Wanting to be Wanted

So … at my therapy session yesterday we talked about the years of being a woman in her prime that I gave up for my First Daughter and Son, that they might have as close to a "normal" childhood or, at least, a childhood that they didn't have to deal with their father the transsexual.

And what did I give up?

I was in better health in those days and it is reasonable to think that my transition would have been different. Perhaps I could have had hormone replacement therapy I wasn't diabetic then and wouldn't have had other health issues that would have held up my GCS.

I gave up a dynamic and powerful time in a woman's life; a time of being attractive, desirable and vibrant. I would not have been beautiful or glamorous, but much more attractive; someone who would have caught the eye of somebody who wanted to know me better.

I know I am a catch. I am not hard to look at for a woman of nearly 60. I am a sweet, sensitive, caring and kind person. I have a nurturing and empathetic spirit.

At 60, a woman with my qualities makes a great … Mom or Gramma.

I have a card on my door that asks, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?" My answer has been 36 and sometimes 43. And because I haven't been living my true self very long, the middle 30's isn't an unreasonable description of my spiritual and emotional age. The women I hang out with most of the time are in their 30's. Women in their 30's are who I am attracted to. But these wonderful people, that I love dearly, don't see me as a peer. They see me as a middle-aged Mom. A mom they love and cherish and respect, but a mom. Or an older sister-type of person.

The women, attracted to women, more my age see me as a woman and respect me as a friend, but when it comes to dating? They see me still as a man.

It would seem that the people I want to date either see me as a mom or as a man.

My dating pool resembles a mud puddle in the Arizona sun.

What I Did For Love ...

I visit my Second Daughter on Monday's. Tonight, she made a simple salmon dinner with brown rice, which works well with my diabetes. It was a very good dinner. After dinner, she showed me the proofs of her photo shoot. She's doing some amateur modeling and she's very excited about it. She should be.  She is a very, Very beautiful young woman. The proofs she showed me were outstanding!

I haven't had the best day. I'm feeling old, forgotten, unlovely, and undesirable. When I was Debra's age, I wouldn't have been anywhere near as beautiful as she is, but... but... It doesn't really matter.



I gave up my best years so my First Daughter and my Son could have something like a normal Dad.



Tonight... tonight I am feeling the loss of those years, the times when I might have been beautiful and desirable.

It hurts...

It aches...

Debra and Families of Choice

Dr. Kathleen Roberts wrote a short article titled "Family of Choice" in early September, 2009.  [Another good article is "Families of Choice" by Cynthia W. Lubow, MFT.] At the time she posted this article, I was in my second week of living my life as the woman I always wanted to be — after 54 years of trying to be the son, brother, husband, Dad, and man everyone thought I should be. It is not just GLBT youth who suddenly find themselves without the family structure they’ve always known. My wife, who remains a friend, and my daughter and my son did not want the me I truly am in the family anymore.  

It is my opinion that family, the support, continuity and love of those around you, is critical to good mental and spiritual health.  In the "Queer" community, where so many of us are denied the love and comfort of the family we were born into, "Families of Choice" are common.  For some it's a conscious creation and others just gravitate to a family of choice. But it's not just the Queer community.  Runways and disaffected youth, street kids form their own families.  And it has been going on for years.  Charles Dickens wrote of it in "Oliver Twist."

Debra and I at Tully's 2009

I muddled through with the support of people in my gender support group, the Washington Gender Alliance. In late October, a young woman, newly out, showed up at a meeting. She told her story -- she’d been locked out and disowned by her family the night of her 28th birthday. Debra and I connected and we would hang out at our favorite Tully's coffee shop. I would give her what wisdom I could and jokingly call it “Motherly advice.” We continued to hang out, txt, and IM for the next couple months. I told her that I kinda thought of her as a daughter and was that ok? And yeah that was ok — by the end of January she’s calling me “Momma.” At the time it was still a light thing and somewhat tongue-in-cheek. I woke up one morning in February to a request on Facebook to include her officially as my daughter and I did, honored to do so. When I scheduled some minor genital reassignment surgery, she made it plain that she wanted to go with me to keep me company. Since that time there has been no question that she is my daughter and I’m her mom. When someone asked recently if we were related by blood, I simply told the truth, “She is the Daughter-of-my-Heart!”

