Life

Flappy, Lumpy Little Heart

by

Getting heart surgery before fifty was NOT on my bingo card 😅

tl;dr: My doctor heard a murmur and an ultrasound found a flappy valve and some masses. I had heart surgery to repair my mitral valve. Turns out it was both a genetic defect (the flappiness) and caused by my hEDS (the masses). I’m doing fine 😄 – I had surgery on Jan 17 and was out by Jan 20, and I’m healing well.

The Full Story:

It all started about two years ago when my GP heard a pronounced heart murmur during my yearly checkup. She put me on the list to be seen by a cardiologist, and I waited for them to call me. A few months later, I got a voicemail from Clinique Médicale L&S saying that they had my file and that I needed to call to book an appointment. I called twice a day, every day for two weeks, leaving messages every time and never managed to connect with anyone. Finally, frustrated, I tried emailing their contact email and finally received a reply… to call the number I had been calling. I replied that I HAD been calling, and no one had ever answered. A day later, I received a call from a very rude woman who told me they no longer had my file and that I couldn’t be seen anymore because I had waited too long to contact them.

Cue my ire. Fuck them.

But thank gods that I didn’t go with them because a few months later, I got a call from the Montreal Heart Institute (really the best place to get your heart treated!) – they were taking my case and scheduled an appointment with a cardiologist for me.

By the time I saw the cardiologist (who is younger than I am… when did that happen?), it was nearly a year since my GP heard the murmur. Sometimes, I really hate our medical system… it might be free, but it can move at a snail’s pace through the endless hoops.

I had an EKG at the MHI – ou, en français, l’ICM (l’Institut de cardiologie de Montréal) – which is across the island of Montreal from me (so an hour and forty-five by bus on a bad day, an hour on a great). My cardio looked at the results, listened to my murmur, and said it was probably a bicuspid aortic valve with some stenosis (basically two flaps instead of the standard three plus a slight hardening, making my valve leak/be less efficient). He said it could have been caused by my hEDS (Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome… the hypermobile kind) because we’re prone to valve malformations. He also said not to worry because I was still young and seemed otherwise healthy. He sent me to the blood clinic and told me to wait for a call.

Nearly a year later, I got a call to come in for a heart ultrasound (Dec 30th, 2024). I showed up, went through triage, put on a hospital gown, and then was shown into a small dark room. The technician was very nice, and so was the attending cardiologist – both young women from France – but they were EXTREMELY worried by what they found.

I had two masses on my heart and a small perforation on a valve that wasn’t closing correctly. They thought it was caused by endocarditis, an infection of the heart, the symptoms of which could explain why I was sick for the whole of November (2024): fever, vicious sore throat, no energy. But it was now the end of December, and the survival rate for untreated endocarditis is zero.

Could the three courses of antibiotics I was given in November by doctors at the Queen Elizabeth and the Montreal Jewish Hospitals have stopped the endocarditis in its tracks, leaving only the masses or “vegetation” behind? Endocarditis can only be treated by a long course of intravenous antibiotics (and sometimes surgery)… but here I was a month later, free of any fever or pain. It was baffling to every doctor. They wanted to admit me right away and start preparations for surgery, the worry being that the vegetation could break off my valve at any moment and cause an embolism.

Basically, they felt like I was a ticking time bomb.

But I wasn’t ready to just stay at the hospital and get everything started. Plus, Kiddo was home alone – though she ended up going to M’s place because it wasn’t certain that I would convince them to let me leave…

But I did, with the promise to be back the next day and report directly to the ER.

Waiting at the ER at the MHI

I showed up bright and early the next morning and checked into the ER, where I waited for HOURS on an empty stomach for them to call me. Finally, I was seen by another doctor who was just as perplexed as the previous one. By all accounts, I should have been feeling like utter crap, but other than being hungry, I felt fine. Not winded, no chest pain, nothing.

They put me in a small room in the ER (that looked a little like the ones in House with the glass doors) and I met with a doctor who re-explained about the masses and the perforation and the flappiness of my valve. He was also very worried about my extremely fast heart rate (which has always been fast), so he put me on a beta blocker. One nice side effect of beta blockers is they reduce anxiety… so I was doing a-ok.

