BALLS Read online

  Let me tell you this: Out of all the surgeries I’d end up enduring, the tonsillectomy ranks in the top three for most painful recovery. On the upside, it reduced my snoring by about eighty percent, and I lost seven pounds, which proved to be a much-needed bonus.

  Like most guys on testosterone, I gained weight. A ton of weight. Seriously, people always told me I was “tons of fun,” but now it was a cold, hard fact. Part of the gain came from the steroids adding bulk and inducing cravings for red meat. But part of it was my own fault: I was eating french fries with every meal and my idea of exercise was walking to the refrigerator and back. I gained thirty pounds in that first year, going from a waist 32 to a waist 36. For someone just under 5’4,” that was huge (as was my ass). That summer, I went for my annual physical and when the nurse weighed me in at 167 pounds, I almost fell off the scale. How did I get this way? Why hadn’t anyone said anything to me? There should’ve been an intervention!

  My primary care doctor sat me down for a serious talk, not only about my weight but also about my cholesterol level. She explained that it had already been elevated because of the testosterone, so I really needed to watch what I was eating. I made a promise to her and to myself that I would get my act together. I left her office and drove straight to the Cape, still in shock over the fact that I had gained thirty pounds. It didn’t help that as I got out of the car and pulled my bag out of the trunk, my friend Digger walked by on his way to the beach and yelled, “Hey, Chris, you’re really puttin’ on a few back there.”

  I already felt like a lard-ass, but now I had verbal confirmation. Thanks, Digger.

  What I didn’t realize, though, was that Digger was just trying to embrace my new gender and treat me like one of the guys. His wife came by the next day to tell me so. He’d told her what he said to me and she yelled at him. He defended himself by saying that’s what guys do: They bust on each other, especially about weight. But when I didn’t sling an insult back at him or laugh it off, he worried that maybe I wasn’t aware of that particular piece of “guy code” yet. I wasn’t, but now that I was, I wanted to make sure he knew we were square. Digger’s hairline was receding big time, so when I saw him the next day, I greeted him with “Hey, Dig, you’re really goin’ bald there.” He laughed and punched me in the arm. All square.

  I decided then to make some major changes in my eating habits. I cut french fries down to only once a day and eventually to just three times a week. Sometimes I even ate salad. As a meal. I allowed myself dessert only on weekends, switched from regular Coke to Diet Coke, and started running four to five days a week. It took me a year to put on the weight and the same amount of time to take it off, but there was still one problem: Unlike what I’d read and was told, the testosterone was not redistributing my body fat in the hip area the way I’d expected it to. The hormones were supposed to flatten out my hips to give me a more masculine appearance, but for some reason that just wasn’t happening no matter how much I exercised or worked out. I kept thinking back to Gram’s letter and what she said about the hairdresser with the “round butt.” She jinxed me!

  I know, I know, there are lots of guys with round butts and big hips. That’s why “dad jeans” were invented. But I was hypersensitive about passing, not to mention a perfectionist. For me, there was only one solution: lipo. And after a month of wearing a girdle-like compression garment under my pants, I had nearly invisible hips and a butt that earned Gram’s seal of approval. I was looking more like a guy and, as I’d soon find out, I was acting more like one too.

  ••

  Beth’s voice had begun to sound like an unintelligible adult from a Charlie Brown cartoon. A few minutes earlier I’d simply asked if her sister would be joining us for dinner. Ten minutes later I was still waiting for the story she was telling to lead me to the answer. Finally I snapped.

  “So is she joining us or not?”

  “Hey, I was getting to that. What’s wrong with you? You usually like my stories.”

  “I don’t know, it’s just . . . I asked you like ten minutes ago. It was a simple question.”

  “You know, Mandy and I have both noticed you’ve been a lot more impatient lately and less sensitive. We think it’s that damn testosterone.”

  They were right. I had kind of noticed it too, but never made the connection. My tone was different and not just because my voice had changed. I was more confident, sticking up for my ideas and speaking up more in meetings. I was couching things less and being more direct—telling it like it is, both inside and apparently outside the office.

