Fatigue, At The Beginning And The End

I'm so tired now.  I've been tired for so long, I want to close a door and cry.  Mother used to do that sometimes.  But there's no door here for me to go behind and close.  And the tears won't come now, anyway, because I don't have the emotional energy, or even a space inside me, to allow anyone else to see them.  For crying in the presence of others is always an involuntary form of sharing, or at least diverting one's attentions.  Those activities require energies I just don't have right now.

Maybe it's the day, and my hope that it will be my last on this block , that's so drained me.  But taking hormones does that to you, too.

The first time you take them, you're expecting something to happen, even though the doctor or whoever prescribes them tells you nothing will, at least not for a while.  Two pills:  One, the anti-androgen, is white and has the texture but not the taste of an aspirin tablet.  The other--the estrogen--is small, with a hard shell in a shade of candy-coated cow piss, which is pretty much what it tastes like.  Not that I've ever tasted cow piss, candy-coated or otherwise.

After I took those pills every day for a couple of months, I couldn't notice any difference.  But Vivian did.  She called me that day, ostensibly because she wanted to return something I couldn't recall leaving at her place.  It'd been a few months since she pronounced me "too much of a woman" for her tastes and broke up our relationship.  She'd found a watch with a woven black leather band when she was cleaning, she said.  And indeed she gave it to me when we met for supper that night, in a restaurant a few blocks from where I was staying.  

But there had to be another reason for her wanting to see me; I could hear it in her voice when she called.  I couldn't imagine her wanting sex with me again.  So what, I wondered, did she want?

As I cut into the piece of chicken I ordered, I got my answer.  She called my name--my old one.  I looked up at her.  "Something's different about you," she intoned. 

"What?"

She reached across the table and dabbed my cheek, where she used to stroke with her fingertips.  "It feels different."

"How so?"

"It's...softer."

"Huh?"

"It really feels softer."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"All right," I said.  "I'll confess something:  I am taking hormones."  Her face grew longer.  "The doctor said my skin would get softer.  But not this quickly."

Then she asked me to stand up.  "Wow!  Your body's changing."

"How so?"

"None of your clothes fit you right."

"I think I've gained some weight."

"Maybe you have.  But it's in your rear.  And you're growing boobs!"

I couldn't notice those changes yet, I said.  And I felt like I needed more sleep.  "But," she cut me off, "you don't seem depressed.  Or angry.  You always were one or both, especially near the end of our relationship."

"To tell you the truth, I'm not.  I don't even feel sad very much.  Maybe..."

She cut me off again. "Maybe you accept things, or are resigned to them."

"You could say that."

She could. None of it surprised her.  Before that night, I hadn't told her I was taking hormones.  In fact, I hardly told anybody.  I don't know who could' or would've told her.  But I knew, then, that she'd asked me to supper so she could find out what I was like on hormones.  Why else would she want to see me again?

The old lady whose name I never knew is looking my way again. Who could' or  would've told her?

Make it tomorrow, please. I'm so tired.  All I want is to have my operation, then to get some rest.

New Growth?

I've gained some weight over the past few months.  Hopefully, as I ride my bike more and stick to some semblance of a diet, I'll lose it.


However, I found another reason why some of my tops are tighter than they had been.  I own only a couple of clingy tops; the rest are either tailored but not form-fitting, or relaxed.  At least, that is what they were when I bought them.


Even though some of those blouses, T-shirts and shells aren't tight around the tummy, they're tight around my chest.  I also notice that the oldest bras I have are tight on me.


My tape measure confirmed something I'd suspected when I saw myself in the mirror:  My breasts have grown--by about an inch and a half--since my surgery.  I'm going to have a measurement taken, just to be sure.  But it's actually visible when I'm dressing or undressing.  


That might be the reason why a couple of people asked me--without sarcasm--whether I'd lost some weight. If my breasts are bigger, I guess that would make my tummy look smaller--though not small!


If my breasts have indeed grown, I would guess that a reason might be that the estrogen I take now more effective on me.  Before the surgery, I had to take an anti-androgen in addition to estrogen.  If you've ever taken a medication for one condition while your body was dealing with another, you may have noticed that the medication wasn't as effective (at least in the ways you and your doctor wanted it to be) as it could have been had your body not been dealing with that second condition.  I think that something similar happened when I was taking estrogen while I was also taking an anti-androgen:  My body was working to suppress the testosterone I had been producing, and that probably made the estrogen (which is a weaker hormone than testosterone) less effective than it would have been otherwise.  But now my body is not producing testosterone; hence, I don't have to take anything to suppress it.  


I wonder whether other post-op women have experienced similar or parallel changes after their surgeries.  

The Cold--Already?

I couldn't believe how cold it was last night. I woke up to shut one window, then another. Finally, my place was hermetically sealed. Then I put on a pair of socks, a headband and an extra layer of clothes. It was easier, as I stumbled around with my eyes half-opened, to pull out my terry sweatsuit, socks and a headband than it would've been to unpack my heavier blankets.

I'd left my bedroom door open. So I should not have been surprised to find Charlie and Max curled up at each side of me when I woke up this morning: I think they were cold, too.

When I began to take estrogen, I was warned that I would feel the cold more than I did before. I used to be one of those guys who wore shorts if the temperaure was above freezing and no rain or snow was falling. Although I am still (or, at least have been) more resistant to the cold than most women, I still feel it (and temperature changes generally) more than I once did.

But I don't recall ever previously feeling as cold as I did last night, not even on camping trips in the dead of winter. I don't think I'm sick: I don't feel any aches, nausea or weakness, and after I was out of bed for a few minutes, I no longer felt cold. In fact, I was peeling off layers and, after I dilated and took my salt bath, I put on a lacy tank top and skirt and felt fine as I went for a walk and picked up a few groceries and a dinner of chicken and rice from those wonderful Palestinian guys who aren't merely bragging when they call themselves the "King of Falafel." If you're in Astoria, pay them a visit: I don't think you'll ever eat better street-cart food anywhere. In fact, what they make is better than most restaurant food.

It's late at night now, and I'm still not feeling cold. Maybe it has to do with the spices in that chicken and rice! But I wonder how I'll feel later tonight--or this winter. Could it be that the operation has further sensitized me to the cold?

I don't recall reading or hearing anything about that. Still, I wonder...