FINALLY, about six hours later and completely starving, I was wheeled into a procedure room for a transesophageal echo – an ultrasound down the throat to take a closer look at my heart. Not terribly pleasant, but I’ve had two endoscopies, so it wasn’t unfamiliar. However, unlike endoscopies, the TEE lasted nearly a half hour.

Bad news: the masses on my heart were even larger than what they’d seen on the ultrasound the previous day. And, weirdly, the flappiness of my mitral valve seemed unrelated to the masses. Cue more bafflement from the doctors.

After they fed me, they installed me in a private room on the 4th floor and hooked me up to a Holter monitor (basically a portable EKG) to make sure I was stable. Because it was New Year’s Eve, only emergency tests were being done between the afternoon of the 31st and the 2nd. The earliest I could get a PET scan was on Friday the 3rd. I was to stay in the hospital under close watch until then.

This is how we spent NYE 😅

The next day was super quiet at the MHI. I had nothing to do but read and watch TV on my kindle. Doctors came and went, asking me the same questions over and over again: “You’re sure you don’t feel faint? Out of breath? You have no chest pains?” and asked me to describe the sickness that had plagued me for the whole of the month of November. They were convinced that the masses were left behind by endocarditis… but how had I survived the infection? I kept telling them that the infectious disease doc I saw at the Jewish General had ruled out endocarditis… she said I had cytomegalovirus AND mono that just ran their course and went away.

They were not convinced.

Since I had no tests until Friday and I was VERY stable, they let me go home overnight on the 2nd, so I was able to spend the night in my own bed. Huzzah! My BF and Kiddo had been taking turns feeding the cats while I was in the hospital, but if they wanted to rush me into surgery following my PET scan, I needed to make some better plans for the kitties: T would take The Good Cat, and M and J would take The Evil Cat… whenever surgery ended up getting scheduled.

I returned to my hospital room the next day at noon and was quickly prepped for the PET scan and coronary catheterization (they shaved my arm and one side of my crotch… asymmetrical pubes, lol).

Mmm, delicious berry-flavoured chalk, pre-PET scan.
I had to wear this stupid thing for over two hours after the coronary catheterization. Honestly, this was the most painful part. It was so tight.

The third test I had done on the 3rd was a thoracic angiogram. The PET scan found nothing to worry about, the CC showed that my arteries were “lisses et jeunes” (smooth and youthful), and the angio was clean. However, as the tray slid out of the machine, part of my robe and a tube got caught in the tracks. I was stuck halfway in for about 15 minutes while they tried to free me. The tech said it was the first time it had ever happened. 😆

Once they reviewed everything, they decided I definitely needed surgery ASAP.

However, M and J were going to be out of town, and I really, really wasn’t ready to have surgery just yet. I wanted to spend some time with my kid at home before it happened… just in case, you know? It’s heart surgery. It’s scary.

They admitted that I was very stable and that if I had survived this long with masses on my heart and hadn’t died of an embolism yet, I probably was okay to go home to wait for my surgery date. Plus, I had to see a dentist to get my teeth cleaned before surgery (again, the fear of endocarditis), and the hospital dentist wouldn’t be able to see me until Tuesday the 7th. They decided to hook me up with a dentist on their network (free dental care!) in the next few days… then they let me go.

I was free! I went home, hung out with Kiddo and BF, and tried not to think about surgery. Oh, and we went to see Wicked, which was amazing.

I also learned from my mom that my paternal grandfather and two of my uncles on that side had faulty mitral valves too… so it was hereditary. Talked to my uncle about his experience and felt a lot better about the whole thing in general.

(LOL Kiddo said she was relieved that only the men in the family inherited the flappy valve… then she blinked a few times and laughed.)

I went to the dentist on the 9th, which was also way across town. I got there only to discover they had given me the wrong address. I had to call an uber and was a half hour late for my appointment (the dentist was moving offices the next week, and the nurse had mistakenly given me the new address). I had the quickest and most painful cleaning of my life. He found a small pre-cavity that I’m supposed to go get fixed on the 11th.

On the 10th, I went back to the MHI for another blood test and a chest X-ray, the latter of which didn’t happen because the technician saw that I’d gotten a chest X-ray back in November when I was sick.

