(The delay of this next chapter of the ordeal Miriam Roberts was dealing with in a small town in West Virginia in the mid1950’s was due to an obsessive rewrite by the author, not to mention compulsive editing and tedious research. It must have been a critical time for Miriam to necessitate such a delay.)

The most important thing that I have learned about life over time, especially as related to Jack, is that expectations are almost never realized, at least not fully. With the burden of telling Don about Jack behind me, I expected coffee in bed, a reward Don almost always provided the morning after great love making. On that Saturday morning especially, with children unusually not in the house, I expected some personal time with my husband, talking, reminiscing and even planning, in addition to the coffee. I had also not ruled out an encore.

Instead of waking up to the smell of fresh brewed coffee however, I awoke to sounds, man sounds, hard clanking and frightening pounding. I heard tools being used at the end of the hall where the stairs to the third floor was guarded by a door, a big solid heavy door. I knew immediately my expectations were for naught.

Without donning a robe I made it to the scene just before he pulled the trigger on the electric drill, almost tripping over the extension cord. On the floor of the hallway he had laid out two screwdrivers, a Yankee drill, a padlock, a hammer, an awl and a heavy duty hasp. Upon seeing me he lowered his weapon and just stared. Standing there in that sheer lacy peach gown, with nothing on underneath would normally be somewhat arousing to him, and also to me. But no, he turned back to his work and raised the drill to the first hole he had marked.

“Don, don’t.” I was able to say just before the loud whirring started. The drill sank into the wood confirming that men never tire of penetrating something, anything. Before he lined up the drill for the second hole I stopped him, grabbing the drill and coming dangerously close to injuring my right breast. That would have been a difficult explanation at the emergency room.

“Don, this isn’t the answer.” I told him. He lowered the drill and gave me a look I didn’t read at first. I couldn’t tell if it was anger, or disappointment or just confusion. One thing I was sure of, he was on a mission.

“Well, Miri.” He started as he again lowered the drill without taking his finger from the trigger. “Your answer certainly fucked things up.” He said resolutely pulling away from me.

I was devastated but refused to cry. I had hoped for some understanding but knew I had to stand my ground, without weapons, at least without ones plugged into an extension cord.

“Don, stop. Think about this.” I reasoned.

“I have Miri. We can’t let this continue. You can’t really believe letting our son go up there and put on dresses is good.” He charged pointing to the stairs that led to what he now obviously thought was a place of sin.

I couldn’t argue that what Jack was doing was good, but I knew it wasn’t evil either. I had to make Don understand that this wasn’t black and white, or even a floral print.

“Don, listen for a moment. No, I don’t think it is good. Don, I felt exactly like you did when I first discovered it. I thought I could make it go away. I knew how awful it was and was so scared, scared for us and scared for Jack. Don, I don’t like this any more than you do.” I explained.

“Then why didn’t you stop him?” He charged then added. “Enabling isn’t going to make it go away.” That was the question that I had to explain. Why hadn’t I done what most parents would do when I first found him in my slip? Why did I let him continue to do it?

“Because Don, I listened to him.” Now I was fighting tears. I don’t think I had actually verbalized the answer to that question before. “I listened to how deeply confused he is about this boy-girl thing, and I realized that there really wasn’t a choice if I was going to help him.” I had his attention now. Don started to refute that premise but I stopped him. “I found myself alone and crying trying to decide if it was better to forbid it, or stop it.”

Don started to look as if he was about to cry.

“Yes, Don I had a choice; risk becoming Jack’s enemy, or love him and help him figure out what was going on. Oh Don, I just decided I couldn’t help him if he hated me, or feared me or didn’t trust me.” The drill was now on the floor and Don took a step toward me.

“No Don, I hate this. Hate that Jack feels this way. I want it to stop as badly as you do but putting a lock on the door won’t stop it. What a lock will do is send a message. The message will tell Jack we don’t trust him and we don’t love him. And that won’t help us with answers.” I was on a roll and Don was in my arms, sobbing. Holding a man while nearly naked feeling him shake with almost open crying is a wonderfully powerful thing.

