I should be unconscious right now, but I can’t sleep. I put the distractions aside, and lay down, and close my eyes... That’s when my thoughts catch up with me. You would think that at a certain point, the human body would simply run out of tears to cry; but if there’s a limit, I haven’t hit it yet this evening.
There are almost certainly connections between the different ideas, images, and recollections currently vying for attention inside of my head. I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind however to go mining for insight. Perhaps later.
On Monday, I have my MRI. As tests go, it’s fairly mundane; the most prevalent complaint is that you are required to stay still for a long time inside of a loud, clunky machine.
The MRI is to be conducted both with and without contrast. This means they will need to insert an IV catheter at some point, and inject a special fluid that the scanner can detect.
I’ve had my blood drawn plenty of times. I had an IV last time I was in the ER. (It was certainly annoying; but no more painful than the aforementioned blood draws.) However, my mind continues to gravitate towards - and get stuck on - this step.
I think perhaps it’s because I’m coming to realize that what rattles me most is the perception that I am no longer in control of a medical situation. The more steps required in a given appointment, the more likely the providers will have an efficient operation going, the more likely they are to maintain a pace faster than I am comfortable with.
Last week I had my nerve conduction study / electromyograph performed.
The nerve conduction study was first. I had a very nice technician; a young man named William. He listened to me earnestly when I explained my anxiousness; and did exactly what I asked: took his time, explained everything, and was honest with me about any discomfort I might experience.
Prior to the test, I had been instructed to wear clothing that would leave my arms and legs easily accessible (e.g. t-shirt and shorts, weather permitting). I settled for a sleeveless shirt and skirt that could easily be hiked up as necessary.
Apparently I chose poorly, as William provided a blanket which which I could cover up and prevent my thighs from flashing immodestly. We actually had a really nice conversation about it; where he explained that this was de facto policy for female patients, and I noted that I wasn’t opposed, merely surprised... Because my experience to date had, of course, been so different.
The test primarily consisted of William applying electrical shocks in various places; and measuring the corresponding signals reaching the ends of my extremities. He described this process as “More annoying than painful”, and that’s an assessment that (barring a few full-power shocks) I agreed with.
(To his credit, William had himself been shocked many times as part of his training; and was both sympathetic and informative as a result.)
After an hour of this, William subbed out and the neurologist subbed in; tasked with performing the electromyograph.
At the end of my ER visit, I was referred to the Neurology department; and forewarned that they would most likely want to order this test and that they were sorry it was so uncomfortable. I had similar conversations with my own provider, and the nurse practitioner I saw at Neurology.
The entire time I was thinking to myself: “How bad could it be”? The information I could find online explained that the test was conducted by inserting a needle into various muscles; although not particularly fun, this was no worse than my usual intramuscular injection regimen. Likewise, I undergo electrolysis every two weeks - surely that was the high bar for outpatient-induced pain?
Ah, well.
The neurologist very kindly ensured that I was prepared and had forewarning, and then inserted the needle in the muscle between my thumb and forefinger. I determined later that the needle was conical in design; which made for a less traumatic wound, but also perhaps more discomfort on insertion. Regardless, it was bearable.
I was not prepared for the next step: the neurologist had to move the needle about; not unlike swinging a television antenna around the room in search of better reception. This had me gritting my teeth. On top of that, I then had to flex the very muscle the needle was in; to take more readings.
This process took what felt like a couple of minutes; and once done, he proceeded to measure a muscle in my forearm, and then my bicep. After that it was the front of my shin, the calf muscle, and my upper thigh.
Again, he was very concerned with my well-being; but also rightly discerned that I was more interested in getting the test over than taking a break - so we powered through. Thankfully, as no issues were found on the left side, it was not necessary to proceed to the right.
I burst into tears as soon as I was outside. I can recall only one other time when a medical provider induced such pain that I was white-knuckling the surface of the exam table: after I inadvertently cut my finger open as a young teen; and the attending doctor had to examine the wound (and by extension, manipulate it while his assistants sprayed saline and whoever knows what else in there).
I didn’t think it affected me that badly; but I had to do my shot yesterday, and it was so hard. My hands were trembling, and on my first attempt, the needle barely even pierced the surface of the skin - I was that afraid of how much it could hurt.
Tomorrow I see my therapist. Our last appointment was, unfortunately, cancelled; so it’s been a while. We’ve been working on all the pent-up misery associated with my pre-immigration medical. That’s another subject swirling around in my head; and likely the root of a good portion of what I’m dealing with at present.
I was railroaded; moved through a medical assembly line like a non-person. Every time I feel as if there’s even a slight possibility that might be happening again, it all starts to come back - fear; the belief that I can no longer protect myself; that I am a target of contempt.
That brings me full circle; back to my upcoming MRI. There are several possible outcomes to this test: the best outcome, of course, would be that nothing of note is found. (This would suggest that the majority of my symptoms to date were caused by inflammation of my neural and nervous tissue; and as the inflammation naturally abides, so too will the symptoms.)
Another possibility is that I might have suffered a rare complication in which one’s own immune system attacks the nervous system. This is slightly more concerning, as one of the defining characteristics is permanent lesions of the white matter of the brain.
There is a third and final possibility: that the virus triggered a minor stroke. Such a thing would be unusual for a person of my age; as with so many other rare phenomena however, COVID has demonstrated exceptionally rare complications are surprisingly common once you are dealing with a virus that thinks little of the blood-brain barrier.
As you can imagine, two of the outcomes are terrifying in terms of their lifelong implications.
I’ll have my answer after Monday. For now, I’ll go back to ruing the godforsaken system of wealth transfer this country mockingly refers to as ‘health insurance’; knowing that I could have most likely had my results in hand much sooner if it wasn’t so absolutely vital to consult a third party on whether or not it was actually medically necessary to treat me.
