do that, to drive it, to not be awkward.
I'm torn, body and heart, soul and sex. I need to know that she's still there, or at least, that her spirit still resides in me. Because I need to live my life, and that life needs a whole person to live it, not a broken one any more.