“And the message won’t be just for Jack.” I continued. “We have two other children. How will you explain the lock to them? ‘Oh, we’re just trying to keep your brother from wearing dresses.’ How does that sound Don? And don’t forget my mother. There is no way I’m having any discussion with my mother about Jack.” Where I found those words I will never know but I suspect they did not come from me but were a gift from the same power that gave me the words to that hymn, the one I sang in the room at the top of the stairs where Don and I now stood holding each other.

I think I made my point. He started gathering up his tools wiping his tears on his sleeve. It wasn’t the first time I saw my husband cry; he cried when his cousin died in France and when he lost his father two years before and he cried, with joy, when each of his children were born. Don was a sensitive man which I did not consider oxymoronic.

“So what am I supposed to do when I hear him going up there? I can’t stand it.” He cried with a contorted face. I felt, fundamentally, that this might be harder for Don, a man and father, than for me.

“I can only ask you to try one day at a time. Don, I need you. Jack needs you. He has agreed to limit this while we figure something out and I’ll make sure he stays out of the third floor when you are here. Until then just be the good father you are.”

He shook his head indicating he would try but I knew he would be challenged with whatever lie ahead as would I. For nearly a year each time I passed the door that led to the third floor and saw that solitary unfilled hole in the jam, I was reminded of the choices of life and that it was right for me as a mother, and a woman, to choose not to put locks on doors, or let others do likewise.

* * *

Don gathered his tools, and his emotions, and we enjoyed a nice breakfast together. We even wound up back in bed for some needed healing of our slightly damaged relationship. After that Saturday we didn’t speak of Jack or the problem again then, or for many days for that matter, except Don let me know he had his own expectations.

Sunday the children returned home and we all went to church, as was both required and, for me, necessary. I needed some spiritual uplifting. It surprised me that Don insisted sitting next to Jack instead of his usual place next to Brenda. I was even more surprised when after church Don suggested a game of basketball with Tim and Jack. Basketball was Jack’s sport, his only one, and while Don did put up the backboard and hoop on the garage for him, he spent no time on the court with his youngest son. Jack could dribble with either hand and hit almost any shot. Don couldn’t dribble with one hand and couldn’t jump and shoot at the same time. It was comical, but wonderful to watch the boys and their father play together.

On that Monday it took me three tries to get through to Dr. Ellis’ office finally talking to his receptionist. I was disappointed that his first opening wasn’t until December 20th, unless I could make an early evening time. I just felt I needed to go during the day when the children were in school and Don was at work. I was almost happy for the two and a half week wait; I had so many other things going on before Christmas. I even considered postponing it until January.

* * *

I simply have no idea why I was surprised by the question, but I was. In hindsight I suppose that the doctor was testing me and fortunately I did not react, at least not defensively.

“And do you participate when your son goes to the third floor of your home and wears dresses?” I was asked pointedly.

When Dr. Ellis dropped that bomb in the middle of my first visit with him just before Christmas I thought of two responses as his gaze bore through me. One; did I look like the kind of mother who would be actively involved with such bizarre behavior? Second; I would hardly be sitting in his office seeking help if I was so twisted to force my son into some sissy cross dressing perversion.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Preparation for my appointment to see C. Thomas Ellis, M.D. involved two equally important things. First was the image, the visual one. I wanted Dr. Ellis to immediately see a sophisticated, educated and concerned mother who would not, or could not, cause her son to want to be a girl and wear girls’ clothes. Second, I had to prepare mentally, no make that emotionally.

To create the proper image I went conservative; tweed gray suit with a straight mid-calf skirt and a fitted long-sleeve jacket. Under the jacket I wore my best white blouse with the high collar and lacy attached tie. I added my good church matronly black pumps. I did my makeup with what I thought made me look truly sophisticated, pulled my hair into a bun, and topped it with my favorite but reserved black hat. With the single pearl earrings I looked in the mirror and absolved myself of any guilt.

