Tonight, I can't stop crying.
And so, I decided to write.
I am angry. Frustrated. This has been a shitty week, and I am so, so very tired of having to advocate ALL THE TIME for my kids. My beautiful, innocent, hilarious, sweet, authentic, maddening, and loving little kids.
This week, I had an appointment with my primary care doctor. I'll start there.
A little backstory:
Recently, I have been working a lot more with transgender youth in our community, even working to help start a local support group for families like ours. This has been amazing. However, the more we meet with these families, and pool our collective resources ("Who is your dentist? Do you have a trans* friendly primary care doctor? Has anyone found someone local that does hormone replacement therapy, or do we still need to drive two hours?"), the more gaps and holes we find in our community care for our kids. We educate, we advocate, and sometimes bang our heads against the wall in a communal cry of grief and frustration that we have to drive so far for appropriate trans* sensitive care, and explain our children so frequently, to the people that we entrust our children with- doctors, educators, mental health providers, churches, etc.
Several weeks ago, a mom in our group emailed me with an urgent request for a new primary care doctor for her transgender daughter, who is a young adult, and too old to see any of my pediatric contacts. So, I emailed my contacts. I emailed some friends. My friends made some calls. We got some referrals. Those didn't work- the young transwoman felt more comfortable with a female primary care physician. The referrals that I had been sent were all male primary care doctors.
This seemed reasonable. This kid has been through so much- if she feels more comfortable with a female doctor, we would find her a female doctor.
So coincidentally (and after striking out on these local contacts), I happened to have an appointment with my primary care physician. My doctor happens to be female. My appointment was just a physical, routine, nothing serious. I thought, while I was there, that I might ask her if she had any referrals or ideas.
Today
After the shortest appointment in history (seriously- that was a full physical??), I mentioned to my doctor that I wanted to have a private conversation. She nodded, and then closed the door to our exam room.
(But in hindsight, um, WHY was it open in the first place??! Hello, hospital gown!)
"So," I began, "I have sort of a, um, delicate question for you. I have started working for a local transgender advocacy network, and we have several young adults that are seeking local primary care doctors that are trans* friendly. One young woman in particular is in need of immediate care. Would that be something that you have experience with, and feel comfortable treating?"
Silence. More silence. Uncomfortable, long, painful silence.
This is not what I had expected.
The doctor swallowed, staring at me the whole time. She cleared her throat. I was starting to feel uneasy.
"Well," she finally replied, slowly, "I think that any physician would have to treat these people, these days. So yes, I suppose that I could treat these people...."
Wait. Stop right there. These people?? These people are my kids. These people are my family. These people are people that I love and care for deeply. These people are my friends, my new family, friends' kids that we know and love. Our genderwild tribe.
She wasn't done. Unfortunately. "But, you know, my schedule is really full, and I'm about to go out on leave...there's probably at least a four month wait at this point," she continued. I waited. I was still fuming about these people. Enough with the excuses. Please! It was so obvious that this woman was very uncomfortable, and in over her head.
"Alright," I said finally, letting a little silence hang between us.
"So," I started again, trying really hard to keep the irritation out of my voice: "Since you are unavailable at this point, do you know of any physicians that you could refer this particular young adult to? The young woman that is looking for a trans* sensitive primary care doctor?"
And here's where it started to go from bad to worse.
"And," I continued, "you know that I have two trans* identified kids as well, right? I would refer this young woman to my pediatrician, who is very trans* friendly, but the patient is over 18 years old." And with those two sentences, hastily spoken, I outed my kids.
I wish I had thought that one through. Here's a tip for myself, for next time- there is no point in "outing" yourself to someone who has already made a snarky remark about your family. These people indeed. Good Lord.
You see, I also forgot to mention to you, my readers, that this doctor is a friend of someone in our family, well that is, our family of origin. This particular family member has not been very supportive of our children, for a long time, and we have only just started to make progress. I guess I figured that this family member might have mentioned our situation to her friend, my primary care doctor? And that maybe, since this doctor was a trained medical professional, that she could handle herself like a professional?
Apparently that was assuming too much.
The doctor inhaled sharply, and pursed her lips. Her whole body language changed, to an even more defensive stance. Gone was the open ease from when our appointment first began. This woman was clearly uncomfortable, and as I watched her eyes narrow, my heart sank.
I can do this, I thought to myself. And, I am so thankful for the supportive medical team that takes care of my kids. This is a good reality check for me- not all physicians are supportive!
And, I think I will need a new doctor. For me.
My doctor shook her head, no, she wasn't aware that I had transgender children. She didn't ask me any questions about that, either. She didn't have to- I could feel her disapproval radiating off of her from across the exam room.
