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Connections, by Karin Bishop

Part 2

Chapter 3: Building Bridges

After clearing the bridge things away and washing everything, my mother and Marilyn and I sat for tea. There was a comfortable sameness and yet an awkwardness to the situation. Many times I’d help clear after Bridge Nights, and more often than not Marilyn would stay after and join us for tea. But tonight was different because we were going to discuss …me.

Each of us made an elaborate show of enjoying and concentrating on our tea, until Marilyn chuckled.

“Alright, I’ll acknowledge the elephant in the corner. Anybody else care to join in?”

Mom said, “Well, I think we should …yes, there are things we need to discuss.”

“Me,” I said. “I believe we’re about to discuss me.” I looked at each, and Marilyn turned to Mom, who studied her tea.

“Alice?” Marilyn gently said. “Do you want to start, or should I?”

“Perhaps …you, I think,” Mom said.

It was odd seeing her so uncomfortable; this wasn’t the ‘take charge, get it done, learn to cope, good Yankee stock’ character she usually displayed. She really looked lost and my heart went out to her, even more when she looked at me with eyes that seemed to be pleading something, but I didn’t know what.

“It’s okay,” I murmured to her.

Marilyn looked at the two of us, and reached out and squeezed the back of Mom’s hand. “Alright, you two. Time to face the elephant. I’ll start you up and somebody jump in whenever you want.” She turned to me. “Last night your mother phoned me, upset over her discussion with you. You told her you were a girl, you told her you wanted to be a girl, she wasn’t clear on the whole thing and wanted it to go away.”

I shook my head. “I said—”

Marilyn held up a hand. “Hush, honey; let me proceed in my own fashion. I’m merely reporting at the moment, and you need to know the sequence of events.”

“Sorry. I’ll be quiet until I’m asked to speak,” I said with a small smile to show I wasn’t being petulant.

Marilyn smiled back. “There will be lots to discuss, but right now we’re all getting on the same page. Alright. Your mother called and, as I said, after the conversation the two of you had, she felt she wasn’t clear on the whole thing. So to speak. I was at my computer and did some quick research and sent her some websites. We looked at them together and talked about the information.”

At my face, she laughed. “Didn’t know we old gals were so high-tech? You have no idea!”

But there was something …more to the way she’d said that last line, although she’d been kidding.

Marilyn went on. “By the time we were finished, your mother had a much clearer grasp of what transgendered means, what it implies for you, and her; and a direction. Alice?”

“I’m sorry if I was …abrupt with you last night, Michael. It was a lot to …absorb. Marilyn directed me to learn what I could.” The words seemed to be heartfelt, but she spoke them to her tea, eyes downcast.

“Thank you, Marilyn,” I said. “Is there anything I can say or that you need to know at this point?”

Marilyn and Mom looked at each other; there was a little head-tilting thing and Marilyn said, “It’s nearly 24 hours since you two spoke on this. Before we progress, would you care to restate anything?”

I took a sip of tea and considered, and nodded. “All of my life, I’ve felt like a girl. I know that technically I’m a boy, and society treats me as a boy, so I only know from my observations of boys and girls that I think and feel and—if I’m not careful—I act as a girl. That’s an inaccurate word; it is not an ‘act’ like a performance. I just meant that to an outside observer, my movements, gestures …just everything about me …would seem similar to a girl’s movements and so on. But it’s not forced; it’s natural. Um …is that clear, about the phrase ‘act like a girl’, I mean?”

They nodded, although Mom’s nod was after she checked that Marilyn nodded, and it was still reluctant.

I went on. “My body is not developing like a boy’s; it really hasn’t since birth. But at some point a male puberty might kick in, but even if it does, I will never be a big strong strapping male. More to the point, I will never think or feel like a male, no matter what my body says. More than anything in the world, I want to live my life as a female, as the girl that I am inside. If I can’t …well …” I frowned. “I have to. That’s all there is to it. And it’s not a failure on Mom’s part, or mine, I don’t think. It’s just the way I am, and always have been. A girl. Stuck being Michael, and I can’t go on much longer.” I paused and looked at my tea. “I guess that’s my case, restated.”

