My Daughter, Myself

By Heather St. Claire

Prologue: The Proposal

It’s a gorgeous late spring day in the Pacific Northwest. A young couple is enjoying a picnic lunch together under a shade tree at a city park. They’ve spread out a blanket underneath a shade tree and have brought with them a basket full of sandwiches, fresh fruit, cold soda, and assorted other goodies.

An old woman (she’s going to be 87 next month, and figures she’s earned the right to think of herself that way) sits on a bench a short distance from the couple and tries not to be too obvious about the fact that she’s watching them.

The girl–she must be in her early twenties, legally an adult but still a girl in the old woman’s eyes–is wearing a peasant top, short-shorts and wedge sandals. Her long, slightly wavy light brown hair is sun-streaked. Her square face features full, pouty lips, an upturned nose, and eyes that might be just a bit too big for the rest of her face, but the overall effect is quite pleasing. The old woman isn’t close enough to see the girl’s eyes, but her boyfriend can. There’s a depth to them that seems to signal a maturity that goes beyond her years.

The young man looks like he might have just stepped off a Norwegian ski slope–broad shoulders, a chiseled jaw, and naturally curly blonde hair. The two of them are in love–there’s no doubt about that at all in the old woman’s mind. They’re talking, laughing. She brushes her hand on his forearm several times, and she leans forward to steal more than one kiss. When they’ve finished their sandwiches, she reaches into the picnic basket for a container of strawberries. They take turns feeding the berries to each other.

The old woman smiles, and feels happy, even though the scene reminds her of the ache she still feels inside over the loss of her husband two years earlier. They had fifty-seven years together, and she’s grateful for every day of those years; and she’s happy to see that while bodies–and people–age and die–love is eternal.

Just when the old woman thinks the scene couldn’t be any better, the young man reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small square box–could it be? Yes, the distance be damned, the old woman knows an engagement ring when she sees one–and it’s a pretty big one too. The young woman clasps both hands over her mouth, and starts to cry. The old woman smiles; she’s sure she knows what’s coming next. But does she?

The girl is still crying; the young man has a puzzled expression on his face. She gestures wildly with her hands, pointing to her head more than once. She seems to be entering into a long speech of some kind; the young man listens intently, nods from time to time, but doesn’t speak. What, the old woman wonders, could possibly be wrong with this picture?

What indeed?

The old woman has assumed, correctly, that the young man–Lars Jensen–has asked the girl–Emily Westbrook–to marry him.

She hasn’t said yes; she hasn’t said no. She says she has a story to tell him before she gives him an answer. It’s quite a story indeed. We need to hear it too, in her own voice.

Chapter One–The Accident

Oh Lars, my darling Lars, where do I begin?

I’ve told you about the bad car crash I was in when I was 13–the one that killed my father. Well, that was the first lie. That accident didn’t kill my father. It killed my daughter. You see, I am–or was–John Westbrook.

Oh, please don’t look at me like that! Please don’t look at me like you think I’m crazy. I swear to you, I swear on my daughter’s memory, that everything I’m telling you is the truth.

I was 49 years old then, a very successful divorce lawyer. My wife Elizabeth–the woman you know as my mother–was 36 at the time. We had been married for 15 years. Emily was our only daughter. We had agreed from the start that we only wanted one child. Emily had spent the night at a friend’s house, and I had picked her up. We had just exited the interstate when we entered the intersection where the crash occurred.

Like I told you before, a trucker had lost his brakes, and he was trying to stop. But he barreled right through the intersection and into the driver’s side door of my Mercedes. My body was crushed. Emily’s head was slammed against the window, and that was enough to cause an aneurysm at the base of her brain to burst. I don’t remember the crash or anything for a long, long time after that, so I learned all of this part later.

They brought in a life flight helicopter. We were both taken to Seattle Grace Mercy West Hospital. I guess I was lucky, if you can call it that. If I had gone almost anywhere else, I would have been dead for sure. But at Seattle Grace, one of the best neurosurgeons in the country, Dr. Derek Shepherd, was waiting for me. You’ve probably heard of him–he won the Nobel Prize in medicine for his pioneering work in brain transplantation.

Yes, Lars, brain transplantation. This is Emily’s body, but my brain. I am one of thirty-seven currently surviving brain transplant patients in the world. Do you believe me? Do you want me to go on? Good.

You would have been pretty young, but do you remember the big excitement over the breakthroughs in stem cell research about twenty years ago? All of a sudden, blind people were able to see again, paraplegics were walking again….some of the most amazing breakthroughs in medical history. It was Dr. Shepherd’s idea to try transplanting a human brain. Until then, it was something strictly in the realm of science fiction–you know, like Frankenstein.

