Soft, golden eyes. Posted by Nye , Wednesday, March 24, 2010 at 4:15 AM, in

There're cheetahs on the roof..

I'm lying flat on my back in a treatment room, crisp white hospital sheets beneath me, staring distantly up at the ceiling. At some stage in the past a kindly soul decided to tape a picture of three baby cheetahs directly above the gurney to help combat boredom, but in my case I'm just trying desperately to get some blood back into my head. The cheetahs are staring intently back down at me with soft, golden eyes, and for the moment I'm grateful for something, anything to concentrate on.

It's been a long day.

I woke up blearily on the loungeroom floor of my apartment, having retreated there at 12:37am 'last night' because I couldn't sleep. It's my usual remedy to slap a mattress down directly under the aircon which is then ramped down to 17 degrees C and turned on full blast. Something about being frostbitten on the outside, but snuggly on the inside helps me fall asleep when I'm anxious.

Today. Today is the day there will be at least 1 needle in my immediate future. Another step closer to my transition.

My understanding of what's about to transpire is pretty limited despite all of my readings. I know that I have to have a blood test first in which the endocrinologist will match me to the specific rhythms that I will need to have 'T' administered. Some guys can have it 2 weeks apart, others 3, some as long as 5.

But the results are usually the same if you screw it up: PMT ON OVERDRIVE. Once you've started on Testosterone the emotional backlash if your body essentially runs out is catastrophic and something I hope fervently to avoid.

It's quite ironic really. I've spent most of my life to this point hating PMT and looking forward to it being gone - and now there is *duh duh duh*.. MAN PMT.. in the wings if we're not careful.

Other than that though, I'm not really sure what today holds for me. Will I walk out of there with a lump of 'T' in the muscles of my ass? Will they tell me I can't start for 6 months? Will they take one look at me and for some strange reason slam the door on any transition at all?

I really don't know and it's that unknowledge that's making me very unsettled.

I go through the usual morning routine and end up at work after a very drawn out, very smelly taxi ride. (How that guy ever got a job with Silver Service I will never know.) On my arrival the office is devoid of people and I'm again left to my thoughts, the chocolate brown of my desk and the struggle of trying to focus on 'work things'.

It's hard, and each minute that passes only makes it harder. During one point of the day, about an hour before I'm due to be collected by Mel who (bless her cotton socks) is coming with me, Kim mentions that it looks like I'm freaking out a bit knowing that the appointment is coming.

She's right, for any one of a hundred reasons. I've gone past tapping on the desk and hurtled straight into doing stuff like washing dishes and frequent trips to the bathroom. I'm agitated and it's showing.

Mel arrives and after some gentle 'jabs' about how much I'm concerned by the concept of getting stabbed with a needle, I'm bundled out of the door and into the car. I drive. It's at least something I can control and it settles me somewhat as we make our way to the Concord Reparation General Hospital.

The bumps in the final stretch of road are rhythmic and strike me oddly as they sound off steadily against the tires like a heartbeat.

After a small kerfuffle with the parking machine and some 'guess again!' gate directions, we're walking hand in hand down a long, covered walkway. It reminds me disconcertingly like walking down a school corridor, the cement pathway is old and scuffed with painted arrows pointing the way to various departments. I get stuck with a major bout of Déjà vu until I realise my brain is overlapping every significant school transit experience I've ever had.

Walking out of primary school for the last time, walking out of high school for the last time, walking back into my first school as an adult Account Manager.. it seems that scuffed concrete will continue to support my footsteps at interesting junctures during my lifetime.

We make it to the door of the Andrology unit and share a breath before Mel opens the door to move inside. It looks like any other doctors surgery from the 80's with large, faded non-colour tiles on the floor, cream walls and a white 'hasn't been scrubbed in a while' ceiling which flickers slightly under the fluro lighting. It smells clinical and there are lowered voices as people move around the hallways.

The receptionist is quick to pull my attention away from the surroundings.

"Hello there - how can I help you?"

I explain who I am and that I have a 3pm appointment with Dr Conway or her counterpart. She checks her schedule and finds my name before handing over a patient detail form, directing me to a waiting area so I can fill it out.

I sit down next to Mel and begin to fill it it. Name - easy. Address - sure thing. Gender - ... uh.. what?

There are two options on the form, male or female. I stare blankly at them, confused. What do I put here? What I am or what my body is? Why do they even have these options on this form? I chew on it for a while and then, unable to come to any other reconciliation, tick the female box. I write '(physically)' next to it though which makes me feel marginally better.

After returning the paperwork and getting back to my seat I make a comment to Mel that I hope I get Dr Conway and not her counterpart. Ann Conway has been around transgender patients since.. well.. forever in medical terms. (35 years.) She's been an Australian authority on many things Trans and it's natural that I'd feel a little safer in her hands.

Unfortunately I recognise her as she walks into the waiting room and collects a man who was sitting across from me. My stomach sinks slightly as I realise I've struck out.

I mull for a while and then a bright, fresh faced woman of what appears to be Indian descent approaches me, her smile a warm bath of pleasant.

"Hello there.. my name is Dr Veena Jayadev, Nye?"

