BALLS Read online

  “Do you think he is?” Mom whispered to me, cocking her head in his direction.

  I nodded.

  A few minutes later, Dr. Chipkin personally came out to greet us and escort us to his office. I liked him immediately. He reminded me of Dennis Franz, the actor who played Andy Sipowicz on NYPD Blue, only slimmer and with better skin and a gentle, easygoing way. He also had a Star Trek pin on the lapel of his lab coat, which my mom commented on; he shyly confessed that yes, he was a “Trekkie.”

  Then the conversation turned to my hormone therapy: biweekly testosterone injections, the dosage of which would be determined by trial and error and blood tests to ensure no harm was being done to my liver. The goal was to settle on the lowest possible dosage to yield the desired results. I naively asked him if he could administer just enough testosterone to grow facial hair, deepen my voice, and build muscle, but not so much that I’d grow back hair or develop male-pattern baldness. (I’d been privy to enough discussions with women to know that neither of those traits were desirable.) He laughed and informed me that there was no way of controlling those variables. If male-pattern baldness and back hair runs in my family, I would have just as much chance of inheriting them as if I had been born a genetic male. Images of Dad’s hairy back and the bald uncles on my mother’s side popped into my head.

  Crap!

  I lobbed one more question at him out of desperation: “Is there any chance these hormone injections could make me taller?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Your bones stopped growing at around age thirteen.”

  Double crap!

  I made mental notes to do the following:

  • Research side effects of Rogaine

  • Find a good back-waxer

  • Spread the rumor to every girl I know that flats are making a comeback

  Dr. Chipkin informed me that I would not be getting an injection at this appointment. Instead I would fill out some forms and go to the lab to have blood drawn, then come back in two weeks for my first shot. I started to fill out the paperwork while my mom engaged him in some small talk. When I got to the question about my sex, I stared at the two boxes marked “male” and “female.” Unsure which one I was technically supposed to check at this stage of the game, I turned to Dr. Chipkin.

  “Should I put down male?”

  He smiled, “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  ••

  Two weeks later Mom and I were back in the endocrinology waiting room, this time with Wendy seated between us. They both wanted to be there for my first injection and then go out for dinner afterward to celebrate.

  My sister nudged me and motioned to a guy sitting in the corner reading, indicating she thought he might be transgender. I squinted for a closer look and shook my head. Nope. While she scanned the room for more possible suspects, I distracted myself with Cassie, the pretty blonde nurse who came out to get me for my shot. I jumped up, ready to follow her, when Mom grabbed my arm and handed me something heavy wrapped in tissue paper.

  “Here, give this to Dr. Chipkin.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a ‘Star Trek’ mug. Tell him it’s for his desk.”

  Wendy and I rolled our eyes while Cassie waited patiently. She led me to an exam room where Dr. Chipkin was reviewing my blood test results. After exchanging quick pleasantries, I handed him the mug, embarrassed.

  “This is from my mom. She thought you’d like it for your desk.”

  He opened it up and laughed. “Oh, that’s great. Tell her thank you for me.” Then it was back to business. “Your blood and liver tests look normal, so we’re gonna start at 120 mgs and see how that dosage affects you after a few months. Cassie will give you the injections, and I’ll see you every three months or so for the first year or until we nail down the proper dosage. You’ll notice your voice changing, acne, body hair where you’ve never had any before . . . you know, all the great things that come with male puberty.”

  No, I didn’t know. I didn’t have any brothers.

  As I dropped my pants to receive the first of what could potentially be upward of fifteen hundred injections over my lifetime, most of which I would end up administering myself, I realized I was going to go through puberty all over again; only this time I’d be unable to apply anything I’d learned the first time around. I felt the cold, wet alcohol swab on my right cheek and braced myself for impending pain, but when the nurse stuck me with the slim twenty-one-gauge needle, I didn’t really feel it that much. Two seconds later I pulled up my boxers and headed back out to the waiting room.

  Mom and Wendy looked expectantly at me. I didn’t feel any different than I did before the testosterone shot but gave them my best Incredible Hulk pose just the same. Seemed like we were all anxious to see results. But no one wanted them faster than I did, especially with my cousin Terry’s wedding right around the corner. It would be my first formal event and official debut as a man in front of two hundred of my closest relatives.

  ••

  Standing in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door, I looked myself up and down: my first men’s suit, navy blue, cuffs slightly breaking over my black monk-strap dress shoes. Mom had helped me with the Ace bandage so my chest was bound extra tight, making it virtually undetectable under my dress shirt, jacket, and tie. I’d had only two testosterone injections so far, which meant aside from my haircut, there weren’t any real physical changes in my appearance yet; but my entire extended family on my mom’s side was about see me as a man for the first time since my announcement. I felt good, but part of me feared that to them I might just look like a woman in drag.

  I went downstairs where Wendy’s and Jill’s boyfriends were making awkward small talk with my father while my sisters finished getting ready.

  “Lookin’ good, Shtine!” they said. As I returned the compliment, my sisters came down, beautiful as always, and the “Ooh, Shtinys” began along with the whistling and bum pinching. My mom appeared last as usual, and when she saw me, her eyes welled up with tears. She gave me a kiss but before she could say anything, Dad shoved her toward the door, announcing that thanks to her we were now late. Some things never change.