It had been done in animals years earlier, but of course, with no way to fix the spinal cord, they were quadriplegics. Now that the spinal cord and nerves could be repaired, that wasn’t an obstacle anymore. You might think putting the brain from one body into another would be incredibly complex, but Dr. Shepherd made it sound so simple when he explained it to me a long time later. He said, ‘There are really very few plug-ins: besides the spinal cord, there are a few large vessels for blood supply and 12 pairs of large nerves.’

There haven’t been too many brain transplants, though, for a lot of reasons. The difficulty and expense, to be sure. But mainly, there has to be an appropriate donor and recipient ready at the same time. That doesn’t happen all that often. But that was the case here. My body was crushed–just about every bone broken and massive internal injuries–but my brain was intact. Meanwhile, poor Emily was brain-dead but her body was otherwise healthy.

Beth has never really wanted to talk much about her decision to okay the surgery, and I can’t imagine what went through her head. Can you imagine being told that the only way to save your spouse or your child is to permit the creation of some kind of bizarre hybrid of the two of them? I do know a bit about the debate that went on among the medical staff of the hospital. As you can imagine, the ethical implications of what they were doing were huge, but they only had minutes to get Beth’s okay and get going or I was almost certain to die.

There had been a cross-racial transplant about a year earlier–a black woman’s brain wound up in a white woman’s body–but I was the first, and so far only, cross-gender transplant case. I’m also the only parent who ended up in their child’s body. I still have tremendous difficulty thinking about it.

Emily was the best thing that ever happened to our relationship. I loved Beth and she loved me, but we were really two busy professionals living separate lives that rarely intersected except when it came to Emily. I loved that little girl with all my heart. I changed her diapers. I helped scare away the monsters at night. I did everything I could to nurture her. And now I’m inside of her…..it is still hard to cope with, even nine years later.

Anyway, even though Dr. Shepherd said the surgery was simple, it actually lasted more than a day. I know they had to start off by cooling both of our bodies…after that, I really can’t explain what happened and in what sequence. I can’t imagine how wrung out mom–Beth--was. You know, it’s still hard for me to call her ‘Beth’ after almost ten years of calling her ‘mom.’ But anyway, she told me the only thing that kept her going were the regular updates from Dr. Shepherd’s wife, Dr. Grey. She was also part of the surgical team. She came out as often as she could to reassure her that everything was going well, and it was. There were absolutely no obstacles or complications.

They kept me in a medically-induced coma for about a month. I don’t remember the first stages, when they started to bring me out of it. Mom–I’ve been thinking of her as that and calling her that for so long, it’s just more natural to me now–says I was pretty disoriented. Apparently I thought I was blind and paralyzed, and I was to a degree. All I saw at first were light and dark patches, and those were very fuzzy. Then within a couple of days, I could recognize shapes, but everything was still blurry. At the same time, I was gaining use of my arms and legs–very slowly at first, but there was definite progress every day. They kept reassuring me that all of this was normal and that I would be seeing perfectly and I would be up and around in no time.

As for the accident, and what happened to Emily, they told me what had happened in stages. At first, I just understood that I had been in a very bad accident, but I was going to be O-K. Everything seemed to have an aura of unreality. I think someone told me that my brain was now in Emily’s body, but I thought they had to be kidding, or it had to be a drug-induced hallucination. Then gradually, things started to become clear.

I can remember being in that bed, all kinds of tubes and wires hooked to me, my head swathed in bandages, and the reality of what had happened starting to sink in. I was crying, and asking what had they done to me, what had they done to Emily, where was my daughter? It was so hard on mom, but they kept telling her this was all to be expected. Gradually, I absorbed what had happened. It took me quite some time to process it. All these years later, I’m still processing it.

I did understand a few things. I was now, to all outward appearances, a 13-year old girl–my own daughter. I understood that I was going to be in the hospital for a long time, to allow me to heal, to make sure there were no complications from the surgery, and to give me time to learn how to function in my new body. I had months of recovery ahead. I would be on anti-rejection drugs for the rest of my life, although the fact that we were parent and child significantly lessened the likelihood of an episode.

I thought for a long time this was some kind of nightmare, and that I had to wake up at some point, but no, it was all real. Poor mom. She kept telling me how sorry she was. I finally said, ‘For what? Allowing them to save me?’

It was a few days after I was awakened that they asked me to try soft foods for the first time. Just a simple act like eating made me more aware of my new body. I couldn’t believe how slim my arms were, how small and delicate my hands were. And if I looked down, I saw….breasts. Even at 13, Emily was pretty well-developed….a gift from her mother, you might say. You’re smiling Lars. That’s O-K, I’m glad you appreciate them. Oh, stop blushing! You’re a normal, healthy, male, and that’s why I fell in love with you!

