Ah, Saturday! And it was probably the first day I would really call summer: sunny, the promise of real warmth, and all the leaves were finally that rich green that said it warn't spring no more.
A perfect day for a run, starting in the early-morning cool, beating the shoppers' traffic, down the hill to lap the legislature, back up with the first of the day's heat matching the burn in my legs. Back then, five miles was relaxing, without real effort, without any ache or stiffness afterwards.
I could also run without jiggling. Or even a bra. So that lovely Saturday was also the day I decided to sell out. I was going to change my figure. Or lack thereof. Go the artificial, fake, toady to the beauty myth route. I was gonna get some falsies. Alas, my poor, feminist soul…
But it wasn't spring any longer, and I wasn't sprouting. On hormones for a whole two months and all I had to show was a new, nasty nipple-burn from jogging in rough tops. I wanted curves! I could be happy in my identity, but I'd be happier in my identity if other people could identify me!!
I wasn't willing to go the way of surgical enhancement - my younger sister was getting so large in the bust department that she was wondering about a reduction operation, and I didn't want to risk anything like she faced. Also, my mentor (and dental hygienist) Cassie (who'd transitioned and had surgery four years before), said some girls grew oddly if they'd had implants, and often had to have them removed. So scars, and nothing to show for them, except more scars. And she told of the dread 'numb nipple' side-effect of implant surgery, too - not to be underestimated as a risk.
So I wanted breasts, I wanted them now, and I wanted no risk to my future, natural, sensitive bounty. (Though my other sister didn't have much in the way of lush bounty. More like a kiwi-fruit. Cut in half…) But I looked most like my other other sister. The table-sagging-under-a-feast sort of bounty sister.
That was a weak metaphor, I know. But I'm not erasing it all :-)
So: breasts. How to make? Where to acquire? Naturally, I went to the source of all things informational regarding transsexuals: I phoned Cassie. Probably woke her up, too, since she was a party girl. Even after I'd been up for hours.
But she didn't seem all that put out and she told me, back in her early days, she'd used birdseed in a baggie, stuffed into a knee-high stocking. And it was only adequate, she said, and she wouldn't recommend them, but still the best she'd found. And I was not to order any falsies from any of the rags (that I'd mentioned seeing) 'cause they were all hard plastic and worthless.
And all the gels and stuff she'd tried or heard of just wouldn't sit right, except in total granny bras. Though she said that Dippety-Do worked best, if I went that way. Even if it was blue.
I remembered a certain water balloon fiasco, back in high school, and decided she was right, even if gels didn't explode when they leaked out. As I said: fiasco.
So, with no magic answer from Cassie, I went to the other source for all things transsexual (at least clothing-wise), and opened the Sears catalogue, Summer, 1982. (Oh yeah, it was summer, 1982. I forgot to mention that. Or that I lived in a sixth-floor apartment in Edmonton, Alberta, and had a good job with the provincial government, right out of university.) Back in the story, Sears listed (but did not have a picture, so they were hard to find) 'Mastectomy forms, weighted and shaped, in sizes A to DD.'
I called Cassie back, and amazingly, she'd never even heard of the Sears forms! She found her own catalogue and looked them up and was kinda blown away that such a tranny resource was right there - in white-bread Sears! She said, well, go girl! I had nothing to lose but my prairie-like flatness!
Well, yeah! Off to Sears I strolled, whistling 'Only the Lonely,' probably (I was addicted to the Motels back then), to the one downtown, on Jasper, with nary a thought that I was, to all appearances, a man. But then, It was the first real day of summer, and it wasn't like I was going to wait for another springtime to experience the blossoming of a natural figure, and it wasn't like I was ashamed of being transsexual…
The departments in Sears were easy to navigate: there were huge, overhead signs everywhere, and 'Ladies' Wear' was the whole of the south side. At the back, in a secure corner location, was 'Lingerie.' I headed right over.
