Christopher To Christina: An Answered Prayer

7. A Solution?

Two weeks later, Mommy announced that we were going to see a doctor. The doctor was in a different town.

During the trip, Mommy was very mysterious; she didn't say anything about where we were going or why. But she had the air of someone with a happy secret, not a threatening one.

When we got there, the doctor turned out to be a woman. "Dr Madison, this is Christine," Mommy said when we were seated in her office.

Dr Madison was a middle-aged, gray-haired woman. She had bedside manner in spades. From the moment I met her, I really liked her. She was warm and pleasant and inspired immediate confidence. It struck me that this was the one other person on earth I wouldn't mind knowing about Christopher.

That was good, because she started asking me about Christopher right away.

Gradually, very gently, she got me to tell her the same story I've told you: about my miserable boyhood, about the experiment we had tried, about how successful it had been, about how deeply I loved being a girl.

"Christine's having to face manhood now," Mommy put in, "and she's distraught. I found her the week before last crying her eyes out, begging me to do something so she wouldn't have to be a man. That's why we've come to see you."

Dr Madison looked straight at me. She intended her remarks for my mother, but she talked to me; this was typical of the way she treated her patients: with respect and kindness.

"Christine, your body is going to produce hormones, chemicals that affect the way you grow and the way your body develops. Those will be male hormones and you will grow up to be a boy, just as your mother's told you. Now, there is a procedure called hormone replacement therapy. It means taking pills that suppress and replace the male hormones so that your body become more like women's.

"The female hormones in the pills will cause you to experience puberty and develop as a girl instead of a boy. Do you understand?"

Understand? My heart was pounding with excitement. Mommy had done it again, pulled off another one of her miracles, like the miracle of starting me on this journey and allowing me to stay living as a girl, the miracle of schooling me at home, and now she had found this wonderful doctor.

It had to have shown in my eyes.

"But there's a problem, Christine. You are still quite young, and the laws in this state doesn't look kindly on people interfering with the natural development of children under fifteen. There are laws that regulate just how much we can do, and some of those laws would apply even if your mother gave her permission. I have to send you to a psychologist, who will have to do many tests and how much I can do will hinge on how you answer the questions in those tests."

"You mean the law may not let you give me those pills? You mean--"

I fought savagely to hold back the tears.

"The law could condemn me to continue living a life I hate? You mean the law would deliberately make me miserable? I want those pills, Dr Madison, those...hormones. I am NOT going to let the law or anybody else force me to develop into a man. If you won't do it, I'll get a knife and cut them off. I swear I will!"

Mommy was aghast. "You don't know what you're saying, Christine!"

"Perhaps she does know," Dr Madison replied. "Actually, children have been known to mutilate themselves in Christine's situation."

Dr Madison shifted in her seat and continued.

"All right. We're not going to give up right away, Christine. But whatever we do, we musn't act in ignorance. So first, I want you to see the psychiatrist. Your history before eight years old doesn't quite match the usual pattern of gender identity dysphoria."

She had to explain to me what those words meant, before continuing, "Then, I will need to give you a complete physical examination, and a battery of tests to analyze your body chemistry. Then we can try to lay out a course of action, even therapy, if it seems advisable. The psychiatric examination is essential and needs to be done right away, because if we did go outside the law--I'm not saying we will, but if somehow, let's say, those pills were just to happen to fall into your mother's hands-- their effects would be irreversible. You think that that's what you want, now don't you?"

"Irreversible...you mean, once you've changed me I can't change back?"

"That's right."

"I know that's what I want, doc. I want to remain a girl, and my body's threatening to change me back. That's why I was crying. I don't want to be changed back. I want you to fix me so I don't have to worry about my body ever trying to change back."

"That's what you think now," Dr Madison replied. "I need to be assured that's what you'll think after puberty. That's a big decision, and you will need to know what to expect and how to deal with it."

She looked over at Mommy.

"If we did this, it would be frankly, an experiment. I've never treated anyone this young before. And I'm very reluctant to do anything to your daughter. Tampering with young people's bodies is tampering with their lives. In any case, I have no intention of doing anything until I have the test results back and an evaluation from the psychiatrist. Then we'll see.

"There's another detail. The requirement that a patient live full time as a girl for a year before we take any action. For someone Christine's age, I would definitely want longer than that. But you say she's been living full time for four years, so I think that may do.
I'll know better once I've heard from the psychiatrist."

In spite of Dr Madison's cautions and repeated warnings, I left her office walking on air. Mommy the miracle worker had done it again.

Dr Madison took care of the physical checkup that afternoon, except for the hormone assessment, which were going to be carried out by a lab.

We had to stay in town for the interviews with the psychiatrist.
There were several of these I'd have to attend before he could make a decision about whether I am a candidate for hormones or not. Of these, there were two we would be staying for, one this afternoon and another tomorrow morning.