Anyway, that same day, they put me through all kinds of eye-hand coordination tests, made sure I could move my legs, and so on. It was the very next day when they took me to therapy to have me try to walk for the first time. It wasn’t until they stood me up that I realized I was about a foot shorter than I had been. I felt very small and very vulnerable. I was able to take a few shaky steps while leaning on the parallel bars, and things proceeded from there. The physical part went forward pretty smoothly, although it was strange getting used to have to sit to pee. And getting used to periods…that would come in time. All I can say is I now understand those women who say if men were the ones having babies, the human race would become extinct. Seriously.

None of that was easy. But it was a piece of cake compared to the emotional adjustment.

When I went into the bathroom by myself for the first time, I headed right for the toilet. When I was finished, I went to the sink to wash my hands, and that’s when I got a look at myself in the mirror for the first time. To say I freaked out would be putting it mildly. I can’t even explain why…just seeing what had been my daughter’s face staring back at me was such a shock. I knew what had happened, yet it really didn’t fully sink in until that moment, I guess. Of course, the fact that my hair was just barely starting to grow back and my head was encircled with stitches didn’t help, either. I was screaming and crying. Mom couldn’t get me calmed down; they finally had to sedate me.

Mom and I both needed a lot of therapy to even begin to cope. Can you imagine the guilt I felt–still feel? It was the ultimate survivor’s guilt. I was the driver when we crashed. My precious little girl was dead. I was alive. In her body. Part of me, despite the evidence of my own eyes, wasn’t willing to accept what had happened. Finally, they talked Beth into letting me see the video of my funeral. My own funeral. That was hard to bear. Seeing my brother and sister, my colleagues, my friends all in mourning…for me. I wanted to scream at the T-V, ‘I’m alive! I’m right here.’ But that helped me realize that as far as the world was concerned, John Westbrook was dead. And that included both of our families. I’m actually thankful both my parents were already dead when this happened. Beth was thirteen years younger than me, so both of her parents were still alive, and I guessed, correctly as it turned out, they proved to be among the biggest challenges. Not only did I have a mother again, I had grandparents as well.

I had a lot of mourning to do. It was hard to accept the reality that my sweet, bright, beautiful daughter was gone…that I would never see her graduate from high school, that I would never walk her down the aisle on her wedding day, that she would never be able to make me a grandfather. It was a lot to process. A lot.

Beth–mom–and I finally both made our own peace with the reality of it, but you can’t begin to imagine what it was like unless you have lived it. God, I feel like I want to cry….this is why I try not to relive it. Thank you, honey. Thank you for holding me. Thank you for not treating me like some kind of monster.

I needed regular physical therapy for quite a while as I adjusted to this body. I had to re-learn how to walk, sit, run, eat, and speak. I had to learn how my new body worked. That was quite an education! I can laugh about it now, but it was not fun at the time. The very first time I had my legs in stirrups was quite an occasion. I remember asking the gynecologist, ‘Damn, doctor! Don’t you ever think about warming that thing up?’ It was the first time I had ever had a speculum inside of me. I didn’t even know what it was called then.

That doctor, believe it or not, told me he wanted me to masturbate regularly. I tried to make a joke, telling him girls with hairy palms don’t get many dates, but he didn’t even crack a smile. He said it was important for me to get used to how my body worked and it was going to be an important part in adjusting to my new sexuality. At that point, sex in any form was the furthest thing from my mind. I told him to shut the hell up when he tried to talk to me about birth control. But I did learn how to…pleasure myself. Having experienced it from both sides, I can tell you it takes longer as a woman to get there…but I really like the female orgasm better. It’s hard to explain…it’s different…deeper…sorry, honey. You’re a man. This is one you’ll never understand.

I will spare you is the trials and tribulations of learning how to insert a tampon, and the joy of periods. On second thought, maybe you should know why I get so cranky at the same time every month. An aching back, stomach cramps, having your jeans suddenly be too tight…yeah, it’s loads of fun.

One thing we didn’t have to worry about was money. My life was insured for five million dollars, and I was declared legally dead by the courts; as far as the law is concerned, I have assumed Emily’s identity in every particular. So I don’t really have to work if I don’t want to–but it’s a choice I’ve made, at least for now.

So….It was four months to the day after the accident when they discharged me from the hospital. By then, I had started getting dressed every day. They were pretty neutral in their early clothing choices for me–mainly plain jeans, T-shirts and tennis shoes–but there was no denying my new gender. Even a simple thing like realizing shirts now buttoned from the opposite side. By now, my incision was healing nicely, my hair was growing out, and I was ready to begin the next phase of my recovery.

