By the time I had decided to be Michael, I had let go of any hope of being “Mommy.” A cyst happened that October and I was left feeling depressed and lonely. The silent prayer went out yet again as I curled up in a ball and felt life bleeding out of me.
In December, I found my way to a clinic and was evaluated for hormone therapy. They decided I was healthy enough physically and mentally to start injections. Money shortages meant the injections wouldn't start until March. Feeling fidgety, I was finally relieved when I could start them.
My body's initial reaction was gut-wrenching nausea. I could've sworn I lost five pounds from vomiting the first week. With help, I staggered back to the clinic three days later, where they decided to ratchet the dosage down to one-quarter the original amount. The doctor suspected I had a stomach virus and ordered me to bed. I continued feeling vertiginously ill and I was switched from injections to oral pills. I recall looking at the scrip and wondering how I was going to keep pills down. Luckily, either the illness subsided or my body's violent reaction to its hormone balance being upset was mollified, because I felt much better by the next day.
As I regained a sense of well-being, my mood brightened and my appetite returned. I managed to land a contract to sell insurance despite my gender transition. My life got hectic and March and April seemed to fly right by. I did well enough to pay off all my outstanding debts and start building a nest egg.
In May, I got a scant period. I had to use a sheet of newspaper as a makeshift pad since I was between sales calls... and in the mens room. I ate well now that I had a regular income, inviting my agita back. I had my stomach screened but no activity from my ulcer, so I was good with an over the counter remedy.
In July, I invited the first woman I ever loved to come up and live with my husband, my boyfriend and me in my newly acquired condo. I was constantly coming and going from this new base of operations. We each had our own bedroom and I had an office. Incredibly happy, I hardly noticed the changes within me. Occasionally, I would wake from a catnap feeling as if I'd just been jostled or throttled, but I could never pinpoint what it was. Despite central air conditioning and busy days with two sales contracts, I slept restlessly and sweated profusely. I figured it was the hormones and activity and simply napped when I could.
In August, I was seriously considering picking up a third sales contract, but found myself hamstrung by serious hunger followed by serious stomach discomfort. I was eating six meals a day and still felt ravenous. I was drinking so much that it felt like I was in the mens room once an hour. During a checkup, I brought up the stomach pain and was given a prescription for an acid blocker. I didn't mention how much I was eating. My weight had gone up about ten pounds, but most of it seemed to be in my legs and shoulders.
Late September brought me to a more somber mood. I'd come home to her cooking in the kitchen and the two guys puttering on World of Warcraft, but somehow the whole thing just seemed off kilter. I became aware of any faults in the others and would often find myself tidying up and cleaning even when my exhaustion told me I shouldn't. Finally, one night, bone tired, I lay back on my bed and fell asleep without even removing my shoes. I had trained the others that I would allow them into my bed if I went to bed with the door open. Needless to say, I hadn't closed the door before collapsing. My boyfriend and girlfriend crept in and proceeded to flank me in bed, each snuggling up to a shoulder, but I was turned somewhat to the right, where she was. As she pressed against me, I was startled awake as I had been for about a month. At first, I thought she had awoken me, but I soon became aware that she was looking bewilderingly at my abdomen. Now, truthfully, my abdomen had distended a little with my weight gain, but not as significantly as ten pounds would indicate for my short stature. I loosened my tie and unfastened my collar button and mumbled, “What's the matter?”
“Your belly just hit me!” she exclaimed.
“My belly?” I repeated incredulously, right before I fell asleep again.
The next morning while I was in the shower, I felt a thump around the level of my navel. I put my hand against it and I felt another one. I quickly finished my shower, shaved, and dressed before bolting out the door, just barely remembering to snag my keyring on the way out. My boyfriend, who sometimes chauffeured me around, yelled after me, but I didn't waste any breath explaining myself. I turned a corner and sprinted down the main avenue and burst into the Rite Aid. My sudden explosion of energy finally burned off once inside and pains shot through various body parts. My lungs felt like they were stuck to my ribs with cement. I could hear myself wheezing asthmatically from overexertion. As soon as the acute problems ebbed slightly, I started walking forward.
It was surreal looking for the feminine aisle again. I just stared for a moment at the panoply of products. I picked up a box and hypnotically walked to the registers. The walk home seemed interminably long and scenarios kept playing in my mind with hope, fear, love and self-loathing all competing for the floor in my mental self-debate. I dragged myself in the front door and my trio of life partners quickly flocked about me with questions. I selfishly dismissed them, desperate for solitude and space. They followed on my heels up to my bedroom. I shut the door.
I slowly opened the box and read the instructions, fully aware that I was stalling the inevitable. It wasn't that hard to use. I could hear the three of them talking outside my door. I retreated to my en suite bathroom and used the test. I felt three flutters while waiting for it to develop. I didn't look at it until the time limit was up. Ten minutes after urinating, I opened the door and looked at the three people with whom I was in love and stated as plainly as my nerves would let me, “I'm pregnant.”