Marilyn’s face was unreadable. She nodded and turned to my mother. “Alice?”

Mom nodded. “That’s as I understand it, yes.”

Marilyn said, “Okay, so we’re all on the same page as far as the situation. Now, Alice, I think you need to take it from here.”

My mother had always prided herself on being ‘forthright’, but she was fumbling here, obviously wishing Marilyn would do all the speaking, but knew that she had to ‘take it from here’.

Mom frowned, then opened her lips to speak, then closed then firmly. A quick frown and then she began speaking, but in a somewhat stilted manner unlike her normal rate of speech.

“After talking with Marilyn last night, I read more information. I must say this is a very different subject than I imagined. Much more serious and much more …real.” She looked at her cup. “I think I did my child a disservice last night, and I only hope I can be more open and understanding in the future.”

She took a small sip, and the kitchen was so still that the slight rattle of the cup to the saucer was loud.

“I was in the process of making some calls today, from work, on my break, when Marilyn called me.” She looked at her friend and smiled. “She was persistent. She’d continued researching and had some names of specialists for me to call; I’d called and had no luck. She called me back on my lunch and had successfully scheduled the appointments that I’d failed to make.”

Marilyn waved her hand airily. “No big deal; I knew your mother was busy at work so I helped out.”

“You did more than that,” Mom tilted her head graciously. “You got past the receptionist where I’d failed.”

“Well, I know some people who know some people who know some people …that’s all,” she said modestly.

I was aware that Marilyn was rich; I’d never thought she might be a little more connected to the world than the casual wealthy lightweight she appeared. I knew so little about other people, I thought. I’d spent my life curled around my own misery.

My mother went on. “An appointment has been set for this coming Tuesday. I will collect you from school and we’ll go to the clinic. There will be a second appointment with another doctor on Thursday.”

“Wow!” I said. “Um …those must have been some ‘people’, Aunt Marilyn.”

“Certainly were,” Mom agreed. “I was told it would be three months to be seen by one doctor, and the other said to submit a file for consideration.”

Marilyn did the airy hand-wave thing. “Just …knowing the buttons they needed pushed. The main thing is that you two are moving forward.”

“We three,” I said, smiling at my godmother.

She smiled back, but there was more to it. Still looking at me, she said, “Alice? I spoke very briefly with Michael during our break. Mostly about Connie killing herself again with smoking, but when we’re all done here, I’d like a few minutes alone with your child if I may.”

“Certainly,” Mom said.

I was aware that Marilyn had given me the look and the reference to our earlier talk to remind me of my promises, including counting to ten. That meant the hard part was coming up.

My mother continued, “We will see what these specialists say. They will examine you thoroughly. Last night you said that what you felt was all internal and had to be taken on faith by others. I believe that these doctors can at least open a window into your internal workings. Physically and psychologically. You will be checked medically and mentally. We’re fortunate that these clinics are in our city; these are not some quacks. After researching them, I have full faith in their verdict. I ask that you do, too.”

I said, “You mean, abide by their decision?”

She nodded. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Marilyn watching me closely. I counted to ten.

I gave a firm nod, even as my stomach knotted.“Yes I will, Mother. If their verdict is ‘boy’ I will be …very upset, but I will have to reconsider my …my world. I can’t promise to like it, but I understand their expertise, the expense of all this, and …I will …”

I teared up. I couldn’t go on; the prospect of being told I had to live the rest of my life as a boy was too horrible to think about. I knew in an instant that a ‘boy’ verdict meant I’d have to break a promise to one of the two women I loved. Either continue as a girl in secret, or kill myself.

Marilyn gave me such a strange look that I felt like she had arrived at the same conclusion, although I wouldn’t think that possible. She said, “And if it’s a verdict of ‘girl’, do you also agree to abide by the doctor’s decision?”

That startled me. “Of course. It would just be confirming what I already know.”

“Alice?”

