Switching Teams: The Beginning

9 May, 2011

A breakdown of the day’s events:

One fifty-six: In four minutes I will walk over to the clinic. At this point I am as nervous as all hell before St. George and the Archangel Michael on the day of the judgement.

Two o’clock: While crossing the street toward the clinic I hear a tall, attractive black man shout to me, Lookin’ fine today, girl. I am a touch nervous about the individual given the neighborhood is what my students call ghetto-chic, but also quite pleased I have caught his eye and been found attractive. Cat calls and shout outs are still quite new to me and the initial thrill of recognition, appreciation, and validation has not, yet, given way to irritation at this Machismo Nation’s instigation of relations. After all, who says TG isn’t sex-y?

Two fifteen: I check-in at the front desk and sit in the lobby waiting for that future time when the nurse calls me in to see Dr. Tina. I’m still fifteen minutes early, but better early than late. I worry that something may have happened, changed, or come up that will prevent my starting the pills today. I am remind myself that the doctor approved my treatment at my last visit and the blood work is just a formality. These thoughts assure me the prescriptions are here for me and I ignore my worries, jitters, and nerves.

Two twenty-five: I’ve gone through the nurses pre-screening for weight, blood pressure, and temperature. She told me I had a pretty dress on. It is the olive shirt-dress the looks like the one I had Mel wearing in Peril. This is my second compliment on this dress (third if you count the guy on the street hitting on me).

It really does look quite good on me!

The entire time she calls me Miss Song or miss. Her recognizing me without fail or question is heaven. I am anxious for the day when this is the case with everyone, everywhere I go.

Two thirty-five: I am out of the lobby and into the exam room. It’s just a matter of time now.

Two forty: Dr. Tina comes in a goes over my blood work with me and reminds me to watch my cholesterol. Then she asks the question I’ve been waiting thirty years to hear: Are you ready to begin treatment Miss Song?

Yes, yes! Dear, Lord, yes!

Two fifty-five: I receive the prescriptions to get estrogenized and de-testosteronized. Along with some instructions and a prescription for how the school must allow me to dress at work. I ask my questions, get the answers, and am on my way to the pharmacy.

Three twenty: I drop the prescriptions off with the WWC pharmacy and begin the excruciatingly long wait for them to be filled.

While I wait a thin, older black gentleman, who had said hi to me earlier and of whom I had politely inquired how he was, sits beside me. After a minute he asks if we can stay in touch. This catches me off guard; Befuddled, I ask why he wants to stay in touch with me. (Ge’ez, am I naïve.)

He replied, I was hoping we could get to know each other. I paused for a moment to allow my drifting thoughts to catch up to the conversation and then a slow sense of recognition drifted over me, like fog rolling in on the shore. I explained that, though flattered, I am in the process of getting divorced and not ready to see someone else. He understood and in a minute wandered off to another area in search of more receptive prey.

Strange days . . . stranger still ahead.

Four thirty: I pay the copayment, collect my pills and leave. Just holding the bag with its Pandoricum of pills I can I feel a new confidence and excitement building in my viscera. I have to place my hand over my mouth and cough to suppress the coquettish giggle threatening to burst out and humiliate me as I walk down Fifteenth Street back to the car.

Four forty-five: I am stuck in afternoon D.C. traffic but I remain unusually calm through it.

Seven: I am home and take my new pills, one to make me bigger and one to make me small, with a glass of water. I lean back in my arm-chair, smile, and let my mind drift to thoughts of Alice when she’s ten feet tall.

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