Preparing myself emotionally was not nearly as easy. Ever since I told my husband about Jack the atmosphere in our home was tense. He wasn’t mean or hostile; he didn’t lash out or say much. In fact he hardly said anything at all. That morning after I convinced him not to padlock the third floor we talked during breakfast and he made clear I needed to go see Dr. Ellis and come home with a solution; one that would ease Jack away from what he was doing alone in the big room on the third floor and toward being the boy that he was and the man he would soon become. I couldn’t argue with him; change was coming and I couldn’t see how Jack could continue feeling the way he did, and especially wearing dresses, and become a man, a successful happy one. Boys who were sissies, or as my father so vividly put, wore pink panties, weren’t the ones who married pretty well educated women and landed good jobs with respectable firms. They certainly weren’t church leaders.

Don also was home more. He would stop in for lunch and come home early. He sought Jack out finding things to do with him like never before; wrestling, taking him to the farm to shoot the .22, shooting basketball with him almost every evening, helping with homework. Not that he didn’t these things before, but it used to be rare. Now it was almost daily. For Don, I’m sure it had the dual purpose of accentuating everything boy, and making sure Jack had no time for anything else. I hoped it would work, but feared it would not.

I knew I would have to tell the doctor about everything, but I vowed to let him know how badly we wanted and needed a solution that would turn things around. While I somewhat related to Jack’s verbal, not necessarily visual, girl statement, I knew it was not best for him. On my way to Wheeling that cold wet dreary and drizzly December morning I went over what I would say to Dr. Ellis. I had to be honest, resolute and convincing.

I allowed myself enough time to pick up a couple of items at one of the stores near the Wheeling Steel Building. My father worked in the building and if I happened to see him I wanted a cover story as to why I was in Wheeling and in that building. The packages I carried when I entered the building provided a plausible story.

I nervously took the elevator to the third floor and found Dr. Ellis’ office at the end of the hall, took a deep breath and entered. I really didn’t expect Dr. Ellis to be in a white medical coat with a stethoscope around his neck but he looked nothing like a doctor, at least not to me. He was tall with thick brown hair lightly peppered with strands of gray. His hair was longer than what men typically wore in the mid 1950’s and he had a well-trimmed goatee and moustache. His eyes were a soft green and he showed a warm smile when I entered the office. He was standing talking to a woman seated behind a desk, obviously his receptionist. He was wearing a three piece tweed suit, just one shade darker that the gray tweed suit I was wearing. From his vest hung an exquisite pocket watch attached to a gold fob and chain.

“You must be Mrs. Roberts.” He said immediately extending his hand.

He introduced himself and his receptionist, and told me he would be right with me. He finished with his receptionist and motioned for me to follow him into what I assumed was his office. There wasn’t anything about the room I found myself in that resembled an office. There was no desk and no telephone. The one window had beautiful drapes that I noted would look nice in my home. One wall had a large bookcase filled top to bottom but the other walls contained various works of art, paintings and photography of different styles. There was a Persian rug on the floor. Two rather soft matching wing chairs faced each other flanked by a couch upholstered in the same fabric. There was no overhead lighting, just a floor lamp and two table lamps at each end of the couch.

After the introduction and some pleasantries I decided to sit in one of the two big easy chairs. I wasn’t ready for the couch. Strangely after I set my purse next to me and removed my gloves he didn’t initiate the discussion, or begin by asking me what was wrong. He just sat in the matching chair directly in front of me with his note pad in his lap and pen in his hand waiting for me to say something. That made me nervous.

“Did Dr. Benson tell you about my problem?” I finally began.

“I talked to him, yes, but I want to hear what you have to say.” I wondered if he doubted how real this was. I wanted to tell him to forget it and just leave, and I almost did. I just didn’t know what to say. I stammered and he let me struggle for a few seconds.

“Just relax and tell me why you are here.” He said softly. On the drive to Wheeling I had gone over in my head how I would tell a doctor that my son wears dresses and thinks he should have been born a girl. I practiced not being defensive, practiced sounding rational.

“It’s not me.” I irrationally declared defensively. “It’s my son, Jack.” Then before he could say anything I just blurted out, “It’s what I’ve done to my son.” And broke into tears. I thought I had absolved myself of guilt but my subconscious must have had other ideas. So much for me being a rational mother of a cross dressing son.