There were racks and racks of bras, panties, foundation garments (really! that's what the signs said!) and slips and stuff… but no mastectomy form signs. Though they wouldn't put them on a shelf, really, I finally realized after wandering around for a while.
There was a rather pleasant, older woman at the till and since I needed help, it was her I approached.
"Excuse me," I started, and I'm sure I blushed, though I don't really remember, "I'm, um, looking for something I saw in your catalogue, and I know it's unusual… but I'm transsexual, and I wanted to buy some mastectomy forms?"
I'll give Sears this much: in this woman, they'd hired a pro. She looked at me and smiled as I spoke, and never even blinked, even when I finished. She just smiled a little differently as she went into 'sales,' rather than 'directions to another department' mode.
"Of course, and it's not that unusual, though most order through the catalogue. Do you know what size forms you want?"
"Forms?"
-
So I walked out of Sears swinging a blue bag containing weighted, fabric, breast 'forms' (bargains at two for $24, and an instant B-cup figure), two new bras which were a great fit and which hid the forms - properly adjusted, to boot - as well as a runner's bra that Karen assured me would help with my nipple burn.
It was still before noon, too.
I bet I was whistling something by the Go-Go's, too. Maybe 'Vacation.' I liked them almost better than the Motels, and I could jog to them on my Walkman.
Cassie always said I was a fashion victim as far as my taste in music went. I said punk was dead, and starting to smell, too. Then she'd tell me that New Wave was what happened when you bleached the teeny-tiny brain out of disco. Then I'd sing 'Don't You Want Me Baby?' or something like that. Besides, we went to the gay bar together and she squealed whenever they'd play Abba, so all her whining was a total act.
The sky was a deep, deep blue, there were puffy, little clouds drifting across it, just for the contrast, and even the traffic on Jasper was summery.
On such a beautiful, summer day, my jeans felt heavy and mannish, my runners ugly and artless. But, for maybe the first time in weeks, I didn't care.
Once I was home I was gonna pull out a top I'd been wanting to wear ever since I'd bought it in a fit of hopefulness and wishful thinking. And I was gonna wear it out after I called Cassie and Barb and told them they had to meet me at Sergio's patio for dinner, and then I'd pay the cover at the club. I was gonna show my best friends my new curves.
Spring might be over, and I might be late, but I was gonna blossom.
-
I'd been on hormones, a super birth-control pill called Ovaril, for four months, and had already made three trips to the endocrinologist, suffered through four additional trips to the lab to have blood taken, and now I was back to see Dr. Harrison. The handsome part of endocrinology.
He asked me about how things were going.
My answer was, in essence, "Not fast enough."
Electrolysis was slow-going, and hard. My breasts were there, but barely buds. (Bared buds, just a little earlier, while the good doctor indulged in a thrilling little squeeze) (sorry - I meant, 'diagnostic palpation').
(Though it was thrilling!)
Oh, and I still got erections. Not related to sex, thank the goddess, but they still occurred, and they were killing me. So my shrink, who I saw weekly, had called my endocrinologist.
Dr. Harrison folded his hands on my folded-open folder and looked serious.
"There's a drug that can block testosterone from its receptors, that stops it from working on the body's tissues…"
Spironolactone. From what I understood, it was used for high blood pressure, but it turned out a side-effect on men was breast growth and some other symptoms, like fewer erections, and so they looked into it, and, well, it was used to "chemically castrate" sex offenders. Dr. Harrison thought it might be a benefit to me.
Actually, he thought it would be the perfect drug for me.
It sounded too good to believe.
It would speed up everything the estrogen was supposed to do. It might even help with the electrolysis.
But it had risks. I'd have to give blood samples every week for the first few months so he could closely monitor me. It might damage my liver. It might lead to blood clots. It might do a lot of things, but did I…?
I did. Yes! Please!
It still sounded too good to believe!
He wrote a prescription, I went to the Royal Alex pharmacy and had a small bottle of spironolactone pills in my hands within the next half hour. I took my first one after dinner that night.