Mom looked at me, then at Marilyn, then shook her head slightly—in wonder, not in negation. “I don’t know what you two have, but there’s some strange connection between you two that I’m not privy to. It has always been there, and it’s very pronounced at this moment. Well, I never understood it and I still don’t. As to the point …very well. Michael, I want you to know that I also agree to abide by the doctor’s decision. Do you understand?”

I was still so caught up in misery thinking about a ‘boy’ verdict that I just nodded.

Marilyn said, “Michael, honey …” There was something in her tone that made me look at her. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, we both agree to abide by the verdict …” It was dawning on me that I might get a ‘girl’ verdict—please, God!—and that my mother was agreeing to abide by it. “Mother, do I understand correctly that if the doctors state that I should be a girl, you will allow that?”

She nodded but swallowed heavily before answering. “Yes, I will allow it on recommendation from the specialists. Are we all clear on this?”

We all were, but my mother had a finger in the air. “With one stipulation, and I’m trusting your honor. Do not dress as a girl, even the least little bit, not a single item, until we hear back from the doctors.”

I stared, and Marilyn said, “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh, Alice?”

My mother shook her head. “If the doctors say ‘boy’, then it’s a dead issue. If the doctors say ‘girl’ …well, then we’ll proceed, and a few days won’t matter.”

“But if a few days don’t matter—” I caught myself, remembering Marilyn’s advice to count to ten. “Yes, Mother. I’m not happy, but I agree to not dress as a girl—until the doctors say I can!” I ended positively.

“Are we all agreed, then?” Marilyn said. “To recap. Tuesday, medical doctor. Thursday, shrink. No dressing until we hear from both. Both parties agree to abide by doctors’ recommendations. Correct?” We both nodded our heads. “Good. It’s late; Michael, please clean up for us while I speak with your mother alone. I’ll find you in your room before I go.”

We stood, and I had the impulse to hug each lady in turn, then I gathered up the things to clean as they went into my mother’s room. So it’s serious and private, I thought. Oh well; I was a lot more further ahead than I had been this time last night. I just prayed the doctors said ‘girl’. I didn’t know how I’d handle anything else.

I was in my room reading on my bed when Marilyn knocked and entered. She looked around my room; I couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in it. She walked to my small desk and sat on the chair. She looked so out of place, in her elegant pink-and-gray ensemble, and the way she had such a quality of light and life about her; it contrasted with my drab room.

“What are you reading?” she asked gently.

“The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson,” I showed her the cover. “Nonfiction. About the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, and a serial killer operating at the same time.”

“Standard bedtime fare for a thirteen-year-old?” she grinned.

I grinned back. “For me it is. It’s amazing what was introduced at the Fair, all the common things we take for granted, like the Ferris Wheel and the Pledge of Allegiance, and also that such a methodical serial killer was operating. We always seem to think serials are a recent development.”

Marilyn nodded and said, “He has a new one out, but I thought White City was even better than Isaac’s Storm. If you haven’t read …oh, I see you have.” I was nodding yes. “Michael, even though it’s a weekend, it’s late so I’d like to speak with you.”

“Certainly,” I said, closing the book and sitting up.

She grinned again. “Certainly …you sound so much like your mother. It’s always fascinating watching you two; you’re so different but so very much alike in ways neither of you even know. Okay, to business. First, is there anything you want to say to me or ask me?”

“Not really …well, will you still love me if I become a girl?”

Her face went through several changes at once. “There is so much …I will just say this: I will always love you, no matter what. As much as my own daughters. Happy?”

I nodded. “Yes, thank you. I know kids that have godparents that couldn’t care less, but you’re …like a second mother to me, and I mean that in a good way,” I chuckled.

“Not ‘good cop-bad cop’ I hope?” she laughed with me. “I want to ask you some things and I hope you will answer fully; they are things that you might not want your mother to hear.”

“I figured that. What things?”

“First, we’ll go to Worst Case Scenario. If the doctors say ‘boy’, you’re going to betray somebody.”

She did know what I’d been thinking. I looked at the floor, nodding. “Yes. Either I’ll break my promise to Mom and dress like a girl in secret …or I’ll kill myself, breaking my promise to you. I think it’ll be the first one, though.”