Chapter Two: Back in the World

Mom and I had a team of therapists and social workers assigned to us. Not only did we each have to cope with what had happened, we had to learn how to relate to each other in a totally different way. Before the accident, we were husband and wife–both adults, both equal partners. Now she was the parent and I was the child, physically at least. They worked mightily to convince us that that was best for both of us. If we related to each other as mother and daughter as naturally as we could, the rest of the world would take us at face value. That was how they talked me into calling her ‘mom’ instead of ‘Beth.’ I wish I could say the rest of it was as easy. I wish I could say I made it easier on mom than I did. Let’s just say I haven’t always exactly been a good little girl. Am I blushing?

The other big issue up front was what I was going to do with myself. Of course, I was ready to get back to my law practice right away, but the rational part of me did understand that no one would accept a 13-year-old girl, without a law degree, trying to practice law. I wanted to shut myself up at home, but they finally persuaded me to enroll in school, as a high school freshman.

They said if I was ever going to learn how to be a woman in society, I had to learn how to interact with people as one. And what do 14-year-old girls do? They go to high school. But before that could happen, I had all sorts of things to learn–how to dress, act and think like a teenage girl. That may have been the biggest challenge of all.

The first thing I remember getting it into them about was piercings. Emily had her ears pierced when she was six. I could accept that I now had pierced ears, but they wanted me to get a double piercing, and a nostril stud, maybe even a tongue stud. Thank God mom drew the line on the tongue piercing. I was kind of sickened by the whole idea and finally told mom I’d get the ears and nostril done if she would, and she did. God love her, she did. So of course I had to.

I was wearing panties now, of course, but they hadn’t gotten me into a bra yet. That was no big challenge…you just learn forward and let your breasts fall into the cups. But putting on a dress for the first time, or walking in heels? Those were major mental barriers.

By the time they brought in the wardrobe consultant, I had already been out in public a few times. They had been pushing me to do that. We went out to eat, went to the grocery store. It was important for me to learn that the world didn’t see me as some kind of freak–just as an average 13, about to be 14-year-old girl. I still remember the first time I ever went into a women’s restroom–it was at a McDonald’s. We also went clothes shopping; I knew I had to get started on a school wardrobe. I didn’t give mom much of a say in what I bought. That was a big mistake. Don’t mothers always know best?

I had to put on a fashion show for the consultant, and needless to say, she was horrified. Did you ever see that TV show, ‘What Not to Wear?’ It was kind of like that. I remember her saying, ‘Twinsets? Mom jeans? Come on! This would all be fine…if you were a 49-year-old suburban housewife. But you’re not. You’re a teenager about to start high school.’ Well, I argued and pouted, but eventually they got me into skinny jeans and distressed jeans–I couldn’t believe they were supposed to be torn up like that–peasant tops and tank tops, and yes, dresses and heels. The first time I went out in a skimpy little jersey dress, I felt so conspicuous, so naked. Thank God for mom. She kept reminding me again and again that nobody was starting at me, no one was pointing at me, no one was talking about me. She also taught me the basics of makeup. I still don’t wear as much as a lot of women. I like a more natural look. But I have gotten the shopping bug…but you already know that. You’ve seen my closet, and no, I don’t own 200 pairs of shoes. One hundred, maybe. But not 200. Haven’t you ever heard of retail therapy, love?

Then I had to have my crash course in teen culture. Thankfully I had some idea about current electronics and social media. I had a Facebook page, and I knew how to send a text message. But they told me I didn’t really get it. I was still such a fuddy-duddy I would actually place a voice call instead of sending a text. They told me I had it backwards. I had to practice texting for hours to get the speed I would need. I had to learn about boy bands. Can you believe it? They convinced me that I needed to have a normal girl’s bedroom, but I absolutely drew the line at putting up pictures of Justin Bieber.

I also had to ‘forget’ things I wouldn’t have known at my age. You know I’m a huge NBA fan. I still haven’t forgiven the Sonics for leaving Seattle. I grew up during the heyday of the Magic-Larry Bird rivalry, which was followed by the Michael Jordan years…absolutely the golden age of the league. But I always have to remember I’m too young to have lived it. Same for the Reagan, Clinton and Bush years….the first president I’m supposed to ‘remember’ is Obama. As time has passed, I’ve gotten better at forgetting, if that makes sense.

Chapter 3: Back to School

By now it was seven months since the accident, it was the end of summer, and I was about to become a high school freshman–for the second time in thirty-five years. I was terrified all over again. I wouldn’t have mom by my side to hold my hand, literally and figuratively. I would be alone with a thousand other teenagers.

Although there was a lot of strangeness to deal with, I also did go in with one advantage. I had been through this before, even if it was a long time ago, and as a male. I didn’t worry about getting lost, or forgetting my locker combination, or any of the usual freshman terrors. I knew that the fears, the cliques, the rivalries would be very much the same, and I was right….the fashions may change, and the electronic gadgets, but personalities don’t. I didn’t go out of my way to make friends and first, but I didn’t avoid people, either. It was so strange to be registering for classes, getting a locker assignment, eating in a cafeteria again–and no, the food wasn’t any better the second time around.