My First Mothers Day

We have been through a lot together.  We have both been hurt by our respective families of origin and we've both been there for each other in those times.  She has had her setbacks dating and I've been there for her.  I have had my setbacks with finding work or with my hormones for my transition and she has been there for me.  When either of us is out late for some social occasion, we always txt each other "Home safe" when we finally get home.

I love to cook dinner for her and she loves my Chicken Adobo!  Debra makes the best enchiladas I've ever eaten.  We have had a lot of quiet evenings just watching a movie together, or she would do her cross-stitching or her scrapbook and I would write on my laptop.  I looked up at her on evening and said, "I love our little family."  And she replied, "So do I."

Oregon coast Road Trip

She's taught me to love Mexican food and we have both come to really appreciate a good Sangria.

We went on a road trip together last year to the Oregon Coast and almost never left the Tillamook Cheese Factory.  We watched my puppy, Xena, run all over the sand at Cannon Beach.  In August, we went to Leavenworth, Washington for a weekend getaway and had a marvelous time.

She was there for my first Mother's Day and my second.  We have shared Easter together.  We shared Black Friday, which was a tradition in my family, last year and will share Thanksgiving and Black Friday again this year.  She stayed overnight Christmas Eve and we watched "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation," a tradition in her family. She spent Christmas morning and breakfast with me.  We are planning a pre-Christmas trip to Leavenworth together.

Leavenworth

She asked me to go with her to San Mateo earlier this year when she had her Gender Confirmation Surgery.  And when I have mine next year, she will go with me to help with my recovery.

Through all of it, there have been all of the moments that make up family: the tears, the laughter, the heartbreak and the joy, the hugs, the smiles and, always, always, always, the love.

And there are others that I now count as part of my family.  Johanna, Kayla and Amy will be with us for Thanksgiving.  Annabelle is new to the family but a dear place in my heart.  Maddie is my best friend.  Zoey is an original in "My Girls."  Lisa is a brand new sister to me.

Easter 2011

I am a survivor. I muddle through. But I have no imagination of how I would have come through the last 18 months, almost 2 years, without Debra. Recently, after I told an Aunt about Debra and what she means to me, my Aunt wondered how I could come to a place where this new person was equal in my heart to my two blood children in such a short time? Beyond simply telling her that my God, Poppa, brought us together, I knew I had to write about Families of Choice. For Debra and I came to a place where our hearts chose each other to be a family together.  And our family just is.

A Season to Reflect -- Thoughts On Surviving Suicide

August-September is a time for me to think back on many parts of my life.  


I was married to a wonderful woman in August many years ago.


My First Daughter, my Pride and Joy! who I miss so dearly, was born in September.


I separated from my wonderful wife in August 2 years ago to begin my life as my true self.


I went to the hospital to treat blood clots in my lungs in September 2 years ago.


And a young woman I had not yet met tried to kill herself because the men in her church told her she would be better off a dead man than alive as a woman. By Poppa's Great Grace, she survived. Many, too many, of us do not survive. In a study released this year, a little more than 4 in 10 transgender and gender-nonconforming people are suicide survivors. Survivors! I have not seen any statistics of how many of us did not survive. Sometimes I wonder how it is I survived.


I have never been someone the psycho/social professional community would classify as actively suicidal. But that community discounts or only gives passing acknowledgment that addictive, self-medicating behaviors are ultimately a form of suicide. There are other ways to die than to stop breathing or have the heart stop beating.


I am an addict. A recovering addict, but still an addict.


