Mom Arrives

I forgot what had happened to me when I woke the next day. I was snuggled in my bed, and reached down to adjust my balls, as you do in the morning.

When I touched soft lips instead, I figured they were hiding away, searched harder and hit something wet. That’s when it all came rushing back to me, and I really let out a sob. I curled deeper, and put my hand to my heart, felt breasts there. In an action I found foreign, feminine, and comforting, I tucked my arm between them, and felt sorry formyself.

“Whatever you do, you can’t afford self loathing,” my mother sat on my bed.

I felt tears and snot on my face, and realized how deeply I had been crying. My mother stroked my hair for as long as I needed to, and hummed a song she had sung me for as long as I can remember. It’s from “The Tain III” by the Decemberists. It’s hauntingly sweet, and I can’t reprint it here, for fear of being sued.

(Oh, fuck it. -Ed)
For the wind is blowing, it hurts your skin,
As you climb up hill side, forest and fen.
Your arms full of lullabies, orcids and wine.
Your memories wrapped within paper and twine.

The room that you lie in, is dusty and hard.
Sleeping soft babies on piles,
Of yards,
Of gingham, taffeta, cotton, and silk.

Their dry hungry mouths cry,
For your mothers milk.

(Please don’t sue me -Ed.)

I feel asleep again in sorrow, but wrapped safe in my mother’s voice.

When I woke again, it was after 11:00 AM. There was dried snot on my pillow, and my hair was wet from tears.

My mother was knitting on a chair next to me.

“Hi mom,” I breathed out.

“Hi, dearheart. How are you feeling?”

“Sad.”

“I understand. Would you like some breakfast?”

Fuck yeah, I would like some breakfast. “How do I do that?”

“I already ordered for you,” she pointed to the aggravating hospital table, “it’s French toast. Your favorite.”

I wolfed it down the way only a teenager can, in minutes, then pushed the aggravating hospital table away from me. It scooted to the side instead and I punched it and hurt my hand. Then I punched it harder and harder, sprung the table open so the it unfolded, punched it closed, and then swept everything on it onto the floor. I laid back, feeling no better.

My mom watched my outburst without dropping her knitting. “What would you like to do now?

“Cry some more.”

“I think you’ve done enough of that.” She moved the table aside to she could look at me, “Joann had to leave, but I’ve been thoroughly briefed on her plans. I think she has the best idea. I’m happy you have someone with your best interests at heart.”

I was exhausted from all the crying, and still felt like I should get on with the day. “What does she want to do?”

My mother sat on the bed, and held my hand for a second. Then put it on the bed so she could lean. “According to your medical records, signed by your doctor, we’ve discovered you were intersex, during puberty onset.”

“They’re saying I’m a hermaphrodite?”

“They—you don’t use that term. It’s crude.”

“Can you just ‘discover’ that?”

Mom waved her hand, “It’s less common, but it happens. Usually when the boy starts menstruating through his penis, and finds out he has a uterus inside him. Joann’s report says that you’re choosing to live as a girl now, until you can be reassigned and get some surgery.”

I flounced, really flounced, back onto the bed, “Great, everyone knows I’m a freak, trying to unfreak myself.”

“You can think of yourself as a freak all you like. But you’re my child, and you can be as normal or as abnormal as you want to be.” She got up from the bed, “I’ve already signed the forms, as your parent or guardian. I’m afraid we’ve entered, ‘I-know-what’s-best-for-my-child territory. When and if you’re ready, you can get hormones and surgery. Right now, I want you to stay healthy, and work with what you have.”

In case you haven’t guessed from when I said it before, my mother is a psychologist.

I put my fingers to my temple and rubbed. “Okay. Then I want to know when I’m getting out of here.”

“I’ll see what the nurse says.”

My mother came back with the nurse, “Good news. You’re getting released.”

The nurse gave me a smile, “Want all those tubes out of you?” I gave her an emphatic nod.

The IV came out of my hand, and a bandage was taped over the tape marks from the tape the taped the IV on with. The pulse-ox was taken off of my finger. The things on my legs were undone. If I was walking I was at no risk of blood clots, outside of a family history of dying early from blood clots.

Then it was time for the catheter. My mother kindly left the room and waited outside. I spread my legs, at the nurses request, and because I didn’t want her just yanking it out. I was humiliated as a stranger started poking around a vagina I’d never even seen, and which nevertheless belonged to me. I had to resist the compulsion to snap my thighs shut and never open them again. But then I’d never be able to put on pants, and I couldn’t handle a skirt.

The nurse had brought a needle.

“Are you going to stick that into me?” Try to keep the fear out of your voice next time.

“Yes,” she said, “and it’s a good thing too. Otherwise this is excruciating.”