He handed me a tissue and told me to just start at the beginning and tell him why I thought I had done something to my son.

“Oh, I’ve ruined my son. He just turned 11 and he wants to be a girl and wears girls’ things and I think I caused it.” I continued to confess probably with the word ‘guilty’ across my face.

“Ok Mrs. Roberts. Let’s start over.” Dr. Ellis put his pen down and sat forward in his chair making direct eye contact. “Did Dr. Benson explain how I approach behavior issues?” ‘Issues?’ I thought. What Jack was doing was much more than an issue; it was aberrant deviate behavior, the books said so.

“Some.” I answered not wanting to challenge a doctor, yet. “But I’m not sure I understand.”

“I don’t want to spend all of our time talking about psychiatry, Mrs. Roberts, but it’s important for you to know about different approaches.” He clarified.

“Yes, go on.” He had my attention.

“The majority of psychologists and psychiatrists today are Freudian. To be simplistic that means they approach issues from how people act, what they do. They are Behaviorists and believe that humans are driven by basic instincts, much of it sex based, and, according to Freud and others, they need unlimited gratification of their desires. In Freud’s theory there rests within each of us a hidden self, a destructive one which if allowed would manifest itself in incest, murder and…” Dr. Ellis paused to make sure I was concentrating. “other activities that are either illegal or condemned. Are you with me?”

“Yes, I took a course in college that stressed Freud.” I noted.

“Not surprising. I do not subscribe to the Freudian model for many reasons but primarily I think it is just too simplistic and fails to take into account that some behaviors that are universally condemned in one culture, and roundly punished as well, are accepted as benign and innocent in another. I will make this more clear later.” He paused again to let me digest what he was saying.

“So much of Freud’s thinking came from his own cultural, religious and yes, gender bias. He was from Eastern Europe. He grew up in a Catholic society and his parents were Jewish. He had a tedious relationship with his mother. And of course, he was a man. Enough of Freud.”

Good I thought. Dr. Ellis looked at his watch. “I’m taking too much of your time.” Dr. Ellis became silent for a moment. It was almost as if he was deciding what to say.

“Mrs. Roberts I don’t normally spend so much time on therapeutic details but with what you may be dealing, I think it is important. You see, I began my career very much a student of Freud but something happened in my personal life, coupled with discovering the work of a wonderful pioneer in the field of psychiatry, Carl Rogers, led me to completely reverse how I work with clients.”

“Go on.” Now I was absolutely fascinated with this man and the way he talked.

“Mrs. Roberts, my son is homosexual.”

He closely watched my reaction. I showed none but just nodded. I was surprised that he revealed that to me, I had some experience with my friend Elaine, the mother of a homosexual teen. He continued.

“My wife and I didn’t handle it very well when he was growing up. Being a psychiatrist I thought I could fix it and I forced him into therapy with colleagues for several years. Eventually our relationship was fractured and he actually left home and joined the Army. He served in Korea and thankfully returned home safely. Now he’s living in New York with an actor and we have reconciled.”

“After our son left home I started teaching an undergraduate course at Ohio State, and still do. I drive to Columbus two times a week. About ten years ago while teaching there I met Carl Rogers when he came to give a seminar on psychological humanism and how it relates to therapeutic approaches. He’s a brilliant man and I stay in touch with him. Carl’s approach is, shall we say, much more benign than Freud, not focused on guilt.”

I really needed a cigarette. “May I smoke?” I asked.

“Of course. Carl’s theory is based on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Have you heard of self-actualization?”

I shook my head that I hadn’t.

“Well, to be brief, Rogers works under the premise that all people strive to reach their full potential and to find the meaning of life. Briefly, the individual lives to become authentic and genuine. Of course, none of us attain that completely but in applying that theory to my practice I try to consider behavior, especially that which may be considered aberrant by society, as neutral.”

I tried as hard as I could to grasp what he was saying; I just couldn’t think of being neutral about Jack wearing a dress.