On another level, I knew I could have been actively suicidal. And I believe I would not have survived if I had made a physical attempt to kill myself. This is the very good reason I won't own a gun. It would be my method of choice to kill myself. I have imagined it too many times in my low points to have any doubts. I would put on a pretty dress, do my makeup, do my hair, put on my jewelry and my heels, sit down in my rocking chair, put the pistol, a military 9mm, to my left breast and pull the trigger. There would be a note, "Sorry for the mess I've made."


More than that, though, when my constant prayers that Poppa take this "curse" as I thought of it then, away and cure me seemed to be unfulfilled, my prayers turned to "Please take me Home!" I wanted to die. I asked Poppa to end my suffering, to end the suffering of my wife, to end the suffering of my children and help me die, to take me Home. I made this prayer to Poppa nearly every night for many, many years. And I prayed it almost as often during the day.


Poppa did not see fit to grant that prayer.


Sometime after I began to live my life as my true self, I met the young lady who had tried to kill herself. We became very good friends. She, Debra, became my Second Daughter. We have no secrets between us. I told her about my prayer and she made me promise never to ask Poppa to take me home again. She said she needed me for the next 30 years. And I promised.


So I have survived. Still, I sometimes wonder how? But more I wonder why Poppa has kept me here. What is it I do or have yet to do to show how much He Loves us?


It has been a very great Grace-thing Poppa has given me to have had a small part in Debra's very beautiful story. She's been every bit the butterfly!

One of those days in my life …

I am going into see my therapist later this morning. We will do some catch-up. It has been since early April since I saw her last.

But the big thing that will happen tomorrow is we will talk over my decision to have Gender Confirmation Surgery (GCS) and she will write a letter to Dr. Toby Meltzer recommending me for GCS. When that is done and I have sent Dr. Meltzer a down payment, I should get a date for my surgery. I should get a date to make my body right with my heart and mind.

This hasn't been a trivial decision. I do not need to have this surgery to continue living. I can, literally, live without it. But it would cost me. It would cost me a satisfaction with who I physically am. It would cost me the continued disconnect between who I am at my heart and the way I have to present. Yes, no one sees my penis anymore than the would be able to see my vagina. But I would KNOW! And I would like to live my day walking around and not remember, not think of what was between my legs... or not.

A difficult blog to write...

Last October, when I had to go on insulin, I asked my endocrinologist [for my diabetes only] if I could go on estrogen. He sent me to an Everett Clinic hematologist who ran like $3500 worth of labs on me to determine why I had blood clots before and if it would be likely I would get them again if I was on estrogen. Most of my blood tests came back clean. We discovered that I am heterozygous [the only way I am hetero] for a gene that promotes clots in the veins or Deep Vein Thrombosis [DVT's]. That means that of two genes that I could have that would increase the likelihood of DVT's I only have one. That translates to a increase of 2-8 times the probability of DVT's compared to people who don't have this gene. The hematologist was not concerned about this and any estrogen therapy I might start. She was concerned about an indication of particular antibodies that can cause blood clots in the heart which are much more likely to travel to the brain and cause strokes. Antibodies can go away. We tentatively scheduled a retest for the Spring of 2011. I have no medical insurance and a lot of my health issues took a hit this year to save dollars; this test was one of those things that got put off. August 10th [my Mom's birthday] I went in for my lab draw for this antigen test. I was told it would be 3 to 5 days before the labs came back.

The weekend of the 13th, my 2nd Daughter and I went to Leavenworth, Washington to have some time just us and get away from a lot of the things we'd been busy with at home. We had a fabulous time! In the middle of all this, I haven't been sleeping really well and when I would wake up at night, one thing I do is check my email on my smart phone. Sunday morning, I saw that the labs had been posted. I looked at them and wasn't really sure what they said. Back to trying to sleep. Around 4, I woke up again, checked my email again, and checked my labs one more time. I was pretty sure I understood what was there and again went back to sleep. I'd tell my daughter in the morning, before I said anything to anybody else. I was ok. No big deal. I knew this was a possibility.