I still remember the first day, my second first day, vividly. Mom was driving me to school–of course, thirteen-year olds aren’t allowed to drive–and I was spending a lot of time fussing with my hair and makeup. I had grown out my hair a bit, and I learned how long it takes to dry and style long hair. I had lost all track of time, but mom hadn’t. She finally called, ‘Miss Westbrook, if we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late. I know we’ve all worked very hard to help you learn to behave like any other teen girl, but please don’t overdo it.’ We both had a good laugh over that one, and we got going. My learning curve on some things was pretty steep, but I caught on pretty quickly why it takes a girl so much longer than a guy to get ready for the day. Sure, it’s a hassle, but we look better, right? Stop looking at me like that!

Of course, I was still working with my therapist, and continuing my outpatient physical therapy as well. One of the things they pushed on me was dance lessons. I resisted–I said there was no way I was going to put on a tutu–but I finally gave in, as long as I got to choose my outfit–a pair of black leggings and a gray sweatshirt. Nothing too girly. I found the lessons to be worthwhile for helping me to feel more aware of my body and more comfortable inside this skin.

My first real friend in school was a girl named Madison. She was a bit on the shy side. I guess I was quiet too in those days, and that’s probably why she was drawn to me. We started having lunch together, doing class projects together, even going over to each other’s houses to do homework or just hang out. The poor thing…she was so lonely for a boy to pay some attention to her, but they treated her like she was invisible. I told her that boys her age were too immature to appreciate someone like her, which was the absolute truth, but I don’t think she believed me.

A year earlier, I had been negotiating the end of marriages. Now I was hearing about teenage crushes. I know I’m sounding like a broken record, but my learning curve was huge. I found out that going out with someone didn’t necessarily mean actually dating–getting a burger together, seeing a movie–the way it did back in the dark ages when I was a teen boy. Nowadays, it seems, you can just hang out at school and call it ‘going out.’

I had to get used to calling teachers ‘Mr.’ ‘Mrs.’ and ‘Miss,’ even though most of them were younger than I was…had been.

Gradually, I started being drawn into the circle of the intellectual girls, even though I was struggling in class more than I expected. I knew I didn’t fit with the mean girls, or the emo girls–what a strange bunch–but I wasn’t exactly intellectual material either. There was a group of us, who were social misfits to one degree or another. We hung out in the school library, at the coffee shop near the school, and the mall. I think that’s where I started to get the shopping bug. We’d window shop and try on outfits, go to the makeup counters at the department stores and get samples….I couldn’t believe it, but I was starting to enjoy getting girly at times. It was a fun escape. If you had told me a year earlier I would have been debating the merits of different shades of lipstick, I would have looked at you like you were crazy.

Like I said, I was catching on that I wasn’t going to dominate the honor roll this time around. You know, I only got one ‘B’ on my first trip through high school, and I still haven’t forgiven that teacher….Anyway, I thought high school would be a breeze the second time around. WRONG! I tried blaming the trauma to my brain…having to get used to being in a new body, but the truth is, I had spent so many years focused on a single area of the law that I hadn’t given a second thought to history, literature, math or science. I may have had a 14-year-old body, but I had a 50-year old brain. I broke down in tears at home more than once as I struggled with my work. I began to think I was having a nervous breakdown of some kind…but mom and my therapist reminded me I was a teen in body, if not in mind, and my body was going through all the changes that come with those years. No, my breakdown would be triggered by something else.

Chapter 4: Scandal

It was all going well. Too well. I felt like I was adapting, but my therapist was pushing me to widen my circle of friends and get more deeply involved in school life. She suggested that I go out for sports. The idea appealed to me. I had never done that as a male; in college, I was a mediocre intramural player. But Emily was a natural athlete; she had played volleyball, basketball and softball in middle school, and showed some real promise. Basketball season was just around the corner, so, with mom’s encouragement, I decided to try out. I didn’t know how much of Emily’s ability was physical and how much was mental, but I was going to find out.

I felt drawn to Joyce, the varsity coach, right away, although I didn’t realize why until much later. She was a tall brunette with an athletic build. I later learned she had been a second team All-American in college basketball, which didn’t surprise me. She was in her late twenties, and still looked like she could dominate on the court.

The tryouts went better than I hoped. I found out how fast this body was, and how strong for its size. I was talented but raw. I needed to have my skills developed and refined. That’s what Joyce told me when she told me she was putting me on the J-V team. That didn’t surprise or disappoint me at all. It takes really outstanding talent for a freshman to make varsity; in a lot of places, it isn’t allowed at all, no matter how good the player is. What did surprise me was that Joyce told me she was going to take personal charge of my development. I suppose if I had been born female, my intuition would have been telling me something, but being a late recruit to the feminine team, I was clueless.