  “Oh no. Am I turning into a dick?”

  “No, you’re not a dick,” Beth said. “You’re just more like a guy. I just have to get used to it.”

  So did I. When I began the injections, I was well informed of the physical changes the testosterone would have on my body. But I was not prepared for the emotional ones. While going through this adjustment period, it became clear to me that a lot of male and female gender stereotyping is definitely rooted in legitimate hormonal differences. Take aggression for example. As a woman, I used to watch guys get into drunken arguments that escalated into fistfights and wonder what the hell was wrong with them.

  Then, after a few months on testosterone, there I was throwing the first punch. At a Halloween party . . . dressed as a used Kleenex.

  I was entertaining a group of my female friends with one of my classic stories. Just as I was getting to the good part, this douche bag dressed in a Top Gun flight suit appeared in the doorway, mirrored sunglasses and all. He was jealous I was getting all the girls’ attention and made it his mission to knock me down a few pegs.

  “Man, you’re short,” he announced.

  I ignored him and went on with my story.

  “Seriously, you are really short.”

  One of my friends yelled, “Shut up, asshole,” but he wouldn’t and began closing the distance between us.

  “Doesn’t it bother you when you’re with a girl and she’s taller than you?” he baited.

  “Look around. It doesn’t seem to bother them.”

  With that comeback all the girls started cheering, which only pissed him off even more. He came closer, his stocky 5’10” frame towering over me.

  “Seriously, I wanna know how tall you are.”

  “Seriously, why don’t you shut the fuck up?”

  “Why don’t you make me?”

  And with that I launched myself at him and if someone hadn’t gotten in between us, he would’ve beaten the snot out of me, which would have been only fitting considering my costume. It was then I realized the quick wit that served me well as a girl could now lead to a major ass-kicking as a guy. I may not have back up next time. In the future I was going to have to check my tongue and my testosterone at the door if I wanted to avoid getting into fistfights.

  The point is, most gender stereotypes are based in endocrinology. Men are expected to be more outspoken and aggressive than women. Well, why wouldn’t we be, with all that testosterone pumping through our bodies? Women are more sensitive and emotional than men, right? Well, it’s a lot easier to be that way when your body is flooded with estrogen—trust me, I know. Take the old adage, boys don’t cry. Before going on testosterone, I was depressed, so crying was something I did quite often. Like many women, I found it to be an emotional release. A way to “get it all out” and move on. But about a month into the injections, the tears wouldn’t come. Even on my saddest days—nothing. I’d think about the worst things, like people I loved dying—still nothing. I even brought out the big guns: Terms of Endearment. That scene toward the end when Debra Winger is dying in her hospital bed and saying goodbye to her two boys? I thought for sure that would do it, but nope. Dry as a bone. I was starting to worry I’d never be able to cry again.

  I spoke to my doctor and he told me not to worry. He said I might cry less than before but that I certainly hadn’t lost the ability. He was right. After I got my tonsils out and the pain meds wore off, oh, there we
re tears. Later on, when my favorite cousin, Candy, passed away, I cried throughout the entire memorial service and funeral. The year my mom went through chemo? Daily cry-fest. And when my girlfriend broke up with me right before my flight home? T.A.B.—Total Airport Breakdown.

  Bottom line: If a guy cries less than a girl, it isn’t necessarily because he is unfeeling or less emotional. More likely, it’s due to his hormonal make-up. Unless, of course, he really is just a dick.

  On the upside, all these negative side effects of testosterone were overshadowed by one major bonus: My periods had stopped. Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, I was free at last. The cramps, bloating, lower-back pain, mood swings, risk associated with wearing white pants, and humiliation of having to shop in the feminine protection aisle . . . I was done with that living hell. I threw a “pad-burning party” for my envious female friends and gave away whatever boxes of tampons and bottles of Midol I had left.

