A Cascade Of Name Changes

Escalator

While attending CONvergence, my friend and I needed to translate from one floor to another. Fortuitously, the venue had built an efficient escalator system for just this purpose.

As we escalated, a teenage girl (I presume; pronouns were not established) followed behind me. "I like your bag", she said; looking at all the little Mikus on the flap. There was a pause, and then she added, "I like your pins".

There are four pins on the rear of the bag - Amaterasu of Ōkami fame; one that reads "Hormone Therapy Club" and another, "Protect Trans Kids". (The fourth, less controversially, exclaims "Mom Vibes".)

"I wish the kids at school would stop calling me the f-slur". She said this with such quiet sadness in her voice. I didn't know what to say; couldn't say anything. It broke my heart.

We both stopped off at the next floor, and turned in opposite directions. I turned back. "Hey!" I yelled. "It will get better, okay? It will get better." That's the best I could manage.

I hope, wherever she is now, she's happy.

Another Test

It came to my attention this afternoon that a colleague had left the office on Friday, feeling unwell; and come Saturday had tested positive for COVID. This individual is someone that works two offices down for mine and is often in close proximity.

This meant, of course, that it would be wise of me to go get tested again. The last time I was tested, it triggered a lengthy flashback.

(As always, I stress: my response to these kinds of medical scenarios is a result of my PTSD, and not an indictment of medicine. Get tested, get vaccinated, protect yourselves and others!)

Anyhow: I wasn't super thrilled about this turn of events, and let my boss know that I was heading out and most likely would not be back for the day. He did very kindly point out that we had some test kits in-office (allegedly; nobody seemed to know where); to which I countered that the last thing my coworkers needed to see was me in tears.

Fast forward: the system for registering an appointment at the test site worked well this time; and apart from a small hiccup (they had moved a mile down the road to a new location), everything was pretty much the same. The technician asked me to sit in the car and came back with a swab and sample vial.

Now, here's where things differed slightly: when my spouse was initially tested (all the way back at the start of the pandemic), the swap took the form of an elongated Q-Tip. Having this pushed all the way to the back of the sinuses was unpleasant; but I understand the discomfort subsided quickly as soon as the test was completed.

When I was tested for the first time, the swap had clearly been updated with comfort in mind: there was a thin, flexible plastic stem with a small, soft, sponge on the tip. It wasn't inserted fully into the sinus, and frankly, there was no pain or discomfort to speak of.

This is what I was expecting to see again; so imagine my unpleasant surprise when the technician withdrew from its sterile wrapping what I can only describe as a fiercely-bristled pipe cleaner.

The technician proceeded to tell me to hold my breath for five seconds, which was also a new and highly discouraging change in procedure.

I warned her that I might be somewhat unresponsive after the test was administered and not to take that personally; and she understood. Then came the part where I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and felt this monstrosity enter my left nostril. The technician counted to five while sawing this thing back and forth along every side of my sinus cavity.

To be clear: I am no stranger to unpleasant sensations (which I will note shortly). This, however, was absolutely misery-inducing. I broke down crying the moment the technician turned away from me.

Six hours later, and my sinuses still hurt. They itch, constantly; and my nose has been running all evening. I cannot possibly fathom which person thought it was a good idea to take what was already an invasive, annoying test - and make it infinitely worse.

'Standard Clitoris™'

Apologies for those that read the title with confusion and / or an injured sense of propriety; there is critical context here, I promise!

Act I:

Two years ago, I contacted Mt. Sinai's Center For Transgender Medicine And Surgery; with the intent of pursuing gender reassignment.

(The people there are lovely; but this was still an incredibly involved and rather stressful process, as (a) my health insurer required numerous hurdles be jumped before they would authorize the surgery; and (b) the Mt. SInai health system is located in New York, whereas I am quite definitively not.)

I ended up consulting with renowned vaginoplasty surgeon Dr. Miro Djordjevic. For those not in the know, Dr. Miro originates from Serbia; and while he speaks excellent English, he also has a flair for creating unusual turns of phrase that are as delightful as they are unexpected.

To transcribe this conversation (to the best of my recollection):

"Dr. Miro - what level of control do you have over the appearance of the new vulva?"

"Oh, Lauren; many young girls, they come in here with pictures of other women, they say: 'Dr. Miro, please can you make my new vagina look like this'. And I say, 'I cannot, I am sorry; for the final appearance is very dependent on your individual anatomy'. However, I understand this, and I will give you a very good vagina, a very beautiful vagina; you will see."

"Ah! This makes sense to me. Let me rephrase my question: once I am healed, I hope to have my clitoris pierced; but I understand that this requires the anatomy to be a certain way."

"Lauren, in many surgeries, you are the first girl that has asked this. But! The clitoris, this I can change! You tell me what size your clitoris should be, and I will do this for you."

Act II:

Thus, I visited my local piercing parlor; and provided my piercer with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to specify the exact dimensions and (and other qualities) of the clitoris that they would, in future, be piercing.

The takeaways were surprisingly straightforward:

The clitoris needed to be large enough to pierce (with an overall diameter of 10mm suggested as an appropriate target).

There needed to be sufficient space between the clitoris and clitoral hood to comfortably fit a Q-Tip.

So armed, I prepared for the day of surgery (a tale in its own right).