“Remember I told you my son is homosexual. Well, his behavior, sexual behavior, is both illegal and considered immoral, almost universally in the western world, but not in all cultures, I might add. But really when you think about it, what he and the man he lives with does privately is not that different than what I do with my wife privately in our bedroom.”

Or what Don likes me to do regularly in our bedroom, I thought.

“To me behavior is simply individuals striving to reach their potential and unless the behavior is dangerous, I work help them understand themselves, and what they are doing, without guilt. I work to help clients understand behavior and to be safe.”

“I also attempt to stay away from linking behavior to cultural values. I focus on what is in the best interest of my client. Yes, I even refrain from calling the people I see ‘patients’. Of course, some of my clients do have diagnosed medical, and especially mental, conditions that require treatment, medication and even hospitalization, and in that sense they are patients. But the majority of my clients need help sorting out behaviors that are, somewhat arbitrarily, either illegal or judged immoral.”

“Mrs. Roberts you seem to have a lot of guilt. You will need to work on that. As a parent I’m sure you influenced your son but in a very positive way. I doubt you caused him to be doing whatever it is he does.”

I took a deep breath exhaling as much guilt as I could. I was really starting to like this man, and to trust him.

“I know that I took too much of your time explaining this but it is important, I think. We can extend if we need to.”

Then he shifted. “May I call you Miriam?” He asked.

“Miri. People call me Miri.” I told him.

“If it’s all right with you I’ll call you Miriam.” I suppose he was trying to begin a professional relationship rather than a friendship. “I’m going to ask you some questions and just want you to answer as best you can. I’m going to listen and take notes.”

“Before we talk about your son I want to know why you feel you caused him to do what he is doing.”

“Isn’t it always the mother’s fault?” I wish I had not said that. It made me sound both defensive and sarcastic not to mention a little Freudian. It’s not how I wanted to begin.

“Miriam.” He said sternly. “I have a couple of ground rules with my clients. First, it’s best if I ask the questions. The exception would be if you have a legitimate misunderstanding, then you may be inquisitive. Second, I don’t judge, or blame or criticize. In this room, I want you to tell me what you think and what you are feeling. Do you like art Miriam?”

I wasn’t at all sure what art had to do with anything but since he reverted back to being so formal I just answered.

“Yes, very much.”

“I would like you to think of our time the same you would when visiting an art museum. And think of me as the museum guide. When I ask a question think of it as if I had pointed out a painting to you and told you just the basics, when it was painted and how. I want you to tell me what you see in the painting or in this instance what you feel or how you interpret the question. Some questions will be like a realistic painting of a scene. It will be so clear to you and you will be able to describe in detail everything in the painting; mountains, houses, people etcetera. Others will be entirely abstract and you will have to tell me what it means to you. I want you to be the art critic; I’m just the guide.”

“I understand.” I thought he was being slightly dramatic but it made sense.

“Then let’s start again. I can tell you are deeply involved with what is going on so I won’t ask you about why you think you caused your son to do what he is doing.”

“How old is your son?” He asked.

“Eleven.” He wrote that down.

“Is Jack his given name?”

“No that’s a nickname. We call him Jack after my husband’s cousin who was killed in the war, WW Two, not Korea.”

“Um, huh.” He continue to write his notes.

“His full name is James Edgar. Jack, the cousin, died on the day Jack was born. That’s why we call him Jack.” I explained. Dr. Ellis focused on his notes and did not look up.

“And what is he doing that you think is strange?” He asked nonchalantly .

“Wearing dresses. Don’t you think that’s strange?” I mistakenly asked.

Dr. Ellis looked up. “Mrs. Roberts.” He admonished. “No questions. Let me move on. When did he start wearing dresses?”

“Uh, I’m actually not sure when it started. He told me he’s been doing things for as long as he could remember, but dresses, uh, probably a couple of years.”

Scribble. “You have two other children?”

I thought it a little odd that Dr. Ellis didn’t continue asking about Jack’s cross dressing. “Yes, Brenda is sixteen. She’s in boarding school during the week at the Mount. And Tim, he’s thirteen.”

Notes. “And your husband, what does he do?”