We quickly ended the appointment.
And with that, my thick skin cracked.
I remember now...
This, after a week of fighting with our school to end the gender identity bullying from older children towards our genderwild kiddo. We ask, we remind them, and still nothing is done. I finally offered to do the training myself- enough is enough. My child deserves to feel safe at school, not ridiculed or shunned.
And...
This, after another conversation with my mother, having to explain to her again why she can't take my youngest child on a birthday trip, after my mother so clearly would not take my transgender child on the same trip two years earlier. "I remember that you wouldn't let him go with me," my mother forcefully said to me on the phone, talking about my 6 year old transgender daughter. "He didn't want to go with me." My reply: "Mom, you're right- we didn't let Alex go with you, because you don't accept her for who she is. She wanted the princess birthday, and you wouldn't have it- you wanted boy clothes and boy toys, and that's not our child."
Honestly, I feel like we are not even talking about the same child. I have a little girl, who is almost seven. My mother is still mad about the little boy that never really was.
And so, the tears flow. My thick skin feels weary and cracked- my defenses have been battered, my advocacy feels tired and worn.
So tonight, I just decide to let those tears flow. I realize that I can't be strong all the damn time, that this is frustrating, and I am exhausted. I now need a new doctor, another conversation with school administration, and dammit, I could even really use a supportive mom, for myself! And, to top it off, I still haven't found a physician referral for this other kid. I feel defeated.
The tears start to seep into the cracks, perhaps softening up that thick, calloused skin. I have developed this thick skin over many years of defending my autistic child, and now constantly advocating for my transgender children. My children now get to live authentically. I fight for their right to do just that. I have learned to shrug off the insults, to find new family, and to educate, advocate, empower, and finally, to just love these people, my little kids. Most days.
But tonight, I cry. I rest, I rage, and I grieve. I try to be gentle with myself. I write, listen to music, and reach out to my chosen family. My friends reach back with gentle hugs, words of encouragement, and love.
And I hope- tomorrow is a new day, with fresh ideas, and renewed strength.
To all of you out there raising these amazing genderwild children, I wish you strength, peace, and hope for the journey. May we cry and laugh together. And may we still always fight for the one thing that keeps us going- hope. I hope for a new day, for sleep, for strong cups of coffee, for laughter and hugs and words of encouragement, and I hope for a safe, strong community for my children. For all of our children.
Strength for the journey.
And so, I decided to write.
I am angry. Frustrated. This has been a shitty week, and I am so, so very tired of having to advocate ALL THE TIME for my kids. My beautiful, innocent, hilarious, sweet, authentic, maddening, and loving little kids.
This week, I had an appointment with my primary care doctor. I'll start there.
A little backstory:
Recently, I have been working a lot more with transgender youth in our community, even working to help start a local support group for families like ours. This has been amazing. However, the more we meet with these families, and pool our collective resources ("Who is your dentist? Do you have a trans* friendly primary care doctor? Has anyone found someone local that does hormone replacement therapy, or do we still need to drive two hours?"), the more gaps and holes we find in our community care for our kids. We educate, we advocate, and sometimes bang our heads against the wall in a communal cry of grief and frustration that we have to drive so far for appropriate trans* sensitive care, and explain our children so frequently, to the people that we entrust our children with- doctors, educators, mental health providers, churches, etc.
Several weeks ago, a mom in our group emailed me with an urgent request for a new primary care doctor for her transgender daughter, who is a young adult, and too old to see any of my pediatric contacts. So, I emailed my contacts. I emailed some friends. My friends made some calls. We got some referrals. Those didn't work- the young transwoman felt more comfortable with a female primary care physician. The referrals that I had been sent were all male primary care doctors.
This seemed reasonable. This kid has been through so much- if she feels more comfortable with a female doctor, we would find her a female doctor.
So coincidentally (and after striking out on these local contacts), I happened to have an appointment with my primary care physician. My doctor happens to be female. My appointment was just a physical, routine, nothing serious. I thought, while I was there, that I might ask her if she had any referrals or ideas.
Today
After the shortest appointment in history (seriously- that was a full physical??), I mentioned to my doctor that I wanted to have a private conversation. She nodded, and then closed the door to our exam room.
(But in hindsight, um, WHY was it open in the first place??! Hello, hospital gown!)
"So," I began, "I have sort of a, um, delicate question for you. I have started working for a local transgender advocacy network, and we have several young adults that are seeking local primary care doctors that are trans* friendly. One young woman in particular is in need of immediate care. Would that be something that you have experience with, and feel comfortable treating?"
Silence. More silence. Uncomfortable, long, painful silence.
This is not what I had expected.
The doctor swallowed, staring at me the whole time. She cleared her throat. I was starting to feel uneasy.