  The two young couples went in one car and I rode with my parents. I was quizzing Mom on who would be there and confirming that everyone in attendance already knew my situation. She said that yes, everybody knew, including my younger cousins. I inquired about close family friends I thought would be there and she confirmed that, yes, they knew too.

  As we got closer to the church, I lobbed out one last question. “Gram told Great Gram, right?”

  Silence.

  “Mom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What? What do you mean you don’t know?” “Well, Gram and I decided it might be better not to tell her. The woman’s ninety-five. She probably won’t know the difference.”

  “WHAT?”

  “But that doesn’t mean someone else didn’t tell her. Maybe Aunty Ginny or Uncle Robert said something.”

  “What am I supposed to say when I see her?”

  “Just say ‘Hi’ and give her a hug. She’ll probably think you’re Adam or Dana.”

  Oh great.

  Wendy, Jill, and the boyfriends found us in the church parking lot and I immediately relayed what I’d just learned. After a quick huddle, “Operation: Avoid Great Gram” was officially underway. It was quickly aborted, however, when we saw our target heading straight for us. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  “Hiiii, Great Graaam,” we all said in unison.

  “Come here, hokis.” One by one she kissed us, uttering more Armenian terms of endearment with each embrace. Until it was my turn, that is, at which point she reverted back to English.

  “Oh my god,” she said, laughing nervously and looking around for someone—anyone—else to move on to. I looked over at Mom, who was now standing with Gram, both of them rolling their eyes.

  “Come on, Shtiny,” Jill said, dragging
me away, Wendy and the two boyfriends in tow.

  “Do you think she knows?” I asked. The jury was still out.

  Inside the church, most of my relatives were already seated on the groom’s side. I felt good in my suit but as I walked down the aisle with all eyes on me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was really pulling it off. Was this how bridesmaids felt? They rarely get to choose what they wear. At least I got to pick out my suit. Still, when I saw Terry at the altar looking sharp in his tuxedo, I wished this wedding had been black tie.

  Ever since my prom I had dreamed of wearing a tux and now that I could, I had been begging for an opportunity. It arrived a year later in the form of an advertising award dinner in honor of my father. The tux was a classic shawl collar model given to me by one of the managing partners at Arnold. He had just bought himself a new one, and since we were roughly the same size, he thought with a few alterations it would fit me pretty well. He was right. After my tailor had worked his magic you’d think that tux had been made for me. The shirt actually was, thanks to a gift certificate my dad gave me to the Custom Shop. And once I put on the black onyx cufflinks and studs, black silk bowtie and cummerbund, and shiny patent leather tuxedo shoes, I took a look in the mirror. Holy shit! Who let James Bond in here? On a scale of 1 to 10, I was definitely a 007. And when I strode into the Harvard Club, just one among a sea of penguins, I finally felt like I belonged to a different club—the one I’d been denied entry to since birth.

  But that night was a year’s worth of confidence away. To get through this wedding, I needed liquid courage. So as soon as we got to the reception, the boyfriends and I headed straight to the bar. After a few quick drinks I was much more at ease. We were sitting with my cousins and having a blast. None of them treated me any differently. Jill and I danced together, which drew a lot of attention, but not as much as when I pulled feisty ol’ Aunty Mary out on the floor and attempted to dip her. Later, when we found ourselves back at the “cousins table” for cake, Jill announced she had to go to the bathroom and, out of habit, asked me to go with her. When I told her I couldn’t, it took her a moment to realize why. I watched tears form in her eyes as she registered the permanent loss of her former ladies’ room buddy, which according to Jill was the only thing that bummed her out about my gender change.

  I, on the other hand, was about to face an even bigger bummer that few people would ever need or want to go through a second time: puberty.

  ••

  It only took a few months before I began noticing the signs of Puberty 2.0. The first was acne—worse than I ever had in high school. Dr. Chipkin said I was just going to have to ride it out, but it was a pretty embarrassing ride down the skincare aisle of CVS; me at age twenty-six battling seventh and eighth graders for the last tube of Oxy10. Yet no topical medication—no matter how much benzoyl peroxide it contained—did the trick.

  After a particularly bad breakout, Mom informed me that when my cousin went through puberty he had terrible acne and was prescribed something called Accutane, which cleared it right up. That sounded promising, so I went to see a dermatologist in nearby Brookline who came highly recommended. While waiting in his exam room, I grabbed the pamphlet on Accutane and found myself cringing at the “before” pictures. Yikes! My acne problem was nowhere near as bad as what was depicted in these photographs. Dear God, please don’t let me get bacne! I began reading about the different dosage levels and figured I’d be at the lowest end of the spectrum. Imagine my surprise when the doctor prescribed the highest dose possible. When I questioned him on it his response was simply, “You want to see results, don’t you?” Okay . . .

  Two months later I got a phone call from my college friend, Hazel. Now in business school, her time was at a premium and she was returning my call from two weeks earlier. I was still half asleep when I picked up the phone and mumbled hello.

  “It’s Hazel.”