“Don has a business in Moundsville. He owns properties and rents them out, a mixture of residential and commercial. He also does accounting for a couple of doctors and lawyers in town. He has an office a couple of blocks from our home.”

More scribbling. “So he is home, doesn’t travel?”

“No. Uh, yes. He doesn’t travel.”

“What does he think about what Jack is doing?” Dr. Ellis didn’t move his head but shifted his eyes to look at my reaction to the question.

“Well, he’s very concerned. Actually doctor, he’s upset. He wants it to stop, and so do I. That’s why I’m here.”

Notes. “He couldn’t come with you?”

I turned away and looked at my hands folded in my lap. “Truthfully. Don doesn’t want to talk about something like this. I think it is just so hard for him, you know, to have a son like Jack. He’s afraid what is going to happen to Jack, well, what Jack is going to be like.”

“You mean your husband is afraid Jack will be homosexual?” He said reading my thoughts.

“He didn’t say that but yes he clearly implied it. I’m worried about that too. Is that…” I started to ask but Dr. Ellis put up his hand.

“Miriam, before you leave today I will try to answer your questions. Now, before I focus more on Jack, have you had any issues with your other children, say acting out and issues at school, anything.”

“No, not really. I mean Brenda is typical I guess, you know, the center of the universe with a mother that just doesn’t understand, and Tim, well he is all boy. I can’t keep up with him. He spends too much time working on Don’s old truck and not enough on homework but no, no problems really.”

“Now for Jack. I just want you to tell me about Jack, the child. I want you to describe him without talking about what he is doing that concerns you.”

“Oh, well, Jack has always been a real delight. From when we first brought him home from the hospital he was just so good, I mean as a baby he would smile and coo and giggle. He has such a great even disposition.” I went on for several minutes.

“I can tell you are very close to him and you love him very much.”

“I love all my children but yes, Jack is special.” More notes.

Finally after all this time he asked the question I was waiting for.

“Ok, tell what your son is doing.”

And I did. I told him about how I discovered what Jack was doing and about our talks. I told him about Jack’s space on the third floor and how he goes up there and does things. I confessed about the time just before Thanksgiving when I saw him and actually hugged him wearing a dress. I even described the dress to him.

“Miriam, I have to ask. Did you treat Jack different, maybe because he was the youngest or because of the cousin who died in the War.” He was just looking at me and I tried to answer without guilt.

“It’s a fair question. I’ve thought about it and I didn’t do anything consciously. I mean I didn’t ever dress him like a girl when he was little, if that is what you wanted to know. But I did say a few times, and this is being completely honest, I said that Jack should have been a girl.”

I looked at Dr. Ellis. “Not a lot. I just remember when he was little, a toddler, and had that long hair and well, he’s not big. Doctor, Jack does have a slight build and I remember I would look at him when he was four or five and just see those delicate features and I know I said it. But after he started school and had the short hair, I never once said that, or even thought it. It was just when he was real young.”

Lots of notes. I badly wanted to ask if he thought I planted a seed that has grown into such a terrible tangled vine, but I didn’t. Then he looked directly at me with the penetrating gaze and asked that question, the one about my participation.

“And do you participate when you son goes to the third floor of your home and wears dresses?”

“No doctor, I don’t.” I said calmly and almost without hesitation. “I love Jack, love my son, the boy. I want him to grow up to be happy and successful. He can’t do that thinking he should have been a girl.” I added. I felt I was convincing and Dr. Ellis turned back to his notes.

“I’m sorry.” He said not looking up. “That wasn’t fair but I had to be sure of what is going on.”

“I understand.” I admitted trying not to sound triumphant.

“So you have seen him wearing a dress, and you talked then, and even hugged him. What did you think? How did that make you feel?”

That too caught me off guard. With everything else, staying close to Jack, dealing with my other two children, telling my husband and walking that tightrope, I had not thought about how I actually felt about what Jack was doing.

