You may have heard, as A. A. Milne put it, that I have been "less than well" lately. I am not by nature the sort of person who loves to prattle on about physical ailments, my latest scars, or whatever. But I'd like to tell you about this one because it taught me something valuable that might be of use to you someday.
I had no idea that my kidneys were going to fail. My various doctors had given me no warning that all my years of lymphatic problems, all the attacks of cellulitis would take a toll on my system. I came back from the Fall `91 Paradise In The Poconos with a minor leg attack - scary, but not really serious. All I'd need would be a couple of days of rest, then my stamina would return and that would be that!
It didn't happen. Days passed, then weeks. My breathing became difficult, my strength non-existent. I couldn't work - hell, I couldn't walk to the bathroom without becoming desperately weary with a horrible, rheumy cough. My roommate and I suspected some kind of walking pneumonia, but a visit to the doctor revealed the truth.
My blood pressure had risen to around 200 over 110, my blood count was less than half of what it was supposed to be and my iron was virtually non-existent. The diagnosis: acute renal failure. I was dying slowly and I didn't even know it.
I checked in to our local hospital the next day filled with fears. I'd heard lots of stories about kidney ailments, none of them pretty. Renal failure is a walking death sentence, they said. You become the prisoner of a machine that drains your blood and cleans it out. At best, it'll buy you a few years more, and even then, you won't be able to do the things you used to do. Frightened? Who wouldn't be?
And there was another fear, chewing on me almost as fiercely: what would happen to Maggie? If I survived, I would be constantly in a world of doctors, nurses, and other health-care workers, disability benefits and Medicare. I'm still legally a male and I'd have to do business under that identity. How could I possibly keep my female-self alive under these circumstances?
It might occur to people that this was an awfully absurd thing to be worrying about with my life on the line. However, dear reader, I believe you understand what was running through my mind. After a lifetime of darting back and forth across the gender line, three years of discovering and developing a female identity that I could make permanent, eighteen months of intensive field testing, and a full year of the dream fulfilled, I couldn't conceive of all my happiness being stuffed back in the closet.
I was prepared almost immediately for hemodialysis by the hospital staff, a large and very rude catheter being inserted in a primary vein. Later, I would have a bypass tube surgically implanted in my right arm, which would provide ready access to my bloodstream. I felt like a geek with this stuff sticking out of my body, but it was all for the best.
My first surprise came with my first dialysis. Yes, it took somewhere over three hours to complete, and I was confined to a semi-reclining position for that time, but it really wasn't that bad. It turns out that less than a pint of blood is going through the machine at any one time. I was fully conscious and functional - I could even eat while the treatment was going on. No pain either. I could handle doing this.
The second surprise came when I asked about the survival rate for dialysis patients. There have been dramatic improvements in the technology over the last decade, and now it's possible for a patient to live comfortably on dialysis for thirty years or more. So, if I took care of myself, I would not only survive, but there is a good chance of living out my normal life span. Alright!
The third and best surprise was that not only did my breathing improve almost immediately, But I lost nearly ten pounds in edema [fluids] removed by the machine. Not only would I survive, not only could I live a long life, but I was going to lose some major weight.
I was still a pretty sick puppy, and it would take me several weeks to stabilize, but now I knew I was going to make it. (I developed a local infection that was unnerving for a couple of days, but it passed.) With questions of my survival settled, I could answer some life questions. I set a date for returning to my job, a timetable necessary for my disability coverage, but equally valuable as a personal goal. The I went about dealing with the Maggie problem.
I have always believed in the principle of "hiding in plain sight." The best place to conceal something is a place sufficiently obvious that no one would seriously believe it was hidden there. Similarly, I believe that the secret of my success as a full-time female has come from the fact that I've never been afraid to let someone know who and what I am, if it's necessary for them to know at all. It's bolstered my confidence and eliminated the fear of being read.
I realized that my fear of losing my female-self was nothing more than worrying whether the people I'd be dealing with would accept me. Since I was determined to hold onto the gains I'd made in life, and had been granted a second chance to do so, I wasn't going to give myself up just to keep a couple of doctors from feeling uncomfortable. It was time to reassert myself, pull off the shroud that I'd gathered around me in my fear, and reappear in my magic costume... Supertran!
The first thing I did was to establish my full identity on all of the myriad documents one has to sign while hospitalized, just the way in which my bank account is titled with my male name and "a/k/a Maggie Morgan." If this is who I am, I reasoned, then I must proclaim myself and be consistent. I informed all my doctors about my transgendered status, plainly and without apology. I also left my favorite mail-order catalogs and publications (guess whose?) in conspicuous view by my bed.
I have repeatedly been amazed by the ease with which I've been accepted as a tran by all sorts of people, but never more than in my hospital stay. Not only did nobody carp or make a negative value judgement - and this is a Roman Catholic hospital, mind you - but the doctors were very respectful. The nurses began referring to me as Maggie and at least one aide came in on her break to check out the catalogs. A couple of the nurses even borrowed my copies of LadyLike and ITS.
On the day that I finally got out of the hospital, I decided to leave in triumph. I had my roommate bring my foundation, breast pads and makeup kit. I combed my hair out, put on a proper face for the first time in weeks, and arranged myself in clothes that had suddenly become much too big as a result of losing 25 pounds via dialysis. I wouldn't say that I left to cheers and huzzahs, but there were smiles all around me as I went out the door.
My illness has changed my life in a number of ways. I did go back to work on schedule, and except for a mechanical problem that sent me back to the hospital for a few days, I've been getting along very well. I do have to go to an outpatient center for dialysis treatments three times a week. I'm on a restricted diet that is occasionally a nuisance, but has caused me to hone my cooking skills and has helped me to take off an additional fifteen pounds or so. Best of all, I'm still me and I'm very happy about that.
The moral of this story is a very simple one. Don't give up on yourself! I don't care what kind of situation you find yourself in, be it catastrophic illness or whatever. If you have a dream, be it living full-time, or anything else, hang onto it for all it's worth. In the dialysis center, I'm frequently surrounded by people who have been consumed by their illness. They sit in their chairs and suffer, playing out the string of their lives. It doesn't have to be so and I like to think that when I come in lively, lovely and laughing, I'm offering proof… living proof.
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