At the clinic they weren't immediately sure whether they should believe me. But, when I mentioned the movements I felt in my abdomen, they decided to rule out other things first and gave me an ultrasound. No sooner had the wand been placed on my abdomen, when a distinctive 'paw...paw...paw' sound could be heard – a fetal heartbeat. My response was less than dignified; I suddenly burst into tears. Afterwards, I had to reassure my treatment team that I wasn't despondent and I was definitely keeping the child. I then had to convince them that I still saw myself as a man, just that I was now a pregnant man. I had wanted this so badly after three miscarriages, I hadn't dared to hope anymore. Masculinity wasn't something I wanted. It was merely what I was.
I was immediately taken off of hormones. An amnio was performed and I was subjected to several other tests. They estimated I was twenty-six weeks. My gynecologist sought out a trans-sensitive obstetrics team for me. When I met with them, I found out the karotype said female, the ultrasound indicated male. Great, I thought sardonically, my child is intersex. I added more guilt to the pile of emotions I was experiencing. They estimated my due date at January 6.
At home, everyone wanted to know how I could do this to them. My husband was embarrassed. My boyfriend was perplexed. My girlfriend started wondering where we'd fit the crib.
By October, my pregnancy had somehow become public knowledge. Local advocacy on behalf of transgenders had afforded a small amount of local celebrity, but it hadn't, until this point, been intrusive. I was now beseiged by various religious, women's, and political groups to change something in my self-definition. Or my condition. As diplomatically as I could manage, I told them it was none of their business.
I was just barely showing so some believed it was a publicity stunt. I refused to adjust my life to avoid being stared at and some people were outright abusive. I was assaulted a couple times by what I believed to be homophobes. It turned out one was an off-duty cop.
By November, a palpable divide was forming in the community and the city. I was medically being told to reduce my stress load while, socially, it wasn't possible. When a Roman Catholic priest taunted me on camera, my response was “The Catholic woman in me feels it would be unethical to abort this baby. And the Agnostic male in me feels her decision is none of his business.”
I still found sympathy among some of the GLBTI community and the Pink Pistols, whom I joined to prevent any future battery attempts. I also got a license to carry a concealed weapon.
Angry letters, emails, epithets, graffiti and threats got uglier as time went on. I went about work as best I could, but only the staunchest of my customers continued buying from me. Written death threats continued, but personal threats face to face had lessened as my belly had started rounding noticeably. There was a certain moral line even the most adamant weren't willing to cross.
December brought me to the point where I had to concede I needed maternity clothes. I had simply worn larger shirts up to this point and kept wearing dress pants, ties, and suit jackets. My breasts were too outsized now to go without support. And maternity pants were necessary, too. When my husband asked, I told him the child would call me its mother. The three of them were very protective of me now. She was giddily awaiting the birth. My boyfriend wasn't, but wanted to be there. Against my wishes, I got no less than three baby showers. They turned out to be some much needed cheerfulness at a point when I felt overly anxious.
In private moments, I talked to my child and assured it that I loved it and very much wanted to see it. I made no gender references. I decided it would be up to my child to decide what it was. I decided on the gender-neutral name Morgan. I spent time alone putting together a small crib in the corner of my bedroom and determining how best to store the profusion of pastel gifts in my mahogany and beige bedroom.
The baby was very active now. I spent many nights lying awake just feeling it jostle around inside me. I loved the feeling. It was empowering. Not emasculating at all. It was feminine energy, but that did not cancel my masculine strength. It just imbued it with another dimension. I wanted to have this baby, to mother it, to breastfeed it, to love it. And, I felt no less a man for it. I felt more so. A man with the ability of a woman. Yes, a man-plus. That seemed a great way to put. I smiled inwardly as society seemed to crumble around me.
It was Christmas Eve and I was attending a party at a friend's apartment. The walk home was only ten blocks. I left it feeling like I had overindulged in the rich foods and felt more cramped and nauseated with each step. Suddenly, I was leaning over a trash bin emptying my stomach. As I was regaining my composure, I thought I heard a gunshot or an M-80 in the distance behind me. A second retort was followed by a piercing pain near my left kidney. I slumped to one knee while reaching for my concealed handgun. When I turned to face my attacker, I saw two figures farther up the block. I pointed the weapon and emptied it. I don't know how many hit, but at least one did. I dropped the gun and held my side. A pool of blood was forming on the sidewalk. I pressed two handkerchiefs over the opening and pulled myself upright.
The cold seeped into me as I staggered down to the PATH station. My clinic and the attached hospital were in Manhattan, an hour from where I was attacked. Under the platform lights, I saw that the bullet had gone completely through. No one else was at the station. I fumbled for my mobile phone as the train pulled up. I got on and everything went black.
I awoke hazily a short time later when a stranger shook me. He and his date seem relieved I was alive, but horrified by my condition. I told them slowly where I was trying to go. They understood me, but I suddenly convulsed as a new pain gripped me and I fainted again
When I came around the second time, my abdomen felt incredibly taut and I was fighting to breathe normally. I don't clearly recall everything that was happening. I remember being outside. That someone said I was leaking fluid. People asking if I could hear them. I tried vainly to tell them what I felt, but couldn't hold on to consciousness...
... and after that, there is nothing. I died on the way to the hospital, I guess. I never got to see the child I carried and loved. I can only hope that he or she is raised well and with love, patience and understanding. And as I find myself free of corporeal wants and needs, I hear one last thing:
“Congratulations, Michael. You're a mother.”
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