Act III:

It is the 9th of February, 2023; and I am currently sitting in the pre-op room, meeting the vast team of individuals who will shortly be participating in the surgical revamp of my genitalia (or the critical task of ensuring that I remain wholly unconscious during said revamp, but not so unconscious that, say, my heart stops).

It is here that I see Dr. Miro once again; and remind him of our previous conversation and my subsequent fact-finding mission regarding clitoral anatomy as it pertains to piercing suitability:

"Okay, so: my piercer says that the clitoris should be around 10mm in diameter; and that there should be enough space between the clitoris and hood to fit a Q-Tip."

...To which Dr. Miro wryly shook his head, and proceeded to hew from his English lexicon a brand-new term that has lived with me ever since:

"Lauren, Lauren! Why didn't you say? This is Standard Clitoris™! This is what I was going to give you anyway!"

...And so it was, as I rapidly drifted towards my robotically-assisted neovaginal destiny (and away from consciousness), that the primary thought looping through my mind was: "I should have known: the Standard Clitoris™"!

Art exchange

I made an incredible friend this year; and dear sweetheart that she is, she gifted me this equally incredible artwork:

(In a delightfully small detail, the initials of myself, my wife, and my daughter are hidden in the leaves!)

I absolutely had to return the favor; and feeling newly inspired, produced this work piece celebrating her three lovable cats and their very different personalities:

All things considered, it came out rather well! Lessons learned:

Typography requires planning (which is why the title is off-center).

Watercolors and rough canvas are poor bedfellows.

I need a more controllable outlining medium than black acrylic paint.

My friend has a new album in the works; and released a preview of the title song: Sleepyhead. It’s an achingly beautiful piece; go take a listen.

Night surprise

Our three eldest cats have a simple routine: play, eat, sleep. For whatever reason, the youngest cat is the opposite: sleep, eat, play.

She is also very smart. She loves the laser pointer, and knows that it lives next to our bedside table; and will sit on the aforesaid table and sing to us when she wants to play.

This is all very cute except at nighttime, as we would like to sleep and she would like to play. This was the case last night, and unfortunately the cat would not listen to our polite requests to desist and so she was shut out of the room.

What then followed was a twenty-minute admixture of singing from the hallway and banging on the door. Eventually she grew bored, and decided to revisit another of her favorite pastimes (trying to pry the under-sink closet in the bathroom open; a process that involves more loud banging).

In the middle of the night, I visit the bathroom and as I’m sitting there in the dark, doing my thing, the youngest cat just casually strolls out of the closet like Samara crawling out of the television!

Oh no

I was doing my progesterone shot last night and the plunger in the syringe got stuck 20% of the way in. I really put some force behind but, but it wasn’t moving and I was terrified that if it did suddenly give way I’d dump the entire contents of the syringe into my thigh in a split-second.

(I’m not sure of the exact ramifications for doing so, but my nurse practitioner was quite clear during instruction that this was an undesirable outcome.)

I really didn’t want to toss the rest of the progesterone (it’s not like I had more on hand), so I withdrew the syringe and switched to a fresh needle. Poked myself again, depressed the plunger, and...

...The syringe got stuck again.

As classic “Well, what the hell do I do now?” scenarios go, sitting there with an immovable syringe sticking out of your thigh has to count pretty highly, I reckon.

I wiggled the plunger a bit and applied more force than sensible, and finally the damn thing overcame whatever the resistance was and immediately dumped half the load (so I guess I will find out why that’s a no-no in short order). Everything proceeded smoothly from there.

I’m still nonplussed as to what the issue was. A manufacturing defect in the syringe itself perhaps? Some kind of sediment in the progesterone blocking the barrel of the needle? I have no idea.

I just really hope that this doesn’t happen again...

Update 1: I talked to my friend about this and her first go-around, the needle disengaged from the syringe while it was in her leg. OMG!

Update 2: I had more soreness than usual but was otherwise okay; so I’m guessing that firehosing half the dose didn’t do too much damage, thankfully.

Clothing

It’s fascinating to me how much male and female fashion differ; and how much variety there is in the latter.

It used to be that I would buy shirts; and I would buy pants; and generally speaking, pretty much any shirt would match any set of pants. Getting dressed was limited to randomly picking out one of each.

(To be fair, one can go fairly in-depth with male fashion; and I will be the first to put my hand up and state that I did not do so, as - I now recognize in retrospect - I found the act of shopping for male clothing dysphoric.)

Now I have all these amazing pieces of clothing; but there is so much variety - so much range! - that that any one item will only match a few others (or even none at all)!

I will invariably find myself thinking: “Now I need to buy x to go with this”... And I am loving it!

tagged by @danielsarmand

Cold: addendum 1

I still have a cold. I'm still trying to practice my singing and it's still being impinged upon because of my symptoms.

Currently I have some phlegm in my throat; and it's fine and well until I get up to A4 and then it starts to resonate, and I make the most ungodly noise that sounds not entirely unlike Chewbacca trilling.

It just so happens that I'm trying to practice in the region of A4 / B4; so to say that this is inconvenient would be an understatement. Likewise, there isn't really a solution - clearing my throat might help for a hot second, but the problem very quickly reasserts itself.

I know I just need to be patient and wait for this to clear but... I don't want to! I just want to sing...