The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2855 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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Why do weekends seem to speed by even faster than weekdays? I finished the evening of Sunday doing some of the survey while Danielle sat with me doing her homework. It’s usually quicker to ask me how to spell a word than look it up, so I have my uses. But other than sharing the room, we didn’t speak very much until I’d had enough and Danni had finished her homework.

“How did the training go?”

“All right I guess.”

“Oh, so d’you not think they’ll pick you next time?”

“Dunno do I, they pick who they want and I did say I don’t think I’m match fit at the moment.”

“They could play you for a half or use you as a substitute.”

“Mummy, it’s not as easy as that, the boss has a plan and he then picks the team he thinks is going to best deliver.”

“So did he tell you his plan?”

“The outline one, yeah. He fills in the details nearer the time.”

“Right—so what about getting match fit?”

“Gotta game on Tuesday for the school and one on Sunday for Pompey Ladies.”

“Will that get you fit?”

“Nah, but I’ll do some gym work in my lunch hours. I’ll get the rest of the team in to do it as well.”

“Are they still letting you wear the Beckham shirt.”

“Yeah, in school they do an I play down the right side an’ midfield, an’ it sort of freaks out opponents.”

“But doesn’t it rather mark you out from the rest of your team?”

“I’ve got an England schools and full cap, I am different.”

I looked at her, she was quite right, the level of talent she had was far beyond anything else I’d seen in another female player, let alone a schoolgirl. She was special, I simply hoped I and the rest of the family could help her capitalise on those skills and reach her potential. At least she was talking about going to university now not just trying to exist as a footballer. She said she wanted to teach sport science and possibly geography. I tried to encourage her to do biology instead, the mammalian stuff would come in handy with the sport science and I could help her with project work.

I looked at her again. It was hard to believe this elegant and increasingly beautiful creature was actually a biological male or used to be. There wasn’t a sign of it in the way she moved or spoke and her body was quite female in shape and build. Her hips were broadening while her shoulders remained relatively small; Pia’s attack on her might have reduced her options but they certainly increased her chances of being a successful young woman insofar as appearance was concerned, her sisters and her peers seemed to be helping with the rest of the metamorphosis. I was really proud of her for the way she had handled the transition which was pretty well forced on her, for the fact that she decided to continue her football and that of the way she was mostly a very well balanced young woman with a great sense of right and wrong and of justice and fairness.

The football and the other attributes carried over from her core personality, but more than the clothing changed. After a period of shock at what Pia had done and then depression, she reassessed her life with Stephanie’s help and our support and doesn’t appear to have looked back. It was a hell of a thing to happen to her and while we all knew she enjoyed a bit of dressing up and playing with makeup, making a passable girl, we didn’t know how she’d cope by being a castrated boy or becoming a girl full time—neither were easy options.

When I see or hear people who are usually new to transitioning, they usually say it’s the same person just the wrapping is changing. How I’d like to ask them three or four years later if they still considered themselves to be the same person, because I’d challenge them if they did.

We all change with time, with age, experience, social pressures, circumstances and so on. Depending upon the period we’re looking at, the change might be subtle or huge. If the person transitioning was staying the same they’d just be a man in skirts and while one or two are more or less that, most of us who pin our colours to the mast of femaleness, change in all sorts of ways. Society treats us differently, if you don’t believe me try buying new tyres for your car or have a tradesman give you an estimate or quote for something. Everything you buy which is designed for women will be up to fifty per cent dearer than a men’s equivalent, so you have to get used to being patronised and ripped off more than men.

Your opinions will be irrelevant or might as well be because you won’t be asked for them unless you’re a high status female or are dealing with sophisticated men like Henry. He always asks and listens to women when he wants an opinion or advice. I’ve asked him several times why does he come to me for a female viewpoint and he always tells me because I’m female and often have insights he doesn’t as a mere man—ha ha. He is no mere man, he’s very special too and I’m so lucky to have him as my pa in law.

Once you’ve had hormones raging round your system you change physically and to some extent emotionally as well. I know the scientists pooh pooh it but this scientist has experienced it first hand and seen it in the others. Possibly it’s because you no longer have to suffer the constraints of pretending to be male, so can really enjoy your feelings and share them or perhaps the chemicals in the hormones alter your brain in some way. I’m sure mine did.

I know I have changed dramatically from the wimpy girly-boy who first came to do a master’s degree here and show my professor how to set up mammal surveys and analyse the data. I like to think because I don’t have to hide my femaleness any more I’m more assured and confident in being me. Also I seem to have all the lumps and bumps in the right places, so that helps me feel some confidence in myself though at times I do question it and hope that my children won’t because they’ll have had girlhoods and almost forget that they were ever boys.

Yet we can never be biological females and reproduce as such—that might change in the next fifty years but quite honestly I can’t see it as ever being a medical priority for most clinicians when there are some biological females in a similar position who aren’t getting the sort of treatment that would enable them to carry babies. Womb transplants are happening, so who knows ultimately.

I’m aware that admitting to yourself and then facing the outside world with your decision still takes a bit of bottle, though it should be easier than it was twenty or thirty years ago in the pioneer years or even longer ago when treatment was rather primitive and surgery very basic or unavailable. Some surgeons even now don’t like the idea of SRS for a number of reasons—though the reality is that most recipients of it go on to lead happier lives as a consequence of it.

How can you say you’re the same person if the area between your legs has been remodelled? It doesn’t define us a human beings but it sure helps and to me it validated how I saw myself, not to mention how Simon saw me—I know he struggled before I had surgery even though I doubt he’ll admit it.

I went and sat with Danni on the sofa and put my arm round her. “I’m really proud of you, my girl,” I said and pulled her close to me.

“Really?”

“Yes, really and not just for your soccer skills.”

“Thanks, Mum,” she said and I watched her try to blink away a small tear that clung to her lashes.