"Well," she finally replied, slowly, "I think that any physician would have to treat these people, these days. So yes, I suppose that I could treat these people...."
Wait. Stop right there. These people?? These people are my kids. These people are my family. These people are people that I love and care for deeply. These people are my friends, my new family, friends' kids that we know and love. Our genderwild tribe.
She wasn't done. Unfortunately. "But, you know, my schedule is really full, and I'm about to go out on leave...there's probably at least a four month wait at this point," she continued. I waited. I was still fuming about these people. Enough with the excuses. Please! It was so obvious that this woman was very uncomfortable, and in over her head.
"Alright," I said finally, letting a little silence hang between us.
"So," I started again, trying really hard to keep the irritation out of my voice: "Since you are unavailable at this point, do you know of any physicians that you could refer this particular young adult to? The young woman that is looking for a trans* sensitive primary care doctor?"
And here's where it started to go from bad to worse.
"And," I continued, "you know that I have two trans* identified kids as well, right? I would refer this young woman to my pediatrician, who is very trans* friendly, but the patient is over 18 years old." And with those two sentences, hastily spoken, I outed my kids.
I wish I had thought that one through. Here's a tip for myself, for next time- there is no point in "outing" yourself to someone who has already made a snarky remark about your family. These people indeed. Good Lord.
You see, I also forgot to mention to you, my readers, that this doctor is a friend of someone in our family, well that is, our family of origin. This particular family member has not been very supportive of our children, for a long time, and we have only just started to make progress. I guess I figured that this family member might have mentioned our situation to her friend, my primary care doctor? And that maybe, since this doctor was a trained medical professional, that she could handle herself like a professional?
Apparently that was assuming too much.
The doctor inhaled sharply, and pursed her lips. Her whole body language changed, to an even more defensive stance. Gone was the open ease from when our appointment first began. This woman was clearly uncomfortable, and as I watched her eyes narrow, my heart sank.
I can do this, I thought to myself. And, I am so thankful for the supportive medical team that takes care of my kids. This is a good reality check for me- not all physicians are supportive!
And, I think I will need a new doctor. For me.
My doctor shook her head, no, she wasn't aware that I had transgender children. She didn't ask me any questions about that, either. She didn't have to- I could feel her disapproval radiating off of her from across the exam room.
We quickly ended the appointment.
And with that, my thick skin cracked.
I remember now...
This, after a week of fighting with our school to end the gender identity bullying from older children towards our genderwild kiddo. We ask, we remind them, and still nothing is done. I finally offered to do the training myself- enough is enough. My child deserves to feel safe at school, not ridiculed or shunned.
And...
This, after another conversation with my mother, having to explain to her again why she can't take my youngest child on a birthday trip, after my mother so clearly would not take my transgender child on the same trip two years earlier. "I remember that you wouldn't let him go with me," my mother forcefully said to me on the phone, talking about my 6 year old transgender daughter. "He didn't want to go with me." My reply: "Mom, you're right- we didn't let Alex go with you, because you don't accept her for who she is. She wanted the princess birthday, and you wouldn't have it- you wanted boy clothes and boy toys, and that's not our child."
Honestly, I feel like we are not even talking about the same child. I have a little girl, who is almost seven. My mother is still mad about the little boy that never really was.
And so, the tears flow. My thick skin feels weary and cracked- my defenses have been battered, my advocacy feels tired and worn.
So tonight, I just decide to let those tears flow. I realize that I can't be strong all the damn time, that this is frustrating, and I am exhausted. I now need a new doctor, another conversation with school administration, and dammit, I could even really use a supportive mom, for myself! And, to top it off, I still haven't found a physician referral for this other kid. I feel defeated.
The tears start to seep into the cracks, perhaps softening up that thick, calloused skin. I have developed this thick skin over many years of defending my autistic child, and now constantly advocating for my transgender children. My children now get to live authentically. I fight for their right to do just that. I have learned to shrug off the insults, to find new family, and to educate, advocate, empower, and finally, to just love these people, my little kids. Most days.
But tonight, I cry. I rest, I rage, and I grieve. I try to be gentle with myself. I write, listen to music, and reach out to my chosen family. My friends reach back with gentle hugs, words of encouragement, and love.
And I hope- tomorrow is a new day, with fresh ideas, and renewed strength.
To all of you out there raising these amazing genderwild children, I wish you strength, peace, and hope for the journey. May we cry and laugh together. And may we still always fight for the one thing that keeps us going- hope. I hope for a new day, for sleep, for strong cups of coffee, for laughter and hugs and words of encouragement, and I hope for a safe, strong community for my children. For all of our children.
Strength for the journey.