". . . So, Thank goodness . . ." Part 3, The Hospital Stay

We left our heroine at the emergency admitting desk at Cooley Dickinson Hospital and let me say, mention the word stroke and people just jump into action. First stop was Triage, and lucky for me the nurse had studied with my Endocrinologist so she was already quite familiar with the trans/hormone/risk factor. I'd made the right decision in calling my son to be with me as I realized that he was finishing most of my sentences for me. It was apparent however, that the event was waning and my full vision was returning and my face was no longer numb. The next step was the emergency room proper, where I was put in a bed and hooked up to the vitals machine, relieved of several tubes of blood, (I still can't watch that part) and after awhile got to tell my story to the ER doctor. This time I was able to do all the talking myself at least. Then it was the waiting which is to be expected since, by my understanding, things could get better or worse depending on whether this was a prelude of something imminent or just a glimpse of fun times to come.
Next was the "let's have a look" stage and I was off to x-rays and a cat scan of my brain from which they found nothing abnormal. (Yes, I'm as surprised as you) It was decided that I should spend the night at least and have some ultrasound tests on my heart and major arteries to check for blockages. I got to tell my story to more doctors and after it was mentioned that yes, I am clinically depressed and yes, I do drink, I was set up with a meeting with the staff therapist as well.
In all this story-telling I was acutely aware of the lack of knowledge of transsexuals by everyone here except the original triage nurse so I did not pass up the chance to do some educating. Let me back up first and praise the staff in its entirety for their respectful and totally accepting treatment of a trans-person. In fact, I found the care there to be exceptional. The main point that I wanted to make in this educational window of opportunity was the unavailability of the recommended (by medical professionals including the AMA) corrective surgery (Gender Reassignment Surgery) for those of low income with my medical condition which is having a female brain in a physically male body. Call it Transsexualism, Harry Benjamin Syndrome, Gender Incongruity, whatever you like, it is now proven to be a biological condition that happens to males and females alike and the accepted surgical treatment is standard practice in countries that have medical systems that are more up to date than the biased, for-profit system we have here in the US. What's interesting is that no one disagreed with me which tells me that if the Doctors ran our medical system instead of profiteers it would be a lot more humane.
After a day and a half with the knowledge that I had long ago adopted the recommended habits for a person living with my medical risks, other than quit drinking altogether, I was allowed to resume my sordid life. It was suggested that I stop taking or at least lower the levels of my hormone regiment to which I said I'd rather shoot myself, so that was dropped as an option.

I suppose Part 4 will be . . . "Where do we go from here?"

". . .So, Thank goodness . . . ." Part 2; My First TIA

I really hate having to prove a point this way but . . . only one month after I posted about the hazards of being a pre-op transsexual on hormone therapy long term, I experienced my first TIA, (Transient Ischemic Attack) commonly known as a mini-stroke. It's one of those moments in life where you know without a doubt that "This Is Not A Drill"! While at the computer reading the morning newsgroups a small, out-of-focus circle appeared in my left eye and within minutes began to grow into a large enough circle to block out my entire vision. (think of looking through a portal into an alternate universe that operates on a different frequency) Along with this the left side of my face, from scalp to chin, went numb. Instincts kicked in with a blaring "You are having a stroke!" (I had been through the sequence of this with my Dad years ago who had several mini-strokes and later died of a massive one) There was also the realization that although I knew I had to act, I was no longer in the driver's seat. It wasn't panic but a sense that I had to re-route each thought through different channels to initiate motor functions. (I'm sure my past experiences with LSD came in handy here) Simple directives - put on clothes, call for help, any order . . . this took more than 30 minutes and my vision was reduced to the extreme corners of my eyes. I couldn't see the cell phone in my hand but I did know where the buttons where to auto-dial my son for a ride to the hospital. Having been on the other side of this scenario I can't say whether it's easier being the parent in crisis or the child, just an affirmation of the cycles of life.
During this time-warp I did have the internal conversation that went . . . "You do know that you could be dying here, right?" . . . "Yes, I do." . . . "So how do you feel about that?" . . . "It's ok, I'm not afraid." . .. "What about all the things you never finished?" . . . "Fuck 'em." . . .
Anyone reading this by now has already asked, "Why didn't you call an ambulance?" My answer, and I did think about this at the time and I suppose you'd have to know me to appreciate it, was . . . "That would be too dramatic." A more rational motive was probably that I knew I was losing brain function and I would need someone I trust to speak for me. By the time we got to the hospital the event had peaked and my vision was slowly returning but I was still having trouble being coherent.

Stay tuned for the next blog; "The Hospital Stay - or, How Many Times Do I Have To Tell This Story?"