My gross AF arm, a week after the coronary catheterization.

Then, I got my surgery date: January 17th, 2025 at 8 am.

I tried to relax and not worry about it too much. It was only heart surgery, after all 😬. Thankfully, I’d learned on the phone from the anesthesiologist that they were going to do the minimally invasive type of surgery and not full-out open heart, chest-spreader type surgery (they had been worried that they would have to do it that way because of the masses on my heart causing complications).

The evening before surgery, I had only partially packed, aiming to do the rest of the packing in the early morning before I left for the MHI.

The next morning, at around 5:40 am, I was awoken by my phone ringing. It was the hospital—they were wondering where I was. Apparently, the time for my surgery had been bumped up, and they had left me a message to that extent… except I never got it. There’s no record of them calling me.

I quickly trimmed down my beard, showered with the special skin detergent they gave me, finished packing, and hopped in an uber (January was an expensive month for ubering). I reported to the OR and apologized profusely. They were all very nice and understanding. I really do love the staff at the MHI—I had nothing but great people taking care of me the whole time.

They started processing me (omg they shaved most of my body – I am still itchy) and got me prepped quickly for surgery. I met with the anesthesiologists (one of whom I had spoken to on the phone a few days prior) and the surgeon who was very impressed with my chest tattoo and promised not to wreck it.

I was wheeled into surgery shortly after.

I woke up later on to the feeling of the breathing tube being taken out; then, I must have fallen back to sleep because the next time I woke up, I was in the ICU. There was no point in people coming to visit me the same day as surgery since the MHI is all the way across town, and the limit was 10 minutes per visit, so I just relaxed and snoozed while the staff checked in on me to make sure I was comfortable.

I wasn’t in a whole lot of pain, but it was difficult to find something that worked with my wacky system. Opioids have never really worked on me (or do very little besides making me hallucinate/paranoid), so they were trying different combinations of stuff on me. I had so many tubes and wires coming out of me: a tube draining the lung they had collapsed for surgery, a wire for the temporary pacemaker, a small line that delivered lidocaine directly to the surgery area, a catheter in my neck, wrist, and crook of my arm… and I’m sure I missing something.

I actually felt pretty good for someone who had just had surgery.

Me in the ICU the day after surgery, feeling pretty good, waiting for Kiddo and M to visit.

M, Kiddo, and BF all came to visit me in the ICU the day after surgery. Then, that evening, because I was doing so well, they moved me into my proper hospital room. Did I get a nice private room like I had on the 4th floor?

No. I was squeezed into a room with three other guys. Sigh. One guy was in his eighties and had his sons come visit him. Before I arrived, he had had some kind of tumble walking around after surgery, so he couldn’t get around on his own. The other guy across from me was in his early seventies and seemed nice. He flirted with the nurses, but not in a super creepy way. He also had a newish girlfriend who came and visited him.

Then there was Moaning Guy next to me. He was in his sixties and was just… entitled and rude and overdramatic and loud. He was dealing with post-surgery pain, yes, but on top of that, he had stomach issues. He was calling it Crohn’s, but from his description, I thought it was gastroparesis… and it turns out I was right. But then he wouldn’t let them install a nasogastric tube, and it was a whole thing. We were separated only by curtains so I could hear everything and I am SO glad I have a sleeping mask with integrated speakers because I wouldn’t have gotten much sleep without it. He said some pretty terrible things about the nurses and doctors.

This was my “room”

Meanwhile, I (seemingly the youngest patient in the whole hospital) was getting around by myself in no time. I had a little pain, mostly lung pain, and I was annoyed by the catheter in my neck because it was heavy, but apart from that, I was doing great and SO anxious to get out of there—mostly because of my moaning neighbour but also because the bed was uncomfortable, and the food, while fresh, was terribly bland.

They gave me a fruit plate (with yogurt and veggie broth) on my last day for lunch.

The nurses and doctors kept saying they MIGHT let me out on Monday evening, seeing as I was doing so well (and also, honestly, they needed the bed—the MHI was full up, which is why we were packed in there like sardines), but it wasn’t guaranteed. I was given the all-clear to leave once I’d had another chest X-ray and had all my tubes and wires removed… but then the nurse came back in to say that I still had a little bit of air stuck in the pleural space between my lung and chest wall (pneumothorax from when they collapsed my lung) so I was stuck there another night. However, less than an hour later, the doctor said that the amount of air was so minimal that they could discharge me after all. Yay!