“Yes; most transgendered people have to dress in secret, sometimes for their entire lives. But the second option is absolutely not to be considered, are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said automatically. “And you know why?”

“Because it would destroy your mother and me?”

“Yes, but also …death would seriously hamper my ability to dress like a girl.”

She stared for a moment and burst out laughing, her hand over her mouth to stifle.

“Oh, Lord; you are something!” She was still half-laughing when she said, “It’s not going to happen. I absolutely believe that the doctors will take one look at you and say, ‘why are you people wasting our time? Can’t you see she’s a girl?’”

“Oh, God, if only …” I sighed. “I’m going to be in knots until we know.”

“I know, honey; I know. Believe it or not, this is hard on your mother, too. Not the ‘changing to a girl’ part but the waiting and having to maintain objectivity. You know her; she will keep a tight rein on her feelings.”

I nodded, thinking about how truly uptight my mother could be.

Marilyn said, “Out of curiosity, what do you do when you’re not in school? I mean, besides what you do in this room?” On my shocked expression, she grinned, “I mean reading, internet, sleeping …don’t be vulgar!” But she laughed at that, and then got serious. “Your mom says you still don’t have any friends; she says you go to movies a lot on weekends.”

“That’s what I tell her. Sometimes I see something, but more often …” I decided to tell her the absolute truth. “More often I watch girls. I know that’s what teenaged boys do, and although I don’t do it for the …normal reasons a boy would, it gives me cover. I spend a lot of time in malls, but also museums, local soccer games, the library …”

“Watching girls?”

“Observing. Studying. Looking at their clothing, how it fits, how it drapes, how it moves. I study the …physicality of them, how they move. How they walk. How they hold their hands and heads. I listen to them as much as I can. For instance, I’ll sit on a bench with a soda at the mall and just listen to the conversations flow past. What are they talking about? How do they express themselves? I also study the …I guess you could call it the ‘melody’ of their speech, so different from boys’. I just …watch and listen to girls.”

She was nodding along as I listed things. “Observing to …mimic? Critique? Fantasize?”

I blushed a bit at the last. “Not mimic, per se, but it’s a way to compare how I move—I mean, everyday movement. And I know I’m more towards the female side of the spectrum. Listening to them talking is how I know that I think and feel like regular girls do. I have to work to keep the …melody out of my voice when I speak at school. Critique? Only so far as seeing what styles I’d like to wear. Fantasize ….” I took a deep breath. “That’s an element, too, but not the traditional sexual meaning. I …I imagine that I’m one of them, out at the mall with my girlfriends, laughing and having a good time, and what I’d be wearing and who would be there and what my room is like—sometimes I’ll walk through the displays of girls’ bedrooms at the furniture stores.”

She looked at me for a long moment, and then asked quietly, “Do you masturbate?”

“No,” I said. “Honestly. I never have. I know what it means, of course—not just the definition, but …God, every guy talks about it non-stop when they’re together!” I rolled my eyes.

Marilyn smirked. “Just like when they’re older—always bragging, whether it happened or not!”

I chuckled with her. “Exactly! See, that’s why …I told you that I observe girls, listen in, and know that I have the same thoughts and feelings the girls express. I do not have any of the thoughts and feelings of the boys, I can tell you that! Some of them are disgusting, of course, but mainly, they’re all about topping each other, what they call ‘one-ups-manship’. It just doesn’t …resonate with me, the way the girls’ thought processes do.” I paused, frowning. “Anyway, I hear all about masturbation, and the thousand-and-one names for it. I know the mechanics and sort of tried but nothing happened.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. I don’t have …” I trailed off. “Aunt Marilyn, I’ve done research on this; you know how I do things.” She smiled and nodded. I took a deep breath. “I have never had an erection. Ever. I have certainly never masturbated. As far as I’m aware, I have never had a nocturnal emission, a ‘wet dream’.”

Her eyes were widening; I thought she didn't believe me so I just sagged.

“So I watch the girls at the mall and imagine I’m shopping with them, giggling with them, and then I come home.” I shrugged.

