This week I had to attend an emergency appointment in the hospital with my gastrologist. I won’t go into the gory details of why, but suffice to say that over the past fortnight I have spent an inordinate amount of time either in bed, or lying on my side on the couch wishing I was dead. It’s been a very rough period of my life.
If you have any experience in hospitals then you know that most of the time, when you attend a clinic of some kind you will be seen by a different doctor each time. You may, or may not see the specialist in charge. But you will see someone, and because of the speed with which the other doctors rotate through various clinics it’s unlikely you’ll meet the same doctor twice. Ordinarily this is a good thing. Ordinarily this gives you the chance for fresh eyes to see your case, the chance for someone with the potential for a new insight to attend to your case. This isn’t such a good thing if you’re transsexual.
Why?
Well let me tell you a little about my experience over the past decade with doctors not attached to my gender clinic. In those ten years precisely two doctors have understood that my gender has zero to do with my stomach problems. My GP, and the specialist in charge of the tummy clinic. That’s it.
So you wander in to an exam room from the waiting area. They ask (for the umpteenth time) for a list of your symptoms, how your medication is working out for you, things like that. Then they ask you for a complete list of the medications you’re taking. This goes fine until you mention being on both Goserelin, and oestrogen.
“Why are you on those?”
At this point my brain usually derails for a few moments. Yes, of course I know I’m transgendered. But I’m so comfortable in my own skin these days that I often forget for hours, or occasionally, even days at a time. It’s jarring to have to bring it back into mental focus. It’s also stressful when you have to bring someone new into the loop on your physical nature.
“Because I’m being treated for being transsexual.”
That’s the point when one of two things happens. Either they move on with your interview, and try their hardest to help you. Or they simply switch off, because obviously if you have gender issues it’s all in your head. Nevermind that you have had these symptoms since you were four years old, long before you even realised there was a difference between boys, and girls. Nevermind that if it actually was all in your head, you would have surely had some kind of improvement when you became comfortable in your own skin. And most of all nevermind that the doctor sitting in front of you is honour, and duty bound to treat you to the best of their ability, regardless of their own biases.
There are many things I love about being transsexual, I’ve written about them twice. But I loathe telling medical professionals about my true nature. Nothing else in my life makes me feel so vulnerable, so powerless. They after all hold in their hands my potential to become physically well, (for the first time in my life) and the power to blatantly, or subtly refuse to help me.
Luckily this week I got a wonderful doctor who was genuinely, and very obviously upset by her inability to explain what was wrong with me. Sometimes you just get lucky that way, and end up with a gentle human being caring for you, rather than a tin god on a power trip.