BF came to get me, and I got my discharge papers, and then he wheeled me out of there. We ubered to his friend’s place right outside the Village where he was pet-sitting all week, then we walked wayyyy too far in the cold to pick up my slew of medications.

I stayed with BF and we basically watched Wheel of Time and cuddled on the couch and not much else (oh and ate DELICIOUS breakfast sandwiches from Café Canard across the street… highly recommend) until Thursday when I felt ready to travel home on my own.

The day after release, Jan 21, 2025
Home again! Jan 23, 2025
Goodbye bandages, Feb 3, 2025

True to his word, the surgeon didn’t mess up my tattoo 😅 – he even used my previous surgery scars for his incision. He took pictures of my valve to put in a book because what they thought was vegetation/infection from endocarditis was NOT… it was bits of tissue that were malformed because of my Ehlers-Danlos. The faulty mitral valve, on the other hand, was inherited from my dad’s side of the family. I was never in any danger that the masses would break off and give me an embolism. They’ve probably been there my entire life, and the perforation was probably wear and tear from having the masses on my valve. So… in November, I WAS sick with CMV and mono after all… which is also a little baffling because why didn’t BF get sick? 🧐

Anyway. All that to say I’m fine now, and I’ll live longer, and it was a really fucking surreal experience. I had HEART SURGERY four weeks ago today. Wow.

I’m so thankful for BF schlepping across town to come see me during this whole crazy thing… and for taking such good care of me post-surgery 🥰, for T for taking care of my silly cuddly kitten, for M and J for taking in the razor fluff, and for Kiddo for helping me around the house. 💖

Four weeks later… looking and feeling good!

Death

by
Angst

I never used to concern myself too much with the idea of my own death. It didn’t really scare me. I don’t believe in an afterlife (or at least one where your consciousness continues fully intact), so the thought of “one minute you’re there, the next you aren’t”… well, what does it matter? The seconds before death might be hella scary, but you’re not going to worry about it once the lights go out.

But that all changed for me as a parent and in light of this ongoing, possibly resurging pandemic – every time I think that I or someone else has put me in any danger of catching this thing, I spend two weeks barely sleeping, nightly panic attacks and tears, because the thought of what my death will do to kiddo is all I can think of. I don’t want to devastate her.

Ugh. I only *just* stopped having nightly panic attacks/nightmares and sudden crying jags over her family being broken up and her losing her childhood home, both things that hurt her terribly despite her brave front.
I just don’t want her to go through any more pain. 

It’s the same thing with relationships. I haven’t been in one since my marriage was ended. I used to think Lorelei on Gilmore Girls was crazy. Now I get it. Maybe in a few years, when Kiddo is older.

Anyway, I’m a mess, but I manage to keep it together during the day, at least. Last two nights were brutal. My face is so swollen from lack of sleep I look like I’ve been in a fight.

Been a While

by
Sunrise

I think it’s been over a year since my last post. Kept meaning to write something here, if only to track my transition, but I just haven’t had the… energy? Spirit? I don’t know. I was starting to get better, starting to pull out of my shell. The panic attacks were subsiding… I actually was spending more days out of bed… and then my best friend died. That sent me into such a tailspin that there were days where I fell right back to the early days when I lost almost everything in my life.

Little by little, day by day… sometimes just minute by minute, I kept pulling myself up, forcing myself to do things like shower and eat when all I wanted to do was stay in bed all day long. I had to get up and let the dog out… sometimes venture outside myself for a bit, but the time when Kiddo wasn’t with me—half the week—was just… one long anxiety attack where either I felt like I was having a heart attack, couldn’t stop crying, felt too nauseous to stand, too exhausted to move… or a pleasant mix of all four.

(The days when Kiddo is here… those are always my bright days, even when I was at my worst. She makes me feel stronger because she needs me to be there for her. I can be almost normal, even if some of it is so exhausting I need to sleep part of the next day while she’s at school just so I can refuel. The days she leaves… those are still hard. But after… [Wait, how long? How long has been since my time with her was abruptly cut in half? Years, by now?] After however long… I’m no longer crying my eyes out for hours after she goes. I still cry every time… but it’s only a few minutes. )

Heh but I do still drink too much on those nights and make bad meal choices.