“You must be so lonely, and so miserable, honey,” she said, her eyes wide and sad.

“Yes, I am. But I won’t be, I don’t think, if I’m allowed to live my life as a girl. If I can become a girl.”

Marilyn studied the floor for a moment, her hands in her lap. “Alright. I told you that I’d tell you my feelings, once you and your mother and I had our talk. First and foremost, I don’t think you can accurately use the phrase, ‘If I can become a girl’.”

“Well, whatever the proper terminology would be …”

She looked up and into my eyes. “I don’t believe you can become a girl, because I truly believe you are a girl. I’m female and I have two daughters and I’ve known you your whole life, and I’ve always thought you were more female than male. Your revelation is only a confirmation. Your mother is too locked into society’s dictates as well as …well, her own worldview …and is having trouble seeing beyond the ‘boy’ category you were placed in at birth. Her world exists only as a binary, boy or girl. As I see it, our job is to get professional medical opinions that confirm what you and I already know, and convince your mother of reality—that she has a daughter. I will do everything I can to make this happen; that is my promise to you.”

With that she stood, smoothing her skirt as I stared, staggered by what she’d said. I got off the bed and went to hug her, thanking her for being my godmother, thanking her for loving me, and promising that I wouldn’t disappoint her.

Chapter 4: Biding My Time

I had the usual weekend. I helped with laundry Saturday morning and then went to the mall and watched girls for several hours. There was a chance for the bargain matinee price just before five, so I went to see a new movie for teen girls, about a country girl in the big city learning to sing, and stayed in the back and cast myself as her best friend. I went home and read the Larson book some more; the whole day had cost less than ten dollars. Mom gave me an allowance to teach me the value of money; she thought I spent most of it on movies but as I’d told Marilyn, I mainly watched girls. It was pleasant and painful—since I couldn’t be one of them.

Sunday we went to church, as we usually did. I know what I prayed for—the same as every Sunday. ‘Please God, let me live as a girl’. And I looked at the pretty dresses the girls wore, and I was green with envy. As usual.

Sunday afternoon Mom wanted to shop so I tagged along, not paying much attention to her but a lot to the girls around me. Home for an early supper and early to bed.

Monday was the usual school day, enlivened by having my books knocked down by jerks. One of them picked up my Biology book and tossed it up on a high shelf. ‘What’s the matter? You can get it, can’t you? I thought fairies could fly!’ and he flapped his arms, elbows tucked into his body, and laughed with his friends as they walked off. One of the big kids, Derek somebody, came up from behind me and reached up to get the book, handing it to me. He was embarrassed to do it, but I guess he was such a good person that he felt he had to help. I thanked him and scuttled off to class.

In bed Monday night, I had a flash of what it would have been like if I’d been standing there in a skirt, cute top, and makeup when my book was up high. The Derek guy wouldn’t have been embarrassed; he’d hand it to me and I’d thank him and he’d ask me my name and I’d say ‘Melanie’ and he’d say something about it being a beautiful name, and we’d begin walking down the hall together, and I woke up at two, sweating.

It was difficult focusing on school on Tuesday. I was dressed better than usual, in Dockers and a shirt, like for Picture Day. Finally it was over and I was in the car with Mom.

The clinic was across the street from the University Hospital. We parked, went in and registered and waited. We were called in and a nurse took my vitals, I peed in a cup and had blood drawn and a swab of the inside of my cheek, then was told to strip and put on a paper gown. I sat, dangling my feet—wishing I had nail polish on my toes—when Dr. Stevenson introduced himself. He asked if I would like Mom to leave, but I felt we needed to be in this together. So it added extra embarrassment to have her there while Dr. Stevenson poked and prodded me, manipulating my penis and measuring it, sticking his finger up my rear—urk!—and thumping me and feeling my bones all over, then pressing all over from my groin to my neck, even feeling my nipples. The one time his cheerful veneer slipped slightly was the discovery that my testicles had never descended. He frowned as he noted that, and then, professional smile in place, he asked some general questions about sleep and diet, asked if I was taking any medication and gave me a stern look, which would be my cue to come clean about sneaking hormones or something. I told him the truth; I took nothing—my body always looked this way. He nodded, told me to get dressed, and we went home.