Something about disposition instantly inspires trust in me and I nod, introducing Mel as my partner as we walk down to her office. She's about 5'6, maybe mid 30's, slim in build and has a very gentle mannerism. She comes off as naturally curious, but careful about her approach with people and as I take a seat with Mel in her room I'm far less nervous than I expected.

She begins by asking my age, medical history, do I smoke, drink, those kind of things. I've never smoked a day in my life, nor consumed alcohol and I can't tell you how glad I am about this as both of those really contribute to things like skin scaring after surgery. She also weighed and measured my height - I'm 4 cms shorter than I thought I was.

Dammit.

After the routine questions are out of the way we move onto the GID specific stuff, along with a good dose of information about the process and how the 'T' is going to effect me.

One thing I've learnt in my travels so far is that doctors are very, very concerned not only about stuffing people's lives up, but of not impacting people with the full level of information about their changes. Venna was exceptional, I thought I knew most things but she more than filled in gaps I didn't even know I had.

Once I start 'T' my body will undergo changes to bring me in-line with being a man. I'll go through a second puberty where my voice will break, hair will grow, acne will rock up (again) and the breasts that inhabit my chest will shrink. I will put on muscle like no-one's business if I do gym. Also my metabolism will speed up and I will find it easier to lose weight. I will also grow essentially a mini-penis as my clitorial area changes.

I knew all that. What I *didn't* know was the following.

If I stop 'T' that won't go away.. I will have that bad boy for the rest of my life. (Win!) The other chunk of info that she gave me wasn't so great though.

If I don't choose to get a hysterectomy I will never be able to have Male on my birth certificate. Or my drivers license. Or my medicare card. Or my passport. And because of that it also means I cannot legally marry until it's done. (Australia recognises FtM full transitionals as properly able to marry.)

That really sucks.

I'd never even wanted to go down that path of major surgery because I'm comfortable with having a uterus as it's inside of me and a non-presenting part to the outside world. I don't need it to be gone, and I didn't want to take the risks I'd have to take getting rid of it.

Now it may be that I have no choice. And that sucks more than I can possibly say. I feel invaded.

Veena finished up her consultation and headed off to get Leo, the head nurse of the clinic that I've mentioned previously in my posts. He came into the room and settled himself comfortably, turning out to be nothing physically like I expected.

For some reason his voice on the phone gave me the impression that he was a young, possibly gay, man.. maybe 35 or so. Sandy coloured hair. Maybe a little taller than me.

In reality he was even better. Probably around 55 or so, very trim, with a gold wedding band on his finger. His is a face that has seen a lot of miles, both happy and sad.

Like a well loved book he quite simply opened up to Mel and I, taking us through the process, carefully ensuring that we both understood what was going to happen to me and making sure we knew he was always going to be available as a resource.

He is quiet, completely unassuming and it's very clear to me that he has absolutely no idea of the impact he makes in other people's lives.

Once we had gone through everything with him, Venna reappeared at the door and asked what Leo's opinion was about commencing treatment. His response made me light up like a Christmas tree.

"I think we should absolutely start him straight away."

Venna proceeded to write out a script for my 'T' which Mel swiftly pockets to ensure I don't lose it. (She knows me well.) I'm led into another room that contains a hospital bed and some chairs. A rainbow of needle cases line the walls and Leo busily prepares some empty vials and an arm strap.

The room spins a bit as I sit down on the bed.

There are good natured cracks being thrown around the room about my dislike of needles and Veena stays to lend 'support' with no small amounts of chuckling. Leo straps up my arm, flicks a vein a couple of times and then Mel urges me to look away.

The stab happens.

Oh Christ. Four vials. Four fucking vials of my blood is being drained out of me. Where to put my eyes, I can't look like a pussy in front of these people but I can't look at the FOURFUCKINGVIALSOFBLOODBEINGDRAINEDOUTOFME.

I distantly hear the endocrinologist asking me to breathe. I think I am breathing. Apparently I am not.

1 vial in plunked down in the tray. My head isn't connected to my body anymore and Mel is over to my left somewhere. A second vial joins the first with a soft clatter and I look down to see redfilled glass staring back at me. My stomach flips. A third vial joins the others that swiftly has a fourth placed in with it.

Leo is very, very good at extractions.

It's over. I'm sick to my gut and woozy. Leo makes a comment about it's always the big burly blokes that faint from needles, and regardless of how true that is, it makes me feel better.

I try to get up but the floor isn't stable yet so I'm asked to lay down for a bit and I stare up at the cheetahs plastered on the roof.

Leo gets me some water which I'm told in no uncertain terms to drink while he takes the blood.. my blood.. away. He then uses the next 5 minutes it takes for me to get my head right to line up my next set of actions.

In a week's time I am to call Veena to get the results of my bloodwork. If that's all clear, and the matches are all sorted, I can book my first appointment for a 'T' injection 2 days after this. He also explains where and how to get the 'T' with the script I've been given.

Mel jots everything down in her iPhone and I know I'm in particularly good hands as I try for the second time to get up. It's late and Leo should've left by now, but he makes sure I'm stable enough to get out of the building, we part and then Mel gets me back to the car.

Another week of waiting to go before I have a 100% on the next phase but for now..

Step 4: Completed.