Top surgery in June went well and I was over the moon. It’s never fun to recover from surgery but this was such a load off my chest (ha ha) that it buoyed me in a way that I really needed.

Transition has been such a paradoxical thing for me… had I not transitioned, I wouldn’t have lost my job, my home, my relationship, my ability to trust, and half my daughter’s time/presence. However, because of my transitioning and finally living as myself, I survived all of it… I don’t think I would have survived otherwise. The thing that caused the worst thing in my life is also the best thing I’ve ever done.

And, I know it’s a common “coming out” theme.

Then, when things were looking up, again, right around the anniversary of M’s death, another friend died… the circumstances frighteningly similar to M’s. Given two weeks to live, he only made it one. Again… all forward progress for me was kicked back to square one, but this time… I found myself bouncing back. Finding strength I thought I had lost. New apartment (that I love) and the sale of the house has pushed me further into the light. I still have panic attacks every day, but it’s 2-3 times a day max, and they’re nothing like the hours-long ones I was suffering before.

But, my bandwidth is still very very small. Kiddo is my primary concern. Then it’s my poor, aging doggo. Then it’s care for myself. I barely have the “spoons” for those three things… there just isn’t room for anything else. Which is terrible timing because someone I care about is very sick and I just can’t be involved, no matter how much I want to be. I can’t even let myself think about it too much or else I start to shut down… and I can’t. Not again.

Right now, I’m keeping my head down, finding joy in doing things I love—like spending time with Kiddo and cooking… and… writing. Yes, this week I sat down and wrote several thousand words. I hung up a few more paintings. I unpacked a few boxes… I actually vacuumed. All the dishes are done. And now I’m writing a little more. Could it be that I’m actually going to be fine again, or close to it? I’d like to think so. It’ll take time still… but… I’m feeling ok. And that’s good.

Grief

by
Crying Boy

Today I was supposed to go to my best friend’s funeral. I went to bed early so I would get enough sleep, I made sure to have plenty of time to eat, shower, get dressed…

But last night I didn’t get enough sleep… I woke up every hour, all night long, struggling to breathe and get my heart rate to slow. I ate, but was nauseous and I have so many canker sores in my mouth from stress that it’s torture to eat. I showered, but my hands were shaking and I kept dropping things. I got dressed and redressed and redressed and redressed.

Finally, it was time to go but I couldn’t leave the house. I stood in the tiny entranceway, my hand on the front door, for over twenty minutes (while the dog and cat both fretted over why I was just standing there). I thought “I have to go.”

I bit the bullet and stepped outside, only to go two blocks and turn back. I couldn’t do it. Drenched in sweat, fighting to take a breath, shaking like a leaf, I curled up on my bed until I was calm.

Thing is, he would have completely understood.

He was actually one of the only people in this entire world who’s really known just how tightly wound I am at all times. He called me the most emotionally repressed person he’d ever met. I’m not anymore, and that’s the issue at hand. You can’t shove all your emotions back into the closet after you’ve decided to let them all out… or at least I can’t. I won’t, actually. Can’t do that to myself again. Even if it means missing my best friend’s funeral.

I’ve taken few steps back towards being a mess… back to the dark days of this year and last, spent in bed, crying, struggling to overcome what feels insurmountable.

But it’s important to grieve. It’s important to feel. I lost the strongest pillar in my support network and I miss him and I am terribly sad for his family and friends. I’m angry that he died so young and so fine while so many bastards are still going strong. I’m reeling from the suddenness of his death. I’m turning around in circles trying to understand the point of life if all we do is die. I’m sitting here surrounded by so many things – books, music, movies that are all tied up in memories of him. I’m exhausted and I’m fragile.

But I’ll be ok. I will.

JFC

by
Max

I think of the brutal separation anxiety I went through when my time with Kiddo was cut by half… how, for months, most days I could just not function at all when she wasn’t here—crying, sleeping, drinking… staring at the ceiling wishing I could just be numb. Then I think about all those poor fucking kids being ripped away from their parents and put into cages and I feel sick to my stomach and full of horror and rage.