-
Nothing happened. August, 1982, slipped into September, 1982.
A week after I'd started, I'd had blood taken, six tubes. It had been down to three per trip for a while, but apparently testing for testosterone and liver stuff took a few extra. But nothing changed, as far as I could tell.
I saw my shrink again, and he said I had to have a little patience!
But nothing was changing!
-
Then things changed.
A week later, more blood-letting, and two days after, Dr. Harrison called and said I needed to stop taking the spiro - immediately - and even my estrogen. He wasn't happy.
I saw him the next morning.
He said, "There are protein changes in your blood."
Apparently, my liver was even less happy than Dr. Harrison.
I was off the spiro. Off my estrogen.
I began to believe I'd never be me, that things couldn't get any worse.
-
The following day, while walking through a mall with my best friend towards a favorite lunch place, I suddenly felt odd. Like I couldn't feel up and down.
I remember trying to say, "Dizzy…"
I stopped, unable to balance, and just as Barb turned to see why, the feeling became an awful shove backward, and the world bucked underneath me. Barb caught my head before it hit the floor. Later, she told me I just collapsed, straight down, and that I never said anything.
-
I could speak again, but couldn't explain what I was feeling - it was that alien - but I begged Barb to call an ambulance.
It didn't take a lot of begging, since I couldn't stand. Or control my legs. Or, apparently, my bladder.
-
Dr. Harrison arrived in the ER not long after they'd determined that whatever had laid me out was gradually improving. Receding. Lessening.
The ER doc had said "mini-stroke." I was gonna survive, and, if his tests were any indication, be 100% in just a few hours. He said it was probably a tiny blood clot. Or a weird drug reaction, but then, he wouldn't believe that I hadn't taken any recreational drugs.
Dr. Harrison said I'd mentioned his name, and since his offices were upstairs, they'd called.
On the good chance that my emergency was a result of the spiro, he was going to admit me into the hospital himself, hopefully just overnight. He was gonna take a lot more blood, too. And talk to my shrink.
The good news was that I'd recover.
But I didn't believe he'd ever prescribe anything for me again.
-
Breakfast in a hospital is a dreary affair. The man who brought it was a smiling, laughing delight, but the cold toast, scrambled eggs from a carton, and warm coffee were all unappetizing.
I'd survived a crisis, and the doctors had both said that it could've been much much worse… I just had to believe it wouldn't always seem so… hard.
Mid-morning, Dr. Harrison knocked and came in and looked at my chart (which probably just said that I'd slept, ate brekky, and not complained about anything). He seemed happy, though.
"Okay, Michelle," he grinned. He liked calling me Michelle. "I want to do some simple coordination tests to see if you're back to normal, and for a colleague to see you, and then I think we can start your discharge."
He did a drunk-coordination test and had me walk around while he watched, hummed and hawed, and asked a ton of questions. He finally said that as far as he could tell, I was back to normal.
I said that I was never really normal. He laughed and I smiled. He laughed great.
(In case you can't tell, I had a teensy crush on the lovely Dr. Harrison.)
Then he said it was a urologist he wanted me to see before I checked out, and I knew what they did, since my shrink had referred me to one (along with a gynaecologist - and was that ever a weird waiting-room experience) when I first became his patient.
He called from the nurses' station, and a few minutes later (it was still before office hours in the hospital, I guessed) Dr. Schoenfeld joined us.
Dr. Harrison pulled the curtain and Dr. Schoenfeld felt my bits and I almost cried again. Just at the reminder.
It's easy to lie to yourself, to believe an actual part of yourself doesn't exist any more. But when someone touches it and demands that you pay attention… well, it all falls apart.
After I dried my tears, and when they asked if they could come back in, Dr. Schoenfeld asked if I'd ever considered having my testicles removed? Before having reassignment surgery?
He said it was a day-surgery, with very small risk of complications, and since I'd been going to have them chemically destroyed, either slowly, or, as we'd tried with the spiro, sooner...