She started having me practice with the varsity, in addition to my J-V practice. I was starting to feel a little ragged, but when she wanted me to meet her before school for one-on-one work, I agreed. Mom wanted to know why this woman was taking such an interest in a freshman. I told her that maybe she thought I had it in me to make the WNBA, and she figured she could become my agent and get rich. I didn’t even give it a thought when Joyce started offering to pick me up in the morning and drive me home. She said it would be less stress on my mother, and give us more freedom for practice. For practice…and for other things.

Oh God, I am not proud of this. I am not proud of this at all. But if we do have a future together, Lars, you need to know. You need to know it all.

I finally got the picture one night when she pulled into a park, stopper her car, and said she wanted to talk. She told me how wonderfully I was developing as a player, and what an amazing young woman I was. Then she brushed the top of my hand with her fingers. I immediately stiffened. ‘Don’t be afraid, Emily,’ she said. ‘You’re at a wonderful time of life. This is the time to experiment, to learn what you really want out of life.’ Before I could protest, I could see she had closed her eyes and was leaning toward me to kiss me. And God help me, I kissed her back.

Of course, it didn’t stop there. Let’s just say we went about as far as two women can go. It’s amazing what a sensitive pair of hands can do. And it happened more than once–at least half a dozen times. I felt excited and adventurous and deeply, deeply ashamed all at once. I knew what I was doing was wrong on so many levels, but I couldn’t stop myself. It felt so wonderful to be able to relate sexually to someone on an adult level again. Mom knew something was up with me–don’t women always know?--but I blamed it on stress and fatigue. When the season started and Joyce moved me up to varsity after just a few games, everything looked wonderful. I hadn’t really earned it, but every time I came off the bench, I seemed to deliver.

Well, of course, it couldn’t last. Deceit always has a way of exposing itself. Joyce’s big mistake was parking in the same spot in the same park at the same time of evening. Finally, a police officer got curious about the car with the steamed-up windows…..just give me a minute, honey, please, just give me a minute. OK….to continue…..when he rapped on the window, we were both more dressed than undressed, so there was no way to hide what was going on. They arrested Joyce and took her to jail; I went to the juvenile hall. Fortunately, they were able to get a hold of mom, and she came to get me right away…although at that moment, I would have probably preferred to spend the night anyplace else, including the lockup.

I couldn’t look at her. I just stared out the window, sobbing, and wouldn’t say anything. When we got home, I immediately ran to my room and locked the door. It was a long time later, probably two hours or longer, before I let mom in. I couldn’t tell if she was more angry or hurt. She just sat in the chair, while I threw myself on the bed. She was silent for several minutes. Then all she said was: ‘Why? Why, Emily, Why? And why her?’

Through my tears, I said, ‘Don’t you get it?’

She said, ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. I don’t get why my daughter slash husband is having a lesbian affair.’

I sat up and looked at her. I said, ‘I guess this was about a lot of things. About physical gratification. About being able to relate to someone at an adult level again.’ I reached for a copy of the school newspaper that was sitting on my desk. It was open to the sports page, which featured a picture of Joyce. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Don’t you see? Doesn’t she remind you of someone?’

At that point she gasped and started to cry. She finally got it. Joyce’s hair was a little darker, she was maybe an inch or so taller, but she was pretty much the basic image of Beth when we first met. ‘I wanted my wife back. Or at least I thought I did. Do you have any idea the torture I feel, knowing that I can never love you again in the way I once did?’

She reminded me that it was exactly the same thing for her. Then she asked what I meant when I said I thought I wanted my wife back. It was then that I admitted I realized after the second time with Joyce that I realized I wasn’t sexually attracted to her. When we were making out I was thinking of someone else. She wanted to know who. I had to swallow hard before I could say the name–Matt Garrett. Matt was a junior and quarterback on the school football team.

I said to her, ‘You know how I started going to football games and practices? I couldn’t even admit to myself that I cared about something more than the outcome of the games. It was something else…the boys’ tight butts, and how good they looked in their uniform pants.’ I really broke down then. Mom sat down next to me on the bed and held me for a long time, not saying anything. She let me cry myself out. Then she got me to wash my face, change into a nightgown, and crawl into bed. She went to her room, changed herself, came back, and crawled into bed with me. We were both pointed toward the wall. She had her arms wrapped around my waist. We fell asleep like that. It was the last time we ever slept in the same bed together.

The next day, we started to sort out the mess I had made. Of course I didn’t go to school. What I didn’t count on was having Joyce’s arrest show up on the front page of the Seattle Times, not to mention it leading every TV newscast. They said she had been arrested while engaged in sexual activity with a student. Of course, they weren’t releasing the student’s name because she was a minor. When I didn’t show up at school after that, everyone had it figured out. I am so glad I never got to hear any of the gossip. I could avoid school, but I had to deal with the police and the district attorney’s office. That went on for weeks. I am so thankful Joyce resigned, gave up her teaching license, and took a plea deal. I don’t know how I could have dealt with a trial. You know, she’s making a very good living now as a Realtor. She specializes in high-end residential properties. But I’m getting off track….