I never thought I would use the word “triggered” for myself, but I am fucking triggered, friends. I can’t stop thinking about those kids and their parents. Inconsolable. Terrified. And I can’t help but think about what would happen if Kiddo was taken away from me with no explanation and no way to know if she’s all right. Or if she’s warm enough… and fed… and… and… See? I’m in tears again. How does someone survive that? Certainly not intact.

These are evil times. Christ, I thought my level of horror about the US was bad six months ago…

Health Post

by
Progress

Physical

The Good:
Overall my health is good. I had full blood work done when I first saw my new GP a while back, a few weeks before I saw my endo. All my levels of whatever are good and my blood pressure is about what it should be. I learned from my endo that I have a small cyst on my thyroid but that it’s absolutely fine. Testosterone shots have been great for stuff like my body temperature regulation. I feel good overall.
Side note: I have to shave every few days. No, I’m not going to let it grow out until it’s more substantial… but I’m looking forward to that 😉

The Bad:
My knees are shot. I have moderate-to-serious osteoarthritis in both knees and a bit of floating bone that’s cocking up the works. Funny enough, now that I know what’s wrong with my knees, they don’t really hurt as much. Also, the underlying reason why my knees (and all joints) are so bad is still a mystery. More and more things are pointing towards EDS/HSD so I’ll have my GP send me for some testing of that. My acne comes and goes – I get new zits where new hairs are coming in (both face and chest and shoulders). Also, my asthma has been kicking my butt and so have my headaches… but the reason for that is below.

Mental/Emotional

The Bad:
I’m still drinking far too much. I was drinking all the time when the ex was still here just to cope with the relationship. Also, drinking was just something we did… and any time I tried to cut down, it was met with weird hostility. I’m actually much better than I was just a few weeks ago—there’s a bottle of whiskey sitting on my bar that’s been there for four days… that’s a long time for a bottle of whiskey in this house. I’ve also switched to light beer.
The drinking is especially bad on the nights where kiddo goes to sleep at the ex’s place… I sort of panic and can’t get out of my head and drinking is pretty much the only thing I can think of doing. But, I’m not harming anyone but myself, and, like I said, I have cut down. I just need to cut down more… it’s bad enough I have headaches and asthma flare ups because of the weather, piling on hangovers is not doing me any good at all.

I’ve only just realized that I’m actively avoiding my office. I say to myself “I’m going to work from my office today” only to find myself on the couch an hour later. I’m still working/writing, yes, but with little to no attention span. I know I’m avoiding my office because I was forced to sleep in there on a tiny cot for a year and I obviously developed some negative associations with it. I have to get over it. I have to get back to working out of my office because it helps me focus and I need to focus if I want to get my groove back.

Sometime in the last 7 years I developed what I think of as a stress tremor. Most of the time I can hide it, but I really wish it would go away. It happens any time I have to hold still… like when I’m at the dentist or getting a tattoo or even the massage therapist. I find myself panicking, feeling trapped, and then my whole body just starts trembling. I usually get over it by alternating counting and reciting the alphabet backwards in my head.

Feelings…. oh feelings. I’m someone who’s on the very low end of the emotional scale to begin with, but after a decade of forcing myself not to care, not to react, my emotions are a little wonky, even for me. I’ll get to a better place, I know I will, but sometimes I can’t do anything but lie there feeling things and being overwhelmed. It’s exhausting and it contributes to the drinking.

The Good:
Transitioning is doing wonders for building my self-esteem back up again. There’s a bounce in my step. I keep thinking “thank god it’s over” about the whole female thing. I smile and hug myself. I dance in the shower like I used to (not as dangerous as it sounds) and I’m constantly singing. So, my mood is more positive than negative, I think. At least it feels like that today. Tomorrow, I might be melodramatically whinging to myself over something, but today I’m good. I’m even starting to really feel like socializing.

Things will get better. Things will get good. I have faith in myself.

Life is Good

by
Progress

Updates! So, this is week 6 on T. Everything is going swell.