Well?
-
A week later, all of it off my estrogen (but for what a good reason!) I checked into the Royal Alex again. And then, six hours later, with Barb's help, I checked out.
I was in considerable pain (though the pills were great), I walked funny, I was wearing a maternity pad that felt like a diaper, and I still had to wait two days before I could re-start my estrogen. But I was free of two of the awful things down there.
Forever.
-
Barb laughed at the way I walked, and Cassie laughed at me too, when she got home and found me "abusing a bag of frozen peas."
She'd invited me to stay over for a few days while I got my legs back, and said that, anyway, that same bag had done the same duty for her. But on her face. (She'd had a horrible wisdom-tooth operation the winter before.) I remembered her drooling...
I said "Ewww!" at the memory and looked at the bag in revulsion and she nearly fell down laughing.
After thinking about it, I looked at the peas again and had to agree it was a pretty funny reaction. I settled the poor, abused bag back into my poor, abused crotch. Mmmm! Nice bag! And there was another one still in the freezer.
In another week I'd be developing even faster... with no nasty testosterone... ever again.
Cassie put on a record. Journey.
Don't stop believing.
-
Back in 1980, in college, my best friend was Gerry Sangster: six foot, two inches of supermodel, only with a horsey, live-out-loud laugh.
I wasn't nearly as tall, and not a tenth as pretty, but we saw eye-to-eye on a ton of things. We'd met in a book store line on the first day of our first year, started laughing at almost everything either one of us came up with and were inseparable ever after.
We enjoyed a lot of the same things; we adored the new music and going out to the dancier clubs. We haunted vintage clothing stores together and tried on everything (even if we'd hardly ever buy anything). And we loved motorcycles and everything bike - which neither of us could afford as impoverished students. Stuff like that, and a million others. We lived across town from each other with our parents, but our moms said we should just choose one bedroom or the other to stay in, and save all the commuting. My dad was just confused, I think. But he liked Gerry.
Unlike me, Gerry wasn't a natural student, and we had to cram to keep her marks up, and our only-sometimes overlapping course loads meant group sessions were the only way to go. Our study group varied, but had a core of Cathy Ford, a smily, cute blonde who knew every lyric she'd ever heard, Beth Thompson, a shy, quiet single mother who was always desperately behind, but still trying, Dennis McNaughton, a certifiable genius and guitar whiz, Gerry, and me. Sometimes (exams) we'd gather enough people to take over someone's parent's house (usually mine or Dennis') for all-nighters. Sometimes it was just us five.
Also unlike me, Gerry was a natural girl, and I was just slightly, ah… male. As in, well… that's what everyone thought I was. Effeminate, probably gay (though there was only circumstantial evidence of that) and skinny as hell - but a man.
And not really everyone thought I was. I was pretty sure the biggest part of me, the part I felt when I closed my eyes and concentrated on just the inside, was just as much a woman as Gerry. Not that I'd ever tell anyone.
So we were an odd pair. Going out dancing at a new, hot gay bar, she'd wear some silly flapper dress and I'd wear a silk blouse that just might be taken for a mod shirt. Or a mod shirt that looked like a blouse. I didn't care which. She'd wear a touch of eye shadow and some blush, I'd wear mascara… and maybe a touch of liner, too. And Lip Smacker. I just loved Lip Smacker back then: Strawberry. Gerry borrowed it sometimes, but she didn't really like all the taste and preferred dry lips.
Unfortunately, another thing we shared was anorexia. We weren't sick or anything, yet, but other people saw very different bodies than we saw.
Gerry thought she was too mannish, too muscular, too-often noticed for her size, her knees and elbows… thousands of grade school taunts had left their mark. Somehow, being lighter felt better. She never believed she was beautiful, despite offers for modelling careers.
I just never wanted my body to grow - up or otherwise - and somehow in college (and maybe because Gerry was doing it) I found myself happily starving into a place where I was… more me. My mother was upset, her mother was upset, and I imagine our friends were, too, but we were oblivious.