  After the party, I thought back to that stormy night on the Cape when I first got my period. I knew it was all over for me then. I was male but my body was definitely female, and every month I would get a five-day reminder of the cruel joke God had played on me. Fourteen years later, the joke was finally over and the monthly reminder, gone.

  But there were still two other “reminders” that needed getting rid of.

  BYE BYE BOOBIES

  January 1996

  There are a few different techniques surgeons use to perform “top surgery.” It really depends on the patient’s skin elasticity and chest size. You listen as the doctor explains your options and weigh the pros and cons. This is what my mom and I were doing as we sat in the office of Dr. D, a tall, sturdy woman with a no-nonsense haircut and impressive list of credentials. She came highly recommended by her peers in the plastic surgery field and the guys in my support group. Her warmth and compassion, combined with her extensive medical knowledge and surgical expertise, made us feel like I’d be in very good hands.

  Having received letters from my therapist and endocrinologist confirming my transgender diagnosis and their continued involvement in my care, Dr. D had no reservations about performing a bilateral mastectomy on a twenty-six-year-old, perfectly healthy biological female. And after a quick examination of my chest, she told us there were basically two ways I could go.

  The first would achieve the best male aesthetic but would require incisions under my pectoral muscles, which would leave me with large, noticeable u-shaped scars. “She—I mean, he’s—a keloid former,” Mom interjected, letting the doctor know that when I heal, my scars tend to be noticeably thicker and larger than average due to the overgrowth of collagen.

  The second option was liposuction. Because my boobs were relatively small, the doctor could make tiny half-inch incisions around the areola and under the armpits just wide enough to insert a cannula and suck out the fatty breast tissue. There would be minimal scarring but I would need one or two more touch-up procedures and the shape of my chest would not look as defined as the first option.

  Hmmm.

  A better-defined male-looking chest was obviously the most desirable outcome. But who was going to notice the definition of my pecs with two thick smiley face scars permanently grinning at them? Then again, I already had some hair on my chest from the testosterone and wondered aloud if over time it would cover the scarring should I choose the first technique. But as Dr. D pointed out, hair can’t grow on scar tissue. So if I wanted to hide those scars, I’d likely have to do some creative styling with my chest hair. Doubtful it would ever be long enough to fashion a Donald Trump comb-over, I decided on liposuction. Mom agreed and we set up a surgery date for mid-January. If I had to be out of commission for four to six weeks, it might as well be during the dead of winter.

  You’d think someone who was voted Most Likely to Get an Ulcer would be stressing out before going into surgery for the first time. But sitting in the outpatient waiting area with my mom, I was uncharacteristically calm. I was so excited to get rid of these “booby prizes” that I never worried about the process. I had no idea what I was in for and I didn’t care. I just wanted them gone.

  I was escorted to a tiny room in pre-op where I changed into a pair of geriatric-looking open-toe stretchy socks and a cotton gown that tied in the back but still left my ass hanging out for all to see. Then I lay down on a gurney while a nurse stuck me three times before finally hooking me up to an IV. While I reeled from the sting of that experience, another nurse put what looked to be a shower cap on my head, thereby completing the act of robbing me of my dignity. That’s when someone from anesthesia strolled in to make sure I was aware of all the risks involved with the procedure, including that I might die.

  Great. At least I’ll look hot in my shower cap, open-ass gown, and support hose.

  Soon Dr. D showed up in her scrubs to let me know it was time. Mom kissed me goodbye and I was wheeled around a maze of corridors to the OR. A big, bright light shone in my face while masked medical professionals in shades of teal and blue talked nonchalantly about their weekends as though they were in a cafeteria. It was like I wasn’t even there. After a few minutes a friendly voice addressed me by name and asked me to count back from a hundred. 99, 98, 97 . . .

  When I woke up, I felt like I’d been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. The kind with naked-lady silhouettes on the mud flaps doing seventy-five in the passing lane. I heard the beeping and chirping sounds of hospital equipment and a woman’s voice saying my name over and over again with increasing urgency. I tried to open my eyes, but it felt as though my eyelids were weighted down by sandbags. “Christopher?” (now louder) “Christopher?” (even louder) “Wake up, Christopher!”