  • The acne is under control (thanks to the Dr. Hauschka line of clarifying toners/oils! Though still a wee bit pimply, my skin has never felt or looked nicer. Seriously.)
  • Voice has dropped a bit and I’m getting the same creaky quality I got back when my voice first dropped at puberty.
  • I have to shave or else it looks like I’m trying to grow a Fu Manchu. My eyebrows have also started filling in (thank god). I treated myself to a new razor subscription.
  • I smell different. Heh I keep sniffing myself. It’s very odd. I’ve always smelled like me… but this is like… me plus.
  • Sex drive is… wow.
  • I’m already seeing some fat redistribution, which is interesting.

And no, I still haven’t told my parents. The application for sex/name change is already in the mail. I should probably tell them soon. Ha.

Like I’ve mentioned before… I’ve never “come out” before. People just naturally figure out that I’m queer (or don’t). I’ve never made any attempt to hide it, nor did I ever feel the need to broadcast it. I just am what I am. Being trans (and I still sort of cringe at the “trans” label because I cringe at all labels for myself… including the aforementioned “queer” I affixed to myself earlier in lieu of “pan” which, for some reason, I find too restricive. Ha.) is different though… or is it? Do I really need to tell anyone? I don’t really feel the need to explain myself, nor do I like to.

I had an appointment with an orthopaedic surgeon for my knee to see what could be done about it and when they suggested cortisone shots to start, I asked if cortisone shots were contraindicated with testosterone shots (the jury is out on that, btw) and they blinked at me twice, connecting the dots, and then just rolled with the new info.

Anyway.

Life is good, atm.

I was having a conversation with an acquaintance a week or two ago about transitioning and they were curious as to why I was doing it, given that I’m not depressed, not given to anxiety, and don’t seem all that bothered by my current gender situation. The way I explained it was that I have never felt like I was in my body. I have a massive case of BIID (Body Integrity Identity Disorder) and gender is only one part of it… It means there’s a huge disconnect between the blueprint of my body in my head and the one I’m actually in. My brain literally thinks I’m around 5’10, for instance. I’m not. In reality… I’m just short of 5’5… so my centre of gravity is not where it’s supposed to be and I’m all clumsy. I feel weird about the parts that stick out of this phantom body outline, and even weirder about the parts that don’t reach it. Here… I drew a picture. It’s not really accurate, but it goes something like this: The parts in black fit into the outlines and that feels ok. Everywhere that’s in blue or red… those are the parts that don’t fit and I feel weird. If this was a side view, the boobs and butt would be included.

BIID

But yeah… I feel like I’m wearing an ill-fitting skin suit. Or only playing a video game, wearing a really terrible haptic suit, so when people touch my avatar I can “feel” it, but it’s super disconnected and there’s a major delay… being touched is problematic on so many grounds for me.

Mostly, it makes me feel insane. All my life, I’ve retreated to little fantasies to try to make sense of it:

  • I’m actually an alien from a different dimension sent to spy but they put together my human body wrong.
  • I somehow switched bodies with another baby in the hospital… this one I believed for a long time. I was convinced there was someone walking around with my body and that if I could find them and we touched, our brains would switch. I literally walked around looking for this other person.
  • I had a fraternal, male twin and I absorbed him in the womb so I wound up with a female body but a male brain.
  • I’m just a brain in a jar and scientists are messing with me.
  • That I’ve always been male in my past lives (I don’t know if I believe in past lives) and this is my first time being female so it feels like I parked my Ford F-150 at the pearly gates and when it was time to leave, the parking valet gave me the keys to a Volkswagen Beetle instead… and no one believed me when I said it wasn’t my car. Heh.

But, while it makes me feel insane, I try hard not to stress about it because stress makes everything worse*. And I figured there was nothing I could do about it anyway. But then, all these stories started coming out from people who transitioned and finally felt like they fit into their bodies… well, dammit, I was going to give it a try too. I’ll never be able to fix the height problem, but if all I have to do is take some hormones to nudge my body over to male? Hell yes. Maybe, just maybe if I work to fix the gender dysphoria aspect, I’ll feel like I’m actually in my own body instead of wearing someone else’s. I dunno. It’s worth a shot. I know I’m already feeling pretty good about all of it.

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* yes, I do feel stress and anxiety and whatnot, but I ignore or quash most of it. The problem with that is no one believes you when you say you’re stressed because you don’t seem like it.