Easy As Falling Off A Bike.
by Angharad.
part 30.

The waitress stayed with me for several minutes, it was kind of her but made my recovery even slower than it would normally have been. I wasn't even sure what I was crying about, but then I wasn't sure about anything much at that moment. My whole world was in total chaos and disarray and I needed to make some very important decisions. Maybe that was what I was crying about, or perhaps it wasn't.

I was having my absolute and total dream handed to me on a plate and I was upset about it, not only that but I was wondering if I was going to accept it or not. I mean, how bloody stupid can you get?

Perhaps I was so insecure that I needed to feel in control, except when I let go and trusted to Stella's guidance, I had a wonderful time. Was there a lesson there for me? If there was I seemed unable to learn from it.

I needed to do a few things and sitting there feeling sorry for myself was achieving none of them. I went to the ladies' loo and washed my face, trying to reduce the red-eyed look. My head was pounding, probably caused by a fluid imbalance in my head, all the tears shed had dried my tiny brain out. I also had a wee, all that tea and coffee had filled my bladder and the knickers I was wearing were growing a little tight in places.

I set off for the bike shop and a short time later I had taken possession of the 'Litespeed', it was a joy to ride. The man there had also said he thought the frame on mine was okay, so it was only the wheel which needed replacing. It would take about a week. Taking his card, I promised to phone him in a week's time.

Next I cycled off to a quiet corner of the university campus and called my shrink. Of course she was with a patient, and her secretary promised to get her to call me back as soon as she could. That left me feeling anxious for two reasons: I needed to speak with her and obviously needed somewhere quiet to do it, but I also needed to do some shopping and wandering around 'Top Shop' or 'Next' is probably not the best place for a private telephone conversation. Why do these dilemmas always happen to me?

In fact they didn't, the good doc phoned before I got to the shops and I was able to jump into a phone box to take the call on my mobile. Okay, so it might be cheeky, but it was private.

"So Cathy, you said you needed to speak with me urgently, what's the problem?"

"Yes Dr Thomas,..." I then gave her the edited highlights of the previous twenty four hours.

"Goodness, that sounds wonderful, so are you going for it?" Her voice beamed with such enthusiasm,it nearly melted the phone.

"I erm...um...erm, don't know." I felt my voice waivering and growing fainter.

"Oh!" she said, "I think I'd better see you." I could hear her muttering under her breath. "Shit!" she said to herself, "it would be tonight, sodding medical committee," all of which was supposed to be out of earshot. "Look Cathy," I have to be out tonight and tomorrow I'm absolutely full. I can give you maybe twenty minutes at the end of my session this evening, can you get here by five forty?"

"Thank you doctor, I shall be there." She rang off and I went off to the shops feeling a little relieved I could get her opinion, which I much valued.

En route to the shops, I realised I had no lock for this bike and being quite valuable, it would also be quite vulnerable. I turned around and headed for home. Once there, I had to make some further decisions.

I decided against going shopping, instead I went and showered, drying my hair very carefully. It was nowhere as tidy or effective as when Stella had done it, but it felt clean and still looked feminine. Next I dressed in the red skirt and top, and tried on the boots again. Could I walk to the doctor's in these, I doubted it? So reluctantly, I switched for a pair of black low heeled pumps, they looked okay. I had a black jacket already, so with Stella's bag it looked quite tidy.

My makeup, I kept very simple, some pinky-red lipstick and mascara, nothing else except a squirt of smellies here and there. I was going to sit down and catch my breath for an hour, maybe check my emails when I saw the bag Stella had packed with my stuff. I hadn't used my cycling shoes to ride the bike, the little I'd ridden I managed with my trainers, so I stuffed the shoes with newspaper to help them dry.

I thought I'd better look at my racing skins and see what could be salvaged from them, they were in a plastic bag and I could see the yellow shining through it. The rest of the overnight bag was full of other stuff. How I hadn't noticed it before I couldn't say, except my mind was elsewhere and hadn't really returned back to base yet.

I emptied the bag. Besides my cycling stuff, and the skirt and tee shirt I was wearing, which had been on top of everything else were a black skirt and top of matching material, some toiletries, a white bra and matching pants, some tights and a note.

'Cathy,
A few bits and pieces for you which are surplus to my use. I have a few more bits and pieces you can have but will need to sort them out for you. I hope we can see each other again, don't let Simon have things all his own way.
Stella.'