It was a bit of a letdown after all the anticipation. I knew it would take time to process the lab work, but come on! So a quiet Tuesday, boring Wednesday, quiet Wednesday night—although Mom and I watched a Sandra Bullock movie together. She glanced at me and made a face; unconsciously—I swear!—I had tucked my legs under me, just like a girl would. I straightened them, blushing, but I couldn’t read her expression. I felt like I had somehow violated her ‘no girl until the doctors’ verdict’ rule, but it was just the way I sat. Thursday was a repeat of Tuesday, when I found myself in a different clinic facing Dr. Estelle Thompson, psychiatrist. It bothered me a little that both doctors had ‘—son’ in their names; I hoped it wasn’t an omen.

Dr. Thompson was a delightful lady, though, almost grandmotherly, with wiry black and gray hair. I was asked to say my piece, then endless questions. We took a break and then she had a multiple-choice test for me, and then images I had to describe. Then another test which I took out in the waiting room while she spoke with Mom. Then back for another question-and-answer period. I knew enough to say the absolute truth and not try to second-guess the doctor, or to make a point of answering like I thought a girl would, because I knew she’d have questions designed to root out lies. After nearly three hours we were done, a big contrast to the short time with Dr. Stevenson.

And we were home. Now there was truly nothing to do except wait. I finished the school week without incident. Well, I got slammed into the lockers and avoided two tripping attempts; not unusual. I ‘went to the movies’ on Friday night, really watching the groups of boys and girls, high school kids, and wishing I was one of the girls. Then we had a lazy weekend, like so many that all blurred together. I watched TV, I read, I surfed the net, I helped Mom. I resolved to put it all out of my mind; anticipation would only make the time go slower. I felt like I’d fallen from a tall building and frozen, midway to the ground. I’d either rise like an angel or splatter on the pavement, so no sense rushing things.

Monday in school, I got a note during fourth period to report to the office immediately after fifth period. Mom was there with a written excuse, ‘doctor visit’—and so much was contained in those two words. We drove to the hospital itself and were directed to a conference room. To my surprise Marilyn was there and seemed to know Dr. Stevenson, which shouldn’t surprise me. She’d obviously known someone to get the appointments so soon.

We sat and the evidence was presented. Medically, I was well below normal development for a male but right in the average percentile if I were female. My fluids showed good health and no alien substances—no added hormones or anything like that—but my chemistry was off. My DNA was off, too. Well, the results weren’t ‘off’, but they definitely weren’t on the money for a normal boy. Duh! It boiled down to this: I was probably 90% female, chemically. The tests showed the same basic information, that I was abnormally low for a boy and pretty normal for a girl.

It wasn’t said at that point, but it was clear to me that the regular prognosis would be massive amounts of male hormone and other additives to stimulate normal male development. To me, that would mean a form of death. So all my hopes rested with Dr. Thompson, who Marilyn did not seem to know. That worried me.

Her file was thinner than Dr. Stevenson’s, because she hadn’t included all the test materials, only the results. She went through a lot of clinical names—I asked if she could let me see the names later so I’d be clear on the spelling of them. One thing she referred to repeatedly was ‘Klinefelter’s Syndrome’ which I apparently did and did not fall into, or have. It seemed to make me very interesting to them.

Dr. Stevenson helped from the medical aspect. “You see, Mrs. Stanwood, your child is technically XXY, but with variations from the typical Klinefelter’s genotype, enough to cloud the issue somewhat. Many XXY males still have a masculine self-identity and worldview and see themselves as underdeveloped males. Testosterone-based hormone therapy helps them develop as regular males, although they remain small and delicate in stature for the rest of their lives, and are usually sterile.”

“I’ve read about Klinefelter’s on the internet; isn’t that associated with mental retardation or criminal tendencies?” my mother asked, quite brittle.

