Okay, so I mowed the yard. I set up the appointment. And finally, I went to see my doctor.
I was much more open with the doctor than I had been my parents. I told him about my urination, and asked to have that checked out. But then, I asked him about my breast growth. I asked him about my almost total lack of chest or back hair. I asked him to check my hormones.
He conceded that I did have some breast tissue growth: much more than a guy should have. I did slightly raise an eyebrow when I asked to have my hormones tested, as an issue like this would be incredibly unusual for someone my age. But he kindly agreed to test them.
I should add, I was also asked about my libido, and my erections. What did I have to lose? I told him that I thought my libido was way below the male average, and that I really didn’t have much control over my erections, even going so far as to admit that I believed I had a degree of erectile dysfunction. He took note, and then the nurse came to draw my blood about 20 times over for the battery of tests I had unwittingly requested.
A week or so passed before I heard back from the doctor. In fact, I was out of town, sleeping on a friend’s couch after a night of light boozing, when I received the call.
My testosterone was low. Way lower than it should be for someone my age. There would need to be more tests.
I took it well while I was on the phone, and thanked the nurse for her time. Calmly, I walked outside. It was about 8 AM, and no one else was awake yet. I found a tree nearby, leaned on it, and cried more than I had in years.
You see, I don’t want to be transgender. I don’t want to be different. But here I was. Different. Things I had long suspected of my biology were being confirmed by my very blood. In that moment, weeping at that tree, I had never felt more alone. And I had spent a lifetime feeling lonely.
What could I do? I tried to call my girlfriend, the love of my life and my partner in crime. She had been the only one I told about my wanting to get my hormones checked by the doctor, and was the only one I wanted to talk to. Unfortunately, she was in New York at the time, and I couldn’t get a hold of her. I sank lower.
I knew I was going to have to tell my parents, because now, I had to actually find out what the “issue” was. But how could I face them and tell them? Certainly, the discussion would include nothing about my gender dysphoria, but I would have to tell them that I really went to get my hormones tested.
Inside, my friends were still asleep. Some of my very closest friends of all. Guys I had known for many, many years. How could I face them? How could I tell them?
The short answer? I wouldn’t.
What would this mean for my future? Was I sterile? Were my chromosomes as confused as me? Was my health at risk?
I cried under that lonely tree for the better part of an hour before going back in. Little did I know how much of a pain this would be over the course of the next year of my life.
Continued in part 3.
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