The other big thing I had to come to terms with was my sexuality. It was a huge, huge, mental block I had to overcome…to admit to myself or anyone else that I was attracted to boys. I had dealt with sexuality up to now by not dealing with, by doing everything I could to block it out. I had several one-on-ones with my therapists, heart-to-hearts with mom, and more than one session with the three of us. What it came down to was I was a heterosexual female now. Maybe it was hormones, maybe it was social conditioning, maybe it was something else. I don’t know what I thought I was beforehand. I guess I thought I should still be attracted to women…maybe I harbored some deeply-buried fantasy of living with Beth in a lesbian relationship someday…but that wasn’t where I was headed. I was in the hunt for a stud. Once I accepted that, other things began to become clear to me. Like what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Before I had started school that fall, I was determined to recreate my old life to the greatest degree possible. That meant honor roll in high school and college, law school, the whole bit. I was going to be a top divorce lawyer again, although this time, I’d be mainly representing wives. Well, at this point I also had to admit to myself that the fire just wasn’t burning inside of me anymore. Maybe losing my daughter, losing my body and almost losing my own life had something to do with it. I finally got it, that there are more important things in life than money and status. Things like…happiness. What a concept, huh? Maybe if I wasn’t already set financially, thanks to the insurance, I might have felt differently, but I really, really don’t think so.

At that point, I let go of all expectations I had for the future. I decided to do my best to get through high school again, and then I’d take things from there. By this point, though, I had missed so much time that my freshman year was a complete loss. Mom and I both agreed, after a lot of heart-to-heart talks, that a total fresh start was in order, so we moved to Portland. It felt right. And besides, Portland still had a team in the NBA!

Chapter 5: Just Like Starting Over (Again)

Not long after we got settled in our new house, I had my fifteenth birthday. We hadn’t celebrated number fourteen for a lot of reasons–it was too soon in my recovery, all the emotions were too raw. But this year, we decided on a quiet celebration. It was our effort to go along with what the therapists had suggested–to try to live as normal an inward and outward life as possible.

We had a very nice dinner. Then mom gave me her gifts. The first was a certificate for a mother-daughter day at a local salon and spa. I think that’s what got me hooked on the whole spa experience. It’s so wonderful, so relaxing to be pampered in that way–the manicure, pedicure, masks, wraps, peels, massages, steam baths and so on. You men don’t know how to pamper yourself, you just don’t! Anyway, I opened my other present–a diamond necklace and matching earrings that had belonged to her mother, and that she had always wanted Emily to have one day. I started crying, mom started crying…it was a real emotionally cleansing experience in a lot of ways.

So I started over as a freshman, again, this time here in Portland. I think I was more emotionally stable and mature, and had a better idea of what I would be up against academically. Also, I think this is important, I had now been female for more than a year, and while I still had a lot of adjusting to do, I was far enough down the road to feel a lot more confident.

You would think after my last sports experience, I would have steered clear of athletics, but no. I went out for the cheerleading squad. Back in the dark ages of the 1980s, my last go around in high school, cheerleading was just starting to evolve toward a competitive activity. I was surprised by how far it’s come. Going out for the squad was probably one of the best choices I’ve ever made. It got me involved with a whole lot of people and activities quickly, and really helped me slide into the life of a normal high school girl–at least as far as that would have ever been possible.

I was earning a B average in class, working very hard in cheer practice, making friends, and doing the things a normal teen girl does–going shopping, going to movies, going to school sporting events. It was still very strange to me in some ways, but very comforting in others. I saw just about every girl around me having body issues of one kind or another–even the beautiful and popular ones. I felt bad for them, but I also felt less alone. Strange, huh?

You probably think I’m going to go on forever, so let me try to speed this up a bit. By the time my sophomore year rolled around, I was popular enough that I was nominated for the student council–and I won! But as much as I was trying to live in the present, I couldn’t help anticipating the freedom that would come from being an adult again, and with my sixteenth birthday coming up, I really was looking forward to being able to drive again. You might think that after the accident and all, I would have been scared about getting behind the wheel again, but for some reason I wasn’t. I wasn’t scared of the test–and I should have been. I failed! Can you believe it! More than thirty years of experience, and I failed! I passed on my next try, but I’m still steamed about that….my first examiner was a cranky old guy…I think he had something against cute teen girls.

