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prev.cont.I met my first transgender patient today. I desperately wanted him to like me, to understand that I wasn’t like the other people in this small town who think he’s an abomination. But you can’t just tell someone that when you first meet them. Instead, I smiled and stood behind the plastic surgeon who was going to cut off his breasts.
I watched the surgeon draw lines on the man’s chest with a marker to remember where he’d make his incisions. The man said “I’m getting nervous” a few times. You’ve gotta be really nervous to tell a couple of strangers about it point blank. The surgeon didn’t say anything, just kept drawing red lines. I poked my head out from behind the surgeon to say, “We’ll be there with you the whole time.” He didn’t respond.
After the surgeon had scribbled to his heart’s content, a nurse came in and gave him midazolam (a “fast-acting happy potion”) through his IV before starting the journey to the operating room. His demeanor changed immediately, eyebrows relaxing from their furrowed position. He giggled the whole time as we pushed his bed-on-wheels through the halls of the hospital basement, and I realized I hadn’t seen him smile before that. I made a mental note: “nervous → midazolam.”
The surgery went well. Scalpels across red lines. Skin cut into weird shapes and discarded. Stitches and glue connecting the remaining tissue into a flat chest. It was my first time in the operating room, and I could tell right away that surgery is not my thing.
I went home for lunch—a short walk across the hospital parking lot to my rental house with a sinking foundation. I ate lunch with an empty mind. I was expecting some profound reflections from the morning but had none. I quickly ran out of things to do.
When I went back above ground, I was surprised at the feeling that came: relief. The promise of stimulation, the kind you can only get above ground, with its patients to meet and things to learn, was exciting.
Usually, in the above ground, I tend to count down the minutes before I can go back underground. Maybe the relief I felt as I walked through the halls of the hospital and down the staircase to the basement was a good sign. Maybe I’m in the right place.
Now, the work day is over, my above ground obligations have expired, and I find myself waiting idly for the time to pass.
It would be nice to do vices all the time, if only to help the time pass along. I can admit that it’s become something of a habit. I’ll need to nip it in the bud soon. I’m sure there will be ways to make the nipping feel less like I’ve put a cookie jar on top of a fridge. Now that I’m a grown-up, the tops of all the fridges in the world are within reach, and I can reach into cookie jars whenever I want. Nobody’s going to tell me “You can only eat the cookie after you’ve had your vegetables, and even then, it’s supposed to be more of a special thing.”
I’m feeling pretty stable right now. I don’t feel like a huge failure, but I also don’t feel like the best and smartest person in the world. I feel normal.
Should I be suspicious of that stable feeling? Instability tends to follow stability. Entropy. That’s how the universe works. I suppose the best course of action is to proceed with no expectations.
Do other people’s lives make more sense to them, like, on a day-to-day basis? Mine doesn’t. Maybe it’s just that I’m in the weird year now, still adjusting. I suppose they call it the weird year for a reason.
mental illness Maybe life is all about doing vices. To hell with fridges and cookie jars. Isn't it crazier to have no vices? I don't think it's possible to be viceless without being mentally ill in some other way. I suppose the Buddha ended up ditching his vices, and he seems like a fine role model. Was he mentally ill, too?
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