Dr. Stevenson said, “It was a misunderstanding in the past. There is no absolute correlation; there are other symptoms besides those associated with Klinefelter’s that often present along with the Klinefelter’s but not due to it. It’s like …well, if your baby is left-handed and has blue eyes, somebody might say that blue eyes are associated with left-handedness, but they are genetically determined completely independently of each other. However, there are clusters of syndromes somewhat common with certain genetic variations, yes. But that doesn’t seem to be the case here. For example, one of the concerns about Klinefelter’s is lower intelligence, but Michael scored almost off the charts in intelligence, I understand.”

Dr. Thompson said, “Borderline genius, and over the line in some areas.”

Everybody looked at me and I squirmed. I knew I was smart, and it was nice getting some validation of it, but I’d trade IQ for girlhood any day of the week.

I spoke up. “You were talking about testosterone therapy …?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s the usual route. However, I’m not sure that’s advisable in your case …” He looked at Dr. Thompson. “Doctor?”

She addressed the whole table. “In a nutshell, Michael’s test results have no correlation whatsoever with a standard boy’s responses. However, they are consistent with an under-socialized ten-to-twelve-year-old female. In other words …Michael’s thought processes and emotions are female.”

I let out the breath that I’d been holding, feeling a wave of relief.

My mother asked, “Is this temporary or permanent?”

“Oh, permanent, definitely. The processes and emotional structures I’m referring to are somewhat fluid until about five or six, and crystallize or harden into the individual’s identity and worldview. Every person—male, female, you, I, Dr. Stevenson—goes through this process, with the crystallization complete by about age seven. There’s no changing that process. And the results are clear. Your child sees the world, interprets and interacts with the world, as a female. However …the world interacts with your child as a male.”

My mother looked at me, frowning. “To sum up what you both have stated, everything about my child—with the exception of genitalia—is female?”

The doctors looked at each other, shrugged and nodded. “Essentially,” Dr. Stevenson said.

Dr. Thompson nodded and said, “In the purest meaning of that word, the essence. Your child’s very essence is female.”

Mom asked, “Is this changeable? And is it due to …nature or nurture?”

“I understand your concern, Mrs. Stanwood,” Dr. Stevenson said. “Let me assure you that nothing in your rearing of your child is responsible for this condition. Worldview is a difficult term to quantify from a medical lab viewpoint, but it is known that when the brain chemistry is female—as your child’s is—then the worldview nearly always develops as essentially female. I’m afraid we may have a chicken-or-the-egg type of argument, but that’s the way of it. But it’s completely outside the influence of nurture, so don’t beat yourself up; it’s nothing you’ve done, certainly not when corroborated by the medical evidence.”

Dr. Thompson said, “This is one point where we have verifiable physiological evidence confirming a psychological diagnosis. It’s vitally important that you understand what Dr. Stevenson just said in passing. Your child’s brain chemistry is female. And that is why the psychological tests report female brain activity. Is that clear?”

Mom nodded slowly, frowning. “But …” Her frown deepened. “Independently verified?”

“Yes,” Dr. Stevenson said. “There is absolutely no doubt as to your child’s biochemistry. Female,” he nodded once, as if that was an end of it.

Marilyn weighed in for the first time “Other than the XXY-variation, are there any other identifiable markers?”

“Not really. The Y chromosome seems to be delaying puberty, almost as if it knows the body wants to become female and match the mind, and is fighting a last-ditch attempt by slowing any puberty.”

She asked, “If this Y were suppressed …”

Dr. Stevenson nodded, “Normal female puberty would be expected. Without menstruation, of course.”

“Have you done internal exams? MRI?” Marilyn asked.

“That would be the next step, but as I understood it we needed to consult with Dr. Thompson before proceeding with further testing.”

“That’s true,” Marilyn said. “I had hoped we’d have the internal results as well but we’ll schedule a soft-tissue scan immediately. Meanwhile,” she turned in her chair to look at me with a big smile, “it looks as if you’ll be getting a new wardrobe!”

I was quite surprised at how …professionally Marilyn spoke with the doctors, how technically, almost as an equal rather than as a godmother allowed to listen in to the meeting. But then I realized the impact of her last sentence.

“Mother?” I asked, softly.