“Well get on with it then,” I said, not unkindly.

She hit me in a very personal place, and I resolved never to look her in the eye again, for fear that one of use would fall over dead from embarrassment.

The removal was still the weirdest sensation I’ve ever felt in my life, as she pulled the tube out of my numb, girl, urethra.

“You did good honey,” she said, as she put all her stuff in the cart, and left me to my shame.

My mother came back in and sat down, “I med the release nurse in the hallway. You’re all set to go as soon as you put on some clothes.”

“First things first,” I told her, “I want some rules,” and I outlined all of my rules:

Rule no.1: On the inside I’m still a guy. And I will have guy thoughts, and guy hobbies, and do guy things.

Rule no.2: No girl clothes; No skirts. No dresses. No bikinis. No heels. No makeup.

Rule no.3: No bras.

“Please trust me, that you will want to wear a bra,” mom said.

Rule no.3: Okay, I’ll wear a bra. If I have to.

Rule no.4: They said I have ovaries. I am never going to become a mother, and I’m not having periods. Therefore there’s no reason anyone can object to my using birth control

Rule no.5: Guess I’m a lesbian now.

“I always figured you’d be a lesbian. Your father owes me a hundred dollars now.”

“That’s not funny mom.”

Mom pulled her chair over and showed me some forms. “I was thinking we would change your name.”

“Why?”

“Ashley McKinnon already has an identity. It will be easier to enroll you in school if you have a new name.”

“I don’t want to answer to a new name. I’m Ash.”

“I know, dearheart. But I just…”

It’s hard for her too. Okay Ash. Let’s be considerate. “There are a lot of ways to spell Ashley. Lets just change that.”

She looked a little relieved. “I was always going to name you Ashley. But if you have been a girl I was going to spell it the Gaelic way. Ay-I-es-el-I-en-gee.”

“Ay-sling?”

“No, ‘Ash-lee’.” She smiled, “Be proud of your heritage of not being able to spell anything like it sounds. At least we’re not Welsh.”

“That’s racist.”

“True though. Welsh is beautiful, but they spell for shit. You thought English was bad?”

“Okay mom. I’ll be Aisling.”

She smiled and popped her pen on the paper and started filling things in.

Then it happened. I had to pee.

I breathed deep, and looked at my mother. I could feel the whites all around my eyes.

“Bathroom is over there, dearheart.”

I got out of the bed, and tried not to plod inside. The seat was cold.

Peeing felt the same, but my bladder was arranged differently inside me. I peed sitting down as a guy, when the occasion demanded it. But I had always had to move around and get my insides lined up right. Now I just sat and the pee came out. It felt like normal peeing, other than…

Other than that I could feel it dribble down my lips.

And I dripped. I could feel all the wetness down there. Further back than I would have expected if I had thought about it. I closed my eyes, but tears didn’t come. This was everything a man feared. Everything he’s proud of. Me man. Me pee standing up. Me jiggle and me done.

I reached for the toilet paper, and wiped myself off. Then I crawled back into my bed, and refused to look at anyone or anything.

My mom put the forms in her purse. “Let’s get you dressed and get you out of here.”

I found the bag they’d put my clothes in and took it into the bathroom to get changed.

Several problem immediately arose. My pants were too long for a start. For a finish, everything else about them. They had an inseam which on me looked like I was wearing a diaper. My but was shaped differently. Bigger, I was certain. Higher on my body. Because the pattern of the pants were designed for a flat but, my ass sucked the crotch of the jeans back.

I came out of the bathroom and looked at my mom, distressed beyond measure.

It was worse than that, but I couldn’t tell her about it. I had switched to boxers, as all young male children do, in middle school. All of that cloth that I used to hang out in was superfluous now, and it rode around inside my pants and bunched in seemingly random places.

My face flaming so hard me mouth shook, I asked the nurse for a pair of underpants. I meant panties. I should have asked for panties. I couldn’t.

Nurse left, and came back with a disposable mesh pair, wrapped in plastic. “I’m sorry, but this is all we have,” she told me.

My mother gave me an arch look and said simply, “We’ll have to go shopping.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do. I’m sorry to tell you, honey, but look down.”

I already knew about my shirt. In my old body it came down to my waist but with a pair of boobs the hem was riding up to my navel. “No, mom. I know.”

“Dearheart… you look like it’s fifty below outside.”

What does she… oh god no! I looked at my shirt. Yup. There were my nipples, poking out so hard you could see the areola around them. I gasped and covered my shame reflexively. I realized I looked like an anime pinup as I did so.

Breathing heavily, I panted out, “Bra shopping. First thing.”

“We’ll go to Target. It’s not class, but it’s clothes.”