  “Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to call me back.” “You got ten minutes, go.”

  I started blinking, partially because I was trying to remember the reason why I’d called her in the first place, but mostly because I was seeing double. I relayed this phenomenon to Hazel.

  “Oh my god, you’re taking Accutane, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I took that in high school and I stopped because my skin got way too dry.”

  “Tell me about it.” I said through severely chapped lips.

  “I think double vision is one of the side effects. You better call the doctor and have him lower your dosage.”

  After my ten minutes with Hazel were up, I checked the pamphlet that came with my medication. Stop using Acccutane and call your doctor at once if you experience any of the following side effects: blah, blah, blah, blurred or double vision, blah, blah, blah. I immediately called the doctor’s office and explained my situation to the receptionist. She put me on hold and then after a few minutes informed me that I’d have to find another dermatologist as mine was no longer seeing patients. What the . . . ?

  Since I only had a month left on the meds to go, I decided to just cut my dose in half. Soon my double vision disappeared and thirty days later so did my acne. What did appear though, was this headline in The Boston Globe: “Missing Drug Records Cost Brookline Dermatologist His License.”

  Then there was the hair growth. The only body part I’d be shaving now would be my acne-free face, so per advice from every guy I knew, I chucked all the disposable razors I’d been using on my legs and splurged on the fourteen-dollar Gillette Sensor Excel with the overpriced replaceable cartridges. I was finally taking part in the ritual I had been looking forward to my whole life, cutting myself twice in the process. I was now a member of the club.

  At first I couldn’t understand why guys complained so much about shaving; it only took like ten minutes, big deal. Try shaving your legs, pits, and bikini line. Shaving your face is nothing. I actually looked forward to it. I loved the fact that I could alter my appearance so easily. I tried out the Elvis sideburns and sported the obligatory goatee, which I shaved down to a mustache right before flying to London with Hazel, just to irritate her. I did the soul patch thing for a hot minute and then went clean shaven. After a few years the thrill wore off and the ritual became a chore, which is exactly what every guy had pretty much told me would happen. I stopped shaving altogether and grew a beard—another male rite of passage (and a piece of cake for an Armenian guy)—but that got too itchy and I got rid of it in time for the summer. I ended up settling on the scruff thing, shaving maybe once a week and before flights to avoid being profiled as a terrorist.

  In addition to my face, hair was also sprouting up on other parts of my body like my chest, my back (although not as badly as I’d feared), and my ass, which was a lovely surprise. The hair on my arms and legs grew longer and coarser. The hair on my head, however, not so much. My hairline began to recede around the temples and my forehead widened, giving me a squarer, more masculine look. I didn’t really notice the transformation while it was happening, but it is striking when I look back at pictures of myself during that five-year period I call “The Great Recession.” Eventually, when the handfuls of hair started coming out in the shower, I got so depressed I hit the bottle. The Propecia bottle.

  The other hairy situation was my voice. The female register was a dead giveaway, especially on the phone when the person on the other end didn’t have any visual clues to pair it with. I was really looking forward to the testosterone working its magic in that department. The doctor said my voice would get deeper but I honestly didn’t know what to expect; girls’ voices just don’t change in the same way.

  The first time it happened I was on a conference call with my team presenting ads to a client. The eight of us were taking turns shouting into a regular old office phone that we’d put on speaker. The art director had just finished going over the print, and I was now performing the radio spots I’d written, doing my best to bring the characters to life. I was on a roll until
I tried to hit a high note and my voice cracked. I was completely caught off guard, as was everyone else in the room. They had all been on this transformation journey with me, learning as I went, but this was something new if not unfamiliar to the other guys in the room. I excused myself and forged on, picking up where I’d left off. I thought I was in the clear when I got to the announcer section, but on “Hurry in” I croaked again, this time to audible laughter.

  “Who let that frog in here?” I joked. My client, also aware of my transition, laughed too and asked me if I needed to gargle before presenting the next spot.

  For months it continued: mid-word, mid-sentence, and often at the most inopportune moments. At presentations, bets were placed on whether or not I’d make it through a script without my voice cracking, the over/under based on how many female characters there were in a spot. Soon I earned the nickname “Peter Brady” in honor of one of the classic episodes of “The Brady Bunch” when Peter’s voice changes. As the song from the show goes, “When it’s time to change you’ve got to rearrange . . . who you are and what you’re gonna be.”

  Eventually my voice deepened into the high end of the male register. I was being mistaken for a woman on the phone less and less and had virtually no problems passing in person. I did develop another problem that I wasn’t expecting, though. All of a sudden I was snoring like a freight train. I’d doze off on the couch and everyone would yell that they couldn’t hear the TV. If I crashed at a friend’s place, I’d drive everyone out of the room because my snoring was so bad. I had never snored in my life so I found this extremely disturbing. I went to see a specialist, who after examining me said that because the testosterone had thickened my larynx and vocal cords, the opening in my throat had become roughly fifty percent smaller. He also noted that my tonsils were enlarged but couldn’t say for certain if that was due to the hormones. Regardless, they needed to come out to give me a larger airway to breathe through, and hopefully that would stop the snoring or at least decrease it.