So, today was a teeny bit disappointing, but I shouldn’t be surprised – like I said before, when I want something to happen, everything that could possibly get in the way goes ahead and gets in the way. My mom and I got up at seven o’clock this morning to drive to the hospital for my appointment, and I was all shivery with nerves and excitement, and we sat in a little waiting room and then the sort of room you go to get checkups in – for some reason I thought it’d be a cozy little office like Dr. Flinthoff’s, but it was much more medical-oriented than that – and I perched on the bed for patients and picked the living shit out of my fingernails from nervousness, anxiousness, excitement, I don’t know, really. A nice nurse lady came to take my blood pressure and weigh me and stuff. I hate blood pressure cuffs – don’t they hurt? It’s not just me, is it? My mom was there watching and she said my face turned flushed and my eyes got big because I was so scared of the stupid little cuff. Which I was. Moving on past my delicate wusiness, after I was weighed and the small tests were done I went back in the room to wait. In the main waiting room I’d seen some other kids around my age, and gave them stares out of the corner of my eye, trying to decide if they were transgender or not. (I didn’t get the message that the office wasn’t just for gender dysphoria.) There was a really tall boy who didn’t look like he’d ever been a girl in any lifetime, and so when my mom told me it was also a regular clinic I felt slightly relieved. Plus everyone was getting called in for “breathing tests”, which I thought was sort of a weird thing to have to do before an appointment about gender dysphoria.
Anyway, I sat in the little room with its wall of medical equipment, the blood pressure machine and what-have-yous with my mom, and we waited for the doctor. A woman popped in and said he was running late. Another woman popped in and said they didn’t know where he was and nobody could get in touch with him.
After twenty minutes, another woman came meekly in – she was thin and smallish, with a girlish face and long blonde hair, although she was at least forty – and she said that Dr. What’s-His-Face was actually in Mexico.
No amount of swear words will do my feelings justice. I can say “fuck” all day long and it won’t come near to the amount of “fucks” that I feel. But for God’s sake, you know? Dr. What’s-His-Face is in God-fucking Mexico. My mom assured me on the drive home that it was a complete fail in the administration process, which it definitely was, but it’s more than that, it’s actually personally insulting. I know it isn’t really, but that’s how it feels; because they pushed back my appointment three times before this, and then when I actually show up at the place they tell me the doctor’s in fucking Mexico. He isn’t just a little bit away – he’s REALLY away, he’s in MEXICO. How the hell does something like that slip through the cracks? You’d think they could have at least called us. ‘Oh, yeah – the doctor’s in fucking Mexico, so don’t come today.’
But, nope – we got all the way there and had to be told that there was no appointment. Not only is that incredibly stupid in itself, but I’m also sick – I spent most of last night lying in bed trying not to swallow because my throat hurt so much. Eventually I had to take an Advil to get to sleep, and by then it was already two o’clock in the morning – and I woke up five hours later to drive out to the hospital for the appointment, feeling nauseous and feverish and everything, and there’s no doctor at the appointment. Fuck times three billion. I hate to whine, but come on – I’m really sick, I’ve been waiting over a month, and on top of that I’m transgender and it’s just, I don’t know, a LITTLE BIT important, you know? And imagine if I had an eating disorder or something, and was actually really physically sick, and I have to wait a month or more for an appointment that I initially thought was only a week away. That’s not okay, for God’s sake. I am so pissed off, I can hardly express myself.
After the non-appointment we went to visit my little cousin at my aunt’s house. I thought I’d be to tired and depressed to have fun there, but I was wrong – it was nice to see him. He’s only two, but he already knows a whole bunch of letters, if you can believe that, and it’s amazing to watch him figuring things out. We drew pictures and he sat on my lap and made me peel off stickers for him. Afterwards I did feel better about things, and I went home and we watched Doctor Who and I took a nap. Right now I feel that aching tiredness that comes with being sick, and every time I swallow it hurts. I feel that I at least deserve to whine, I dunno.
So I don’t know when I’m going to actually get to see the doctor. Preferably before the next ice age. Because you know, if humankind has to deal with an ice age, at least let me have started hormones by then; if I have to be stuck as a girl during the ice age SOMEBODY’S going to get shit for it, I don’t even care.
It’s just super disappointing. I’ve been waiting, technically, about a month and a half for this appointment, but it’s more like twelve or so years, when I began to realize I wasn’t happy. I’m not asking for a whole lot here, not like a bionic arm with cannons and lasers in it or something – I just want to be able to feel better about myself and about things. I understand that appointments get pushed back sometimes, that’s fine, but three times, and then on the fourth the doctor’s in Mexico? No, I don’t understand that. Naturally I’m grateful I even get to have an appointment about this in the first place – but at the same time I feel like the universe is dangling it over my head like something pretty just out of reach. Like ‘Here, you want it? Huh? You want it? Jump! Ha ha ha!’
That’s not very fun. And I keep jumping for it, because how could I not? It might sound cheesy, but literally all I want is to be happy, and I don’t know if I can be if the medical/physical side of this whole thing is never addressed. I know it will be, probably soon, but it hasn’t happened yet, and that’s enough for my super-anxious brain to convince me that there’s a possibility it might actually never get done. I couldn’t imagine living the rest of my life as I am now, so things have to change, and the doctor has to get back from Mexico, all right?