I got up and cleaned up and waited for Sleeping Beauty [or is it Rapunzel?]. She was up and got her shower and was getting ready for the day when I stuck my face in and told her the labs were back. She had a concerned look on her face and I told her, "I can't go on estrogen, the labs were positive."

She said, "I'm sorry, momma."

I replied, "Doesn't change the woman I am. I've been post-menopausal for a year and a half. Doesn't make me any less your mom."

"No, it doesn't."

Have I said that I love this child?

So I let her get back to making herself pretty [which is as redundant a statement as I can think of] and I go and sit down on the bed.

And started to choke up.

And I started to sob.


The things my heart doesn't tell my head …


As I am weeping for my loss, these strong, warm, loving arms wrap me up and and her head lays on my shoulder and she holds me like I'll die if she doesn't. And she let me sob my heart out.

I didn't know …

I really did not know how much I had hoped to go on the estrogen!

I had no idea how much that hope meant to me!

And it was gone …



On Monday, I called the hematologist to confirm what I read in the labs. She told me she really, Really, REALLY could not recommend I go on estrogen therapy! She did tell me if I decided to go on estrogen therapy, she would Insist! I go on the blood thinner, coumadin. I knew beforehand coumadin therapy would not be a guarantee that I wouldn't have clots and has it's own problems. She left it up to me.

It is surprising how painful no-brainer decisions can be.

I knew that Sunday when I told my daughter that I couldn't go on estrogen that I would have to blog this. I have so many friends pulling for me wanting to know how things have gone. I would have to say something! But it has taken me ten days! to get to a place where I can write about it. And even now my eyes are brimming with my tears. Hope dies hard!


I am a 58-year-old, post-menopausal woman. I will not be dieing to have my estrogen. I can _live_ with this. But it hurts.

A Tangible Step...

The consultation with Dr. Meltzer went very, Very well.

Once I got there.

No one at the conference knew anything about any consultations that Dr. Meltzer might or might not be doing. This was actually a good thing for my nerves. I could get a little miffed at the snafu. Eventually, the Gender Odyssey people told me that Dr. Meltzer was doing consultations at his hotel. By the time I got to his hotel [a couple of blocks away so no big deal] my nerves were a little jangled again. I call and am told to come up to the floor and they'll call me when they're ready. So, I'm just about to settle in to this incredibly plush chair and continue reading my nook [A Game of Thrones] when a woman opens a door and calls my name.

I go in and there are two women working at lap tops at the desk and a third woman who gets up and greets me. Then I'm introduced to Dr. Meltzer. He is a very pleasant presence and I am put at ease right away. We sit down and tell him a bit about what I'm thinking and my concerns about my blood clots and my diabetes. I tell him that my PCP feels my diabetes will not be an issue when I get my A1c under 8 and that my clots aren't an issue either. He tells me under 8 is a good idea and that for patients with a history of clots he keeps them on a low dose of heparin for longer after the surgery. He hasn't had a patient with clots after surgery for years. He is very, very easy to talk to. His staff seemed extremely efficient. They had a package ready for me before I left and I will get an email package later in the week.

And it was over.

I was not nervous at all when I was talking to him. But going back down the elevator my feelings came back full force. Not from being anxious, but from relief and hope and joy and a positive expectation. Had I been at home instead of the lobby of a posh hotel, I would have come unglued and sobbed my heart out. Sometimes I am as surprised as I can be to find I have been keeping feelings under lock-and-key, hidden away from even myself. Before the consultation, I would have told you that GCS was something I wanted but I would have said from a logical point-of-view that I can live without it, just fine! And I would have believed my own words. After today, I know how much I want this. I know how much I need to be right in my body. I need the confirmation of this surgery. There is still a strong yearning? an ache? in my breast from the consultation and the hope I now have.