A week or so ago I had an appointment with a plastic surgeon at Mass General (I almost spelt that as “Mass Genderal”. One track mind, people) to help make a case to my insurance company about the fact that I might medically need reduction surgery.
We had it all planned out. I was dressed girly (ish. I had on jeans and a women’s t-shirt. Its a real cool shirt and I like it so whatevs) and I had all of my responses to any and all possible questions at the ready. All of them were pre-planned reasons why I needed this reduction, instead of why I wanted it; stuff like the fact that my mother had had breast cancer and hey less boobs equals less of a chance (right?Right?), that my back feels like I carry fifty pound weights all the time, ect ect.
It’s easy for me to talk about stuff like this when I know a lot of guys get dysphoric due to it, mostly because its hard to ignore the giant aliens latched to your chest. So I cope and it totally pays off when I have to show random doctors my chesticles for photo evidence that, yes, they are indeed stupidly large. Its only the difficulty of binding that freaks me out, and then frustrates me because my binder was bought from an Asian store online and is therefore made for Taiwanese guys who weight a hundred pounds soaking wet, and not my hefty Italian tits, which were passed down to me from a long line of Sicilians who all shared the degrading teenage nickname Bubbles.
Anyway, the day started off well. Because Boston traffic is literally Satan, my father drove us in on his way to work and my mother and I were going to ride the subway back. We got there a half an hour early, and lord almighty I had to pee. I ran to the restroom while my mother was finding out where the plastic surgeon was; I didn’t even give a flying whup that I had to use the women’s room, because it wasn’t like I had grown the balls to use the men’s room yet.
Our appointment wasn’t for another twenty minutes, and I hadn’t filled out the forms my mother gave me the night before yet, so we sat down in the hospital cafe so I could. I casually looked over the food that they offered and decided seven dollars was too much for a breakfast sandwich that labeled ham as Canadian bacon. My mother had coffee.
I filled out the forms, which had questions that normal adults would be able to answer easily, but I floundered on them because I was five years old and had no idea what my insurance information was because it was in my dad’s name. Luckily there were no prying questions about my gender identity on there, though they got extremely prying. I have no idea why they asked if I was sexually active. I really don’t and it kind of hurt my feelings to be reminded that I get absolutely no ass.
And then I let slip that I might maybe need to pee again. My mother fuckingpouncedon it.
"Maybe you should go," she said casually, as she would the next 7645 times she told me to.
We took an elevator to the fourth floor, in which my college habit of getting angry at people who took the elevator up a single floor resurfaced and I became unreasonably enraged at an elderly man in a wheelchair. It wore off when he left and I slumped against my mother for the rest of the trip, exhausted with my own stupid, righteous anger.
The office we were in was labeled with stainless steel letters that screamed PLASTIC SURGEON because I wasn’t already feeling like a Valley Girl going in for a nose job. I tried to pretend I was instead going in for top surgery, which didn’t help fyi, and checked in. And when I talk to strangers or am simply saying something nice, my voice goes up an octave or seven, which is why I never present well, but here it was helpful because YES I AM COMPLETELY FEMALE IGNORE THE SHORT HAIR AND MANNISH WALKING. I am an adorable nineteen year old sweetpea please remove 90% of my breasts for free.
After the clerk photocopied and cataloged my insurance card and driver’s license (so that the picture on said license is now forever preserved in all its horrendous glory) I sat down with my mother, took out my book, and twitched as my mum told me to go pee.
"I am NINETEEN mum," I hissed, trying to read.
"Yes but -"
It took a full hour for my name to be called. During which time my mother told me to go to the bathroom 7644 times and seethed at how long it was taking. Right before they called me she was about to get up an complain; it was as if the office had timed it just right to push her buttons but called it right before she could march right up there and bust out the skills she had developed over years of dealing with the lazy ass school system in my town. Bitching to a medical surgeon was nothing like bitching to the stupid ass office ladies in my high school.
The nurse who took pictures of the goodies was very nice and understanding. The last time I had to do something like that, the doctor actually asked my parents if I had been sexually abused because I did not jump at the chance to wiggle my bitties in front of her. This time I had prepared. I had spent the night before practicing. With my dog substituting as the medical practitioner, though its really easy when you pull out a boob and the doctor looks at it with a vacant expression and then licks herself.
This time the nurse was totally understanding that, hey, a person might not want to show their boys to someone let alone have them take pictures of it because Blue Cross Blue Shield might not believe someone then they say they have the equivalent of two newborn babies on their chest. She quickly took snapshots of the twins while I stared off into space with my shoulders thrown back and pretended I was a deliciously handsome man and she needed to show her girlfriends my amazing six pack or something (omg that caused many nervous giggles on my partHA SIX PACKspoiler I am fat).
The rest of the meeting went fine. The doctor also made me take out my boobs and once again I did it LIKE A PRO even though she touched them (if only to marvel at them). At the end of it she was like ‘Yeah I think you’re going to be funded’ because GOD DAMN YOU GUYS. And she also didn’t even bat an eye when I said that I wanted to go down to A-cup range (because OH MY GOD IMAGINE IT. ITS LIKE NOT EVEN HAVING THEM. I COULD STICK PASTIES ON THEM AND BAM, GOOD FOR THE DAY) because apparently she just assumed that nineteen years with huge boobs had just TUCKERED ME OUT.
At one point she told me that the surgery could and probably would make it impossible for me to breast feed and I could lose all sensation there. To which I replied “that’s of no relevance to me” which is snooty English major talk for LOL I DONT EVEN CURR and then I tap danced away. Because really I expect my poor chest to be kind of like beef that’s been beaten like a naughty, saucy filly after my transition. I expect to be numb from collar bone to navel after the reduction and top surgery. I mean the breast feeding thing kind of made me want children (which I already do because BABIES) but that’s about it. Woop-de-doo wasn’t planning on it anyway, but we shan’t tell the doctor that.
I mean my kid might be a little messed up if they knew daddy nursed them.