casting the first stone

I feel like I’m behind a pane of glass. I can see people outside: growing, thriving, taking up space. I want to be happy for them, and I am. And yet – I struggle to see a way to escape, to join those on the outside. I know that I’m ready and I only need to be granted the key. I press my hand against the glass, let my breath fog around it, hope someone notices my mark.

Diagnosis finally granted, I was able to meet with a surgeon. My gender clinic presented me with a list of options to choose from. I studied each one carefully, discarding some and poring over others as if I were looking through their dating profile. To be honest, I had no idea what I was looking for. I’d heard reports from friends of friends, and I had studied surgery results photos on Facebook pages, took note of anecdotes passed via Whatsapp chats. Considered questions like: do I want to keep my nipples? Straight scars or curved? In the end, I chose a surgeon who was relatively close and looked friendly, and hoped that he was kinder than online reviews had led me to believe.

The hospital is a private one – the gender clinic I use doesn’t align with NHS surgeons – and as my chosen surgeon prodded and measured my tits (left one 29cm, right one 29.5cm) I couldn’t rid myself of the ache in my chest. I felt very aware of my privilege in getting to this moment, how lucky I am to be able to afford private healthcare. 

Through the NHS, the waiting time for a first appointment with the specialist gender clinic in Glasgow is 5 years. In some areas, it can be as long as 10. I only had to wait for a year, but it felt like eons; time moves differently when your body is screaming for release. Being on a waiting list feels like being a plant in a greenhouse. Kept behind glass, constrained to a pot, my small moments of growth pruned and snipped and kept in line. My details were logged and added to their system, and then I was told to wait – the estimated time before I could start flowering stretching impossibly far. In the meantime, it was up to me to stop myself from wilting. To find small moments of joy – cuddling my cat, crunching my way through an entire tube of Pringles –  to carry with me the idea that in time, things will change. It’s not right that people are forced to choose between joining an interminably long list or cobbling together crowdfunder donations and draining savings. I’m tired of seeing friends create fundraisers, or run raffles, or take out loans, or sell their possessions. Trans healthcare is a need rather than a luxury. It’s not cosmetic, or optional, it’s as vital and urgent as any other kind of medical care. 

Read the rest of the story so far: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4