“Uh, I don’t know.” I began trying to gather my thoughts . “At first it was just so strange, seeing him like that. I mean I wasn’t upset or repulsed or anything. He just looked so innocent and well, so needy. It was like he needed me, needed me to understand. I didn’t really, understand that is, but I just felt so overwhelmed in that moment. All I can tell you is that I loved him so much and when I hugged him it didn’t matter that he was wearing a dress. I loved him. I’ll always love him.” I needed the Kleenex he handed me.

“I can tell, Miriam.” He took a deep breath. “And you would love him if he continued this behavior.”

Still crying I nodded my head before realizing what that question implied. I broke Dr. Ellis’ rule and asked a question.

“You think this is going to continue? Even after he, uh, starts to develop? Oh my god, even as an adult, an adult man?”

“Ok this is a good time for me to talk for a while. You need to know what I think and we just have a few more minutes.” He put his pen and note pad on the table and looked at me, removing his wire rimmed glasses.

“First I’m concerned but not alarmed. What I mean is that you present a very challenging situation with your son but one that, I think, could have a positive outcome. The issue is analyzing possible outcomes and adapting to the one that is best for Jack and for you, for your family.” I lit another cigarette and thought about a scotch and soda.

“Second, I cannot give a definitive diagnosis. I don’t even know if there is one. I’ll certainly need to see Jack so it wouldn’t be fair for me to guess at what we might be dealing with. Certainly, his verbal statements about wanting to be a girl, or should have been one, are very concerning and sound on the surface delusional. I’m not sure it is. It just doesn’t sound psychotic or pathological in the same way I’ve encountered other delusions. To make that determination would require a lot of examination.”

I sat and tried to take mental notes while he talked.

“With what you have told me there is definitely an obsession. I must admit I am rather ignorant about children having a fixation on the opposite gender. That’s what this seems to be to me, a fixation. Jack has somehow developed a fixation about girls and thinks he should have been born as a girl. I have no direct experience with this and don’t recall of it in children. Adults yes, there is some literature and anecdotal evidence of adult males believing they are or should be women. You’ve heard of Christine Jorgenson?”

I was not happy that the Christine person came up but nodded that I had. He continued.

“I wish I could tell you I understood this, or even knew something about it, but I don’t. I’ll need to do some research, but I want you to know there is probably not a bad outcome, unless there is some pathology. Doesn’t sound like there is but we will need to find that out.”

“I’m thinking out loud now, Miriam. There may have been some early trigger that started this and it has turned into this fixation. There is every hope that we can work with Jack to moderate the fixation and if we can do that he will likely grow into a happy successful man. In any case he will likely always have some inclination toward what he now feels; after all he has had those feelings for some time now and they have been reinforced. They won’t likely ever go away completely.”

Dr. Ellis wasn’t looking at me now. He was talking but he was actually looking out through the one window as if the answers were contained in the flash of sunlight that had broken through the clouds.

“You see, Jack is simply trying to be who he is, or who he thinks he should be. Remember I mentioned self-actualization. Jack is acting at the highest level of his needs, his perception of who he is. It may seem ludicrous to you, it is even to me, but to Jack it is real. He doesn’t see what he is doing as wrong. If he genuinely thinks he should have been born a girl, then he is just acting how he thinks he should. The problem is that biology is going to provide a shock he will not be able to overcome.”

I could tell that Dr. Ellis wanted to give me some hope, wanted to put me at ease.

“Perhaps it's not uncommon or at least unusual. Maybe some boys are just fascinated with what girls are like. They become aware and well one thing leads to another and well then there is some transference almost like an addiction. But I don't want to speculate. You need some concrete answers and I can't give you that yet. It will take time. But I promise you Miriam, I won’t abandon you or Jack.”

Dr. Ellis stood up taking a step toward the window and into the light. He turned and now looked at me.

“Puberty may work to Jack’s advantage though; it may provide him a way to escape from the fixation. Of course, there is always a chance such neurotic feelings will not moderate and may actually become more acute.” He paused for emphasis. “I use the term neurosis in the most benign manner. Half my practice is working with neurotic people and helping them to live productive happy lives in coexistence with their neurotic tendencies.”

I was getting that sinking feeling that I wouldn’t have great news for my husband. Where was the fix, where was the hope? Dr. Ellis waited for me to comment.

