Just less than a month ago today, I was standing at the kerb seeking to pluck up the courage to cross the road and enter the doctors surgery and request an appointment. It would have been easy, just as in the past, to put off taking that step. But that day something was different. After ‘umming’ and ‘ahhing’, I crossed to road, went in and asked for an appointment. In fact I went a bit further. We have a group practice and I asked the receptionist if there was a doctor with experience of transgender issues.
A whole week later and I was sitting in the waiting room. Still debating whether I’d ask for what I really wanted or whether I’d offer another reason for being there. I’d chosen to dress a bit androgynous, nothing particularly feminine, but just enough to suggest I wasn’t a straight male.
Bang on time (and that never happens) I was called to see a young doctor doing his year as a registrar. Told him that for a long time I’d thought of myself as a cross dresser, but that over the last couple of years I had increasingly come to realise that I was transgender. And with those words the proverbial cat was out of the bag, so to speak. A few questions, a brief discussion and he promised to ask around the practice what the process was for referral or whatever.
A few days later and a brief phone call to me to set up another meeting. The practice referred folk like me to the London Gender Clinic and he needed to ask me certain questions to complete their form. And to schedule a session for various blood tests. Taking bloods now seemed really weird as there was apparently a waiting list of at least a year – surely my blood tests might come back with different results if taken in a years time.
So having been bled by a very efficient phlebotomist I am awaiting the results. Not sure I am happy to wait a full year before starting hormones, but that’s another matter.