  Oh my god, will you shut up and let me sleep!

  After one more “Christopher,” I managed to open my eyes halfway. A nurse in purple scrubs looked back at me.

  “You’re in recovery,” she explained. “The surgery took longer than expected and we’re closing.”

  Closing?

  “You need to wake up so we can get you home.”

  Hospitals close?

  “Christopher?”

  “I need to throw up.”

  She handed me a pink plastic basin and I puked my brains out, apparently from the anesthesia. If you’re prone to motion sickness like I am, you’re more likely to have nausea as a side effect. And the longer you’re under, the worse it is. Turns out, like me, Dr. D is a perfectionist: I was under for nine hours instead of the six that were allotted.

  Mom came in as the nurse handed me a Styrofoam cup filled with crushed ice and ginger ale. “How do you feel, Shtiny?”

  “Like a truck hit me.”

  I looked down at my chest, which was wrapped tight like a mummy in white gauze bandages and a compression wrap. I felt a weird sensation like something was missing but couldn’t feel much of a difference with all the padding and throbbing pain distracting me. Mom and the nurse helped me out of bed and into my clothes. The button-down shirt was definitely a good call; there was no way I’d be able to lift up my arms or pull anything on over my head. It was during this dressing procedure that I noticed the four rubber pouches dangling below my underarms and waist. Shaped like small pears, they were clinging to my body like ticks and filled with varying levels of bloody pulp.

  “What are these things?” I asked, fighting off the urge to vomit again.

  “Drains,” the nurse in purple said, “to help get all the fluid out and make the swelling go down faster. Your mom will be emptying them for you and keeping track of the ccs.”

  “Bloody Mary, anyone?” a nurse in pink joked, causing me to puke up the ginger ale I’d just managed to get down.

  After receiving dirty looks from all three of us, Pinky’s smile disappeared and she went back to helping cram me into the wheelchair that would be my official transportation out of the hospital.

  Eight days later, I was still stuck with the drains but got the okay from Dr. D to remove the bandages. I don’t know which I
was excited for more: seeing my new chest or finally getting to take a shower. I remember standing in the middle of my parents’ plush bathroom as Mom unvelcroed the binder. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

  God, that felt good.

  Then came the unwrapping of what seemed to be endless layers of bandages, padding, and gauze. I started to feel off-balance without that familiar weight in front. My mom looked at my chest with tears in her eyes. She hugged me and said that I “finally looked right.” I turned to face the mirror. I saw my bruised and uneven but very flat chest in the reflection and got dizzy. Mom saw me swaying and caught me before I could fall. I sat down on the edge of the tub and let the sensation pass. I looked down: Nothing blocked my view of my feet anymore. Mom said it perfectly; even though my chest didn’t look great at this stage, I finally felt “right.” I couldn’t wait to put on a t-shirt and see how it fit. But first I was going to spend a good twenty minutes in a hot shower. I emerged finally feeling clean, grabbed a bath towel, and instinctively wrapped it around myself under my armpits. Realizing I didn’t have to do that anymore, I happily cinched it around my waist like a guy. Two steps later it came undone and fell to the floor, leaving me standing in the hallway naked.

  I was going to need to practice this.

  ••

  Of all the gender-confirming surgeries I had over the course of seventeen years, my mastectomy was the most life-changing because it made the most difference in how I looked on the outside and felt on the inside. Not having to bind anymore gave me a feeling of liberation and a major confidence boost. And while testosterone didn’t increase my height, this surgery actually did. After several people told me I looked taller (one even accused me of wearing lifts!), I measured myself. Sure enough, I had grown about three-quarters of an inch. This was no medical miracle. In fact, the explanation was quite simple: Before surgery, I hunched all the time to disguise the fact I had boobs. Now that they were gone, I was standing up straight. Nonetheless, I was happy to give Dr. D the credit, and she was even happier to take it.