I called the number on the note and was delighted when Stella answered it. She was pleased I'd rung and we chatted for about fifteen minutes. I told her about the professor's offer and she was excited for me, telling me to go for it. I told her about Simon's insistence about tomorrow night and she offered to come and help me with my makeup again. I accepted her offer gratefully.

I managed to find space in my wardrobe for my new acquisitions. It was really difficult, I had two jackets and a pair of male trousers hanging there along with my two good shirts. Otherwise it was all my female clothes, two skirts, a dress, a coat, a blouse and the black jacket I was wearing. I had other bits and bobs in my chest of drawers but just to dress around my flat didn't really require a great range of clothes and also didn't make it too difficult to hide if anyone came to see me.

My makeup was all kept in a plastic bag in an old shoe box under my bed, and my shoes and now the boots were in bags in the wardrobe. I wasn't ashamed of any of it, but it seemed sensible to keep things quiet until I was ready to go public. I'd had nothing more than a nebulous idea of that date, always about six months ahead and had moved it three times so far.

I was aware that I couldn't be referred for surgery until I had lived for a year in role, but that was another nebulous thing, so dates were irrelevant. If the truth be told, it was a case of one day, sun- day, some day never! I was a moral coward.

I glanced at my watch, only a cheapo thing but I liked it and saw it was about an hour before my meeting with the doctor. I collected my key and popped it in my bag with my purse, picked up my little folding umbrella and set off at a gentle walk to her rooms.

Once away from my own room, I felt happier, less chance of being identified and my whole demeanour relaxed. It stayed that way until I got to Dr Thomas'consulting room at the clinic.

She was a psychiatrist who was based in the acute psychiatric clinic, this was in a pair of large Victorian town houses, the upstairs contained some rooms for inpatients, the downstairs were offices and consulting rooms. I knew my way to her room quite well.

I'd had a bout of depression following years of suppression of my gender problem, culminating in a row with my parents when they found out what it was all about, and my attempted suicide when I got back to uni. Everything got too much and I took an overdose of paracetamol but was discovered. I'd forgotten to lock my door and the caretaker found me. He was doing his annual electrical check.

Because it was within twenty four hours, they gave me methionine the antidote to paracetamol poisoning and thus saved me from liver failure. At the time I was too ill to argue but I threatened to do it again and ended up under the care of Dr Thomas in the acute psychi ward at the clinic. She eventually discovered what the cause of the problem was and had helped me enormously in dealing with the ramifications. I owed her my life, because she had made me see that I wasn't some sort of freak, encouraged me to read and research the subject and plan for my future, albeit in a vague and nebulous manner. I suppose her idea was that if one is planning for a future there is less chance of ending the present, suddenly.

One of the good doctor's conventions was to refer to me as Cathy, rather than by my male name, but she had never seen me as such so I felt a bit apprehensive about our appointment today. I mean what would happen if she was revolted by me, or thought I looked dreadful. I would never cope with rejection by her, I would die quite literally.

I entered the reception area and the butterflies revved up for some action. "I have an appointment with Dr Thomas," I said to the receptionist.

"You can't have, she finishes at five thirty today," snapped the receptionist.

The butterflies were scrambled and airborne in a split second.

"I spoke to her about two hours ago, she told me to come and see her."

"Hold on," she went off to speak to someone else and I could hear the mumblings but no detail. Five minutes or maybe it was several years later, she returned. "We had no record of your appointment, however it seems Dr Thomas is expecting you," she looked up at the clock, "in about five minutes, please take a seat." With that I was dismissed to sit in the waiting area.

I looked around before deciding where to sit. There were a handful of other people waiting, some were probably patients like myself others could have been friends or relatives of patients waiting with them or for some who were in with the various doctors and psychiatric nurses.

I watched the clock, I was restless and nervous, too much so to try and read the out of date National Geographics or Good Housekeeping. Uusally I flipped through She or Marie Claire, but I'd read them all some time ago and had even taken a cycling mag with me a couple of times. She had challenged me on it as not being very girly, and I had defended myself as saying that female was not necessarily feminine in a frothy, frilly manner and that my role models were Nicole Cooke and Victoria Pendleton, real women not the sort of cardboard cut out bimboes who marry rich footballers. She had laughed and agreed with me, it had been her way of probing my idea of gender stereotypes.

"Cathy Watts," was called, I stood up and walked towards reception, "please go to Dr Thomas' room, room four."

"I know where it is," I said and walked towards it. The butterflies were doing their impression of the Red Arrows, flying at each other at speeds in excess of five hundred miles an hour. It didn't take them long to get across my stomach.

I knocked on the door and a woman's voice bid me enter.