My senior year was pretty amazing. I got nominated for Homecoming Queen! Can you appreciate the irony of it? I didn’t win, but that put me on the Homecoming court, which was really a lot of fun. I also had my first serious boyfriend. Yes, boyfriend. I had dated a few boys, but something really clicked with Steve. He was like you in a lot of ways, Lars. Very handsome and very kind, with a great sense of humor. And no Lars, I’m not telling you how far we made it around the bases. I am not a girl who kisses and tells!

Well before I knew it, there I was in a cap and gown, marching across the stage and getting a diploma. Then it was time to pack my things and get a place of my own. As you can imagine, that brought a whole new round of tears, even though I had made the decision more than a year earlier. Mom had asked me what I was thinking about in the way of college, and, she assumed, law school again.

I told her, ‘I’m not going to college again.’

She couldn’t believe it. But like I said, I just didn’t have the competitive fire I did as a male. I don’t think it was my gender change so much as the fact that I had been given a second chance at life–a chance that only a handful of people in the world have ever received. As I said earlier, I could live on the insurance money for the rest of my life. I told mom not to worry, I wasn’t about to become a spoiled rich girl. I told her I wanted to work, wanted to feel productive. Then I told her I had decided to go to paralegal school. I said, ‘I’m going to let someone else be the star, make the money, develop the ulcers. I’ll pull the files, bring the coffee and doughnuts, and look pretty.’ Well, that was an exaggeration, of course–a good paralegal is worth her or his weight in gold. But she understood what I meant.

Steve and I were still going out then, and he helped get my stuff moved into the new place. It’s always nice to have a big, strong man around when you need him! It was lonely living by myself…I had been part of a family for so long, it was another adjustment. Mom and I still saw each other a lot, as we do to this day. We get together a lot for lunch, dinner, shopping trips…oh, yeah, we had a lot of fun shopping right after graduation! If I was going to become a working woman, that meant I needed a more mature wardrobe. What was fine in high school doesn’t cut it in a law office. All of a sudden I was in skirt suits, more mature dresses, you know what I’m talking about. Funny thing is, I found myself wanting to make sure I always kept it feminine–like wearing a lacy pink camisole with a gray jacket and skirt.

I pretty much breezed through the paralegal course–I was back on familiar ground–and found my current job within a month after graduating.

Chapter 6: Maid of Honor

Well, that pretty much brings you up to date…oh, there is one more story I ought to share. It concerns mom getting remarried, which happened two years ago. We were having lunch; I could tell something was bothering her as soon as she sat down, but she was evasive throughout the meal. We made small talk until after we had ordered dessert. Finally she sprang it on me. I still remember her exact words:

“Emily, there’s something important I have to tell you. I’ve been dating a man for a few months now, and we’ve really hit it off. In fact, we’ve hit it off so well, he’s asked me to marry him. And I said yes.”

Well, to say that news packed an emotional punch would be an understatement. I started crying, she started crying, and pretty soon we were both in the ladies room, hugging and fixing our makeup.

I told her: “I am happy for you mom, I really am. And I suppose I knew this day would come, someday. I just didn’t think it would be now.”

She told me that she was really happy that I was so accepting, so she felt comfortable in springing a request for a big favor on me: she asked me to be her maid of honor. Well, what could I do except say yes? It was really a graduate course in womanhood for me. Helping mom pick out her wedding dress, coordinating the fitting of all the bridesmaids for their dresses, putting together the bridal shower…it was about 12 weeks of whirlwind activity. During that time, I got to know my future stepfather, Dan. He’s a great guy, he really is. I think he and mom are really very happy.

One of my duties was to toast the bride and groom at the reception. I realized the moment was at hand to let go of one of the last vestiges of my past. It was a pretty emotional moment. I had kept it together through the ceremony, but now….I talked about how much I loved my mother, how we had seen each other through the pain of losing my father, what a great guy Dan is….let’s see, I also joked about maybe finally getting a baby brother or sister….I said mom had been lucky in love once, and now she had hit the jackpot a second time, which is more luck than a lot of people get in one lifetime, but if anyone deserved it, she did…and I cried. But they really were tears of joy. Beth–mom–was just 43–way too young to spend the rest of her life as a widow. She’s got a lot of years ahead of her, and she deserves someone to share them with.

And Lars, if you still want to share your life with me, after all you have heard…well, nothing could make me happier. While I’ve been telling you all of this, I’ve been thinking about what our children will look like….Oh, God, I’m going to cry again…..

Epilogue

The old woman wonders if the young woman’s story is ever going to end. When the girl starts to cry again, she has a bad feeling; but the young man quickly wraps his arms around her and he holds her tightly; his head nods vigorously. Then he breaks the embrace, picks up the ring box, opens it, and puts the ring on her finger. They kiss. For a very long time.

The old woman stands up, leaning on her cane, and prepares for the walk back to her apartment. She is happy. She knows that love really is eternal.