02:35 AM.
Time to try again.
When I got my new car, I was delighted to learn that it came with a hands-free voice assistant. You press a button, and then the scene plays out as follows:
Car: Beep boop. “How can I help you?” Me: “Play that one sad song. I know, I know. That’s the kind of day it is.” Car: “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand.” Me: “Play that one song.” Car: “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand.” Me: “Just cancel.” Car: “I’m sorry-” Me: “CANCEL!” Car: “Cancelling.” Beep boop.
See, as awesome as this feature is, it really struggles to understand anything I actually say.
Until I started using my girl voice.
Legitimately! I’m not sure if this is simply because it’s in a higher pitch now (and the microphone can pick it up better); or if it’s because my accent has been slipping (and the original training data was chiefly American). Whatever the case: it’s a a welcome and unexpected reward for the work I’m putting in!
For years, I've had a nuclear technique at my disposal: 'The Look'. It's a three-quarter profile, dimpled smile that would instantly summon bashfulness on her part and result in an averted gaze.
Not anymore though! I tried this a little while back, and... nothing! No effect. Through rigorous scientific testing (i.e. randomly and unexpectedly applying The Look), we have determined that it just... doesn't work anymore!
We have no idea why this is - only that it coincides with the changes that have slowly been taking place in my facial structure. It's okay - it doesn't impact our relationship at all - but it's still fascinating!
(Original from wintersbucky; via feed-the-roses.)
To continue the metaphor: if playing the piano is analogous to Dance Dance Revolution, then the the right-hand A# in the ascending F major scale is some sort of special arrow where when you step on it, it explodes and kills you!
Dee Mac released her new album today. It’s amazing. She’s amazing! What are you waiting for? Go listen to it and shower some love!
In my early twenties, I conceived of a story in which two individuals - one half-angel, the other half-demon - formed an unlikely alliance. I am not going to pretend that this concept was either original or going to set the literary world on fire; and it didn’t got much further than an initial outline and some character sketches.
I did have a particular affection for the design of the half-angel however; as his outfit incorporated a number of feminine elements. He wore a stylized headpiece (fundamentally a headband); a tunic with an incorporated tabard (practically a slit midi dress); and perhaps most glaringly, stockings held in place by leather straps.
In hindsight, it’s pretty obvious that I was trying to express my own gender confusion via a safe and private medium. (Exacerbated, I imagine, by having recently moved to an area that rigidly enforced gender norms.)
Happily, this is no longer the case and I am quite out the world as a woman!
Recently a friend reminded me that there is a whole world of leather-type garters out there. This triggered a series of thoughts in which I recalled the design of the half-angel; then realized how heavily his clothing had been inspired by my own suppressed desires; and finally set out to determine if thigh straps were actually a thing you could buy.
As always, Etsy delivers (bother metaphorically and literally); and now I am both living out my girlhood dream and also, finally able to stop my socks from falling down!
(It did occur to me, after they arrived, that the principle is no different from that of a regular belt - it is merely the length of the leather strap that differs. So at some point, I may go looking for a couple of cheap belts to cut to size and re-punch.)
If my writing has taken a slight turn towards the darker of late, it’s because of this:
I have a tremendous aptitude for self-denial; specifically when it comes to convincing myself that I am not worthy of focus and attention (and thus by extension my concerns, challenges, and issues).
This is of course most notably exemplified by how I managed to deny the obvious regarding my transgender status for so many years.
When I did finally come to that conclusion however, I was at least thankful that I had escaped a lot of the vicious side-effects that other trans individuals faced: crippling dysphoria; self-loathing; depression; a propensity for being predated on, and so on.
What I’m now recognizing is that I did experience many of these things; but could not express them in terms that made sense to myself (let alone other people). This is a good thing; but it also means exploring those thoughts and memories, and I do a great deal of that work here.
So: nothing to worry about here; just digging through an old Pandora’s Box!
Today I went bra-shopping at the mall. At one point I put my phone down and thought to myself:
"This is just like that one coworker of yours - the one that leaves his phone laying around all the time. Glad I'm not like that!"
It was therefore inevitable that a few minutes later, I realized I no longer had my phone on me. Fortuitously, some kind soul had handed it into security; which I knew the second I walked into the security office as it was sitting right there on their reception desk.
What follows is, verbatim, the conversation that took place between myself and the security officer on duty:
Me: "Hello! I was going to ask if anyone handed in an iPhone 7 in a black case, but that appears to be it right there. Probably you want to verify it's mine; so I think you'll find the unlock code is ████."
Security: "Ah. Well. Can you tell me what the image is" - proceeds to hold phone very close to face, like a hand of poker - "...on the lock screen?"
Me: "Yes; that will be a picture of me and my daughter."
Security: "..."
Me: "...Of course, I look very different now. I don't have a beard, for one thing."
Security: "..."
Me: "..."
Security: "What was that code again?"
Anyway, I got my phone back!
🎵 “The worst part of shaving as a trans girl Is when you nick your nip” 🎵
I just got done with the nth round of electrolysis on my face. My electrologist is a pleasure to deal with; the end results speak for themselves (hairs that kept resurrecting despite multiple max power laser applications - like some kind of follicular lich co-op - are now being permanently killed off); and the session fee is very reasonable.
However, I’d by lying if I said it didn’t bloody well hurt. It feels a lot like getting jabbed repeatedly with a superheated needle (because that’s exactly what electrolysis is); and unfortunately for me, one of the major problem areas is my top lip (which sucks, because that’s also a super-sensitive spot just full of little nerve bundles, ready to vociferously complain at a moment’s notice).
I’m glad I’m doing this - I’m a fan of fire-and-forget solutions - but god it would be nice to not to feel like I got hit in the face with a sack of bees afterwards!