“So we should be hopeful but in any case Jack will be different?” I asked but added. “Jack will never be normal.”

Dr. Ellis chuckled. “Normal shouldn’t be the goal. Happy and functioning is what I aim for.” He said smiling. “Listen, you need to prepare for what may be ahead. You will have to walk a very thin line. Jack is still a child basically and his brain, especially his emotional maturity is not at all fully developed. You will have to help him mature through a very difficult period, puberty, without destroying his emotional health. The trick, as I see it, is to ease him through becoming a man while not destroying the feelings he is so attached too.” He paused again.

“So I should continue to indulge him and what?” I really didn’t understand how I could be the mother of a boy going through puberty secretly wearing dresses and thinking he was born wrong.

“I didn’t say indulge. Perhaps we are ahead of things. You will certainly have to be there for him, listen to him, talk him through all the tough things that happen during puberty. It’s hard in the best of circumstances. It’s going to be doubly hard for Jack. I will be here to help but you will have to do the work. I don’t have a good feel for how it might play out, day to day, but we must be positive and be willing to listen to Jack.”

I felt a panic deep inside that I feared would not be calmed by either a cigarette or a stiff scotch and soda. “What do I tell my husband? How do I handle what Jack is doing?”

“I don’t have specific answers for either question.” I stood and we were now facing each other. It was clear our time was up. He then added. “I know you came hoping I could tell you what to do, how to fix your son. Remember I’m just the guide helping you appreciate all this museum has to offer. I will do everything I can to help you make choices but answers no. They will come little by little.” He extended his hand and warmly took mine and then gently put his other hand over mine as if to signify his genuine commitment.

“Two things Miriam. Find a way to bring your husband on board so you are walking this path together. As for Jack, don’t think about indulgence. Let him figure out his path, but monitor his behavior to make sure he stays safe. Don’t try to push him toward either a boy or a girl. Be neutral about it and if he is as close to you as I suspect, opportunities will arise that will allow you to redirect him toward the inevitable.”

Redirect? He thought I would be able to redirect Jack? I picked up my gloves and purse.

“Miriam, I’ll be out of town over the holidays and am booked solid until late January. Let’s make an appointment for then. Whatever you decide to do, you and your husband need to be going in the same direction. Let’s make that your goal for the next few weeks. That and listening to Jack. I will do some digging and perhaps when you come back we will have some better information. I hope you bring Jack and your husband?”

I promised Dr. Ellis that the three of us would be back in January and made an appointment for Thursday January 27 but I didn’t see how I would get either Jack or Don to come talk about what was so naturally unnatural.

As I heard Dr. Ellis’ office door close behind me my head was spinning. I had so much to think about and well, just so much ahead of me. It just seemed like the future would be so hard, for me, for Jack, for everybody. I should have been elated, but I wasn’t. I know Dr. Ellis was trying to put everything in a positive light and I was thankful that he never used those words I feared so much; deviate, perversion, sick. Abnormal even seemed fine with him.

I pushed the button for the elevator. How would I explain all this to Don and how could I ease Jack, my boy who seemed to want to be a girl, into manhood. I didn’t want the job of redirector. I had such conflicted feelings. I was elated and deflated, happy and sad at the same time. I had hope and I had despair. I was on information overload almost more about modern psychiatry than finding a fix for Jack. And I was emotional, so very emotional.

I wasn't expecting a miracle but I felt I had nothing to take back to Don. How would I tell him that it would take time? And what do we do in the meantime? It was going to be impossible to convince Don not to forbid Jack’s girl indulgences. Of course he wouldn't be the one doing the forbidding; he would delegate it to me. My immediate conundrum was how to retain the trust and confidence, not to mention love, of both my wonderful but sometime obtuse husband, and my darling but somewhat obsessive, cross dressing pre-pubescent son.

For some reason as the elevator descended my mood improved. I knew that I did not walk this path alone. Besides God the Creator I now had Dr. Ellis and one other advantage. I was a woman, a mother and a wife. I had ways that would help Don become more enlightened. I just didn’t know how I could redirect Jack.