By Christmas exams of our first year, we were both becoming far too skinny, though we still felt gross and squidgy. I was, at my lowest, probably somewhere under 140, though I refused to ever get on a scale. Gerry, who weighed herself every day, had reached a near-skeletal 153. (At 6'2", 153 lbs is skinny!) Also she was turning orange from all the carrots she filled up on instead of calories. It was her orange skin and yellowing eyes that finally broke us out of our mutual famines. Well… that, and Cathy Ford calling me out on my eyebrows.
It was in the big cafeteria during a study session for a nasty chemistry exam, just the fab five of us. We all had trouble with the course, the prof somehow garbling even the most basic stuff… but that was just why we were there. Not what happened.
Cathy was staring at me, and more particularly, me above my eyes. I knew I'd overdone my brows the week before, but we'd been planning a last free weekend of partying at the clubs, and I just hated my brows.
"Michael? Do you pluck your brows?" Karen wasn't the most tactful of girls, but she didn't have a mean bone in her body, either. In fact, the only thing I think I ever saw her get mad at was a DJ singing a parody of one of her favorite songs!
I went hyper-tense at her question. Beth and Dennis looked up at the both of us, Beth probably puzzled and Dennis probably just to see what we'd do next. Gerry put her hand on my arm. Don't panic. Well, before I could panic, Cathy went on.
"Yes! You do, I can see the little dots from re-growth, and they're different, and you polish your nails, too."
They all looked, before I could curl them under. They were buffed into a gleaming shine. And rounded. I might've started to shake, but Dennis spoke up before I could.
"And Gerry, you've got to see a doctor about whatever's wrong, but I looked up what I think it is and you're getting way too much keratin and not eating enough of anything else and you're starving yourself. And you," he looked at me, "are about twenty pounds lighter than you were in September, and it's not healthy."
We all just sat there, almost frozen. I can't remember much more than that nobody moved, really, and I wasn't able to even process what was happening. What would happen...
It was quiet, little Beth who spoke, who put everything in clear, dead-on accurate words.
"Well, Gerry needs to eat more and get over feeling too tall. I'd kill to be half as pretty as you, or half as tall, and now you just look sick all the time! And Michael, you need to stop pretending and making jokes about what you want to wear and look like. And EAT something else than salad! You dance for like five hours a night and all you eat is lettuce! You can't be a girl someday if you're dead!"
We all sat for another three or four seconds. Me, because I had no idea…
"Girl? Cool, and I guess it fits, if you pluck and all…" Cathy grinned at me. "What do you want us to call you?"
"Michelle."
We all looked at Gerry. She smiled at me. She didn't look all that well... Yellow. Sallow.
"If you'll eat with me, or we'll try, okay? If… then you should be 'Michelle,' not Michael."
I'd dreamt up a hundred names but had shied away from Michelle. Too close. Too the same. Besides, it was a boy's name, almost, in French. But it wasn't.
Dennis pushed his half-eaten plate of fries and gravy across the table.
We both looked at the greasy mess and burst out laughing. She still sounded like a horse when she really laughed. And she was way too skinny.
I looked at my own arm. It didn't look too bad…
Michelle?
I smiled at Gerry and thought, 'I could live with Michelle...'
"Michelle?"
I looked up at her, "Hunh?"
"Very lady-like." She grinned. "Would you care to split a burger platter with me?"
I looked at the grey-vy.
"Maybe just the burger?"
"How about fries, just salt?"
I grinned back at her. I could live with that. Or one or two of them, anyway. She grinned at me like she understood, that there was no way I could look at too much food right then, and that she felt the same way.
"And a side salad?"
"Whatever the lady wishes." Dennis bowed like a waiter and headed off to the cashier.
Beth and Cathy both laughed. Gerry laughed even louder.
Deborah Harry looks, and that laugh...
My looks and… Michelle?