Mom was looking at the files, frowned slightly, then her face cleared and she said, “Doctors, plainly speaking. Do I have a son or a daughter?”

They looked at each other and Dr. Stevenson said, “You have almost a daughter.”

Dr. Thompson said, “You have entirely a daughter.”

Mom nodded. “Dr. Stevenson, I thank you for your provisionary diagnosis and I understand your cautious answer. A final question; in your opinion would it be better to raise my child as a male or female?”

“Female. Dr. Thompson’s findings show that your child has almost no grounding in a masculine world, no socialization whatsoever. That’s outside of my purview, but should be taken into account. As to your question and my opinion, your child is much too far from being male, physically, for testosterone therapy to be of any benefit. There is also the genetic reality that …your child is biologically—and especially chemically—nearly entirely female. Within the parameters of my examination, the only criteria for a male designation is the under-formed genitalia. Even with a massive input of testosterone, the very best you could hope for was a undersized, under-formed, sterile male with probable testosterone rage. Because the quantity needed would almost certainly have dire effects on anger issues.”

“Rage …” Mom said, stunned.

“Rage,” Dr. Stevenson said, nodding. “Essentially, testosterone would act as …a form of poison, in a sense. Completely unacceptable. On the other hand, your child’s hormonal balance is nearly within textbook female norms without assistance, but there is just enough …interference from the minor Y chromosome to have formed genitalia resulting in the male diagnosis at birth.”

Dr. Thompson said, “As Dr. Stevenson began his opinion with a psychological statement, I’d like to add a medical statement to his.” She smiled at Dr. Stevenson, who nodded graciously. “Based on our findings, it seems nearly certain that the Y chromosomal interference occurred very late in your pregnancy. A last-minute addition to an essentially female embryo, just enough to cause minor genital development resulting in the male diagnosis.”

Mom frowned, nodding. To herself, she murmured, “…male diagnosis …” Then she seemed to shake herself. “My question, summed up?”

Dr. Stevenson grinned and nodded. “As I said, female. She’s nearly there already.”

“Thank you, Dr. Stevenson,” Mom nodded.

I breathed a sigh of relief and realized I was shaking. I glanced at Marilyn; her eyes were narrowed in thought as she looked at the file in front of Dr. Stevenson. Something was bothering her, I could tell, but I didn’t pursue the thought because Mom turned to the other doctor.

“Dr. Thompson, independent of Dr. Stevenson’s comments, the same question. Should I raise my child as a male or a female?”

“Female. Without question. Even if there was nothing to be done medically—and there is a significant amount that can be done—to raise your child as a male would be a plunge into purgatory. Into depression, anxiety, and …worse. It might even be construed as a form of abuse, to try to force a female to appear male. The medical and psychological evidence is incontrovertible. You have a daughter. And so to raise your child as a girl makes perfect sense. Because she is a girl.”

Oh, God; that sounded so good! I felt like my eyes were wide, my nostrils flaring, like a huge rush of adrenaline or something. I looked at Marilyn, who had turned from staring at the file and now beamed at me with a huge smile, and my mother, who at last looked at me as if for the first time—and I think that’s what it was. She was realizing it wasn’t a whim, it wasn’t a phase, it wasn’t bad parenting, it wasn’t a missing father, it wasn’t anything other than I should have been a girl since Day One.

And every day since.

Now it was time to talk about a course of treatment, and it was decided that I would start living as a girl at home but continue as a boy for the last few weeks of school. Once school was out I would be living as a girl full-time. Since I’d be a high school freshman next year, it would be easier to make the transition. Any discussion about a change of schools or districts could wait. Most importantly, I would do the internal scans tomorrow and start immediately on prescribed androgen blockers to inhibit the testosterone that was fouling things up—that pesky ‘Y’ influence. And we would be given documentation to allow me to legally live as a girl and change my name.

I thought it odd that only at the end of the very last statement by Dr. Thompson had they used a pronoun; I was always ‘the child’ or ‘your child’. But I knew in my heart of hearts they meant ‘she’ and ‘her’ and ‘your daughter’.

End of Part 2

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