Squirrel Cage (31 page)

I kissed and hugged my parents, climbed in my little black Chevy Spectrum and headed to California.

There are many books available chronicling the lives of a transsexual.
I can think of a dozen titles with which I am familiar.
If we exclude the chapter on dressing up as a girl during youth, this is the point where they typically start.

I had to work through so many problems and issues only to reach the beginning. Yet, what would come would be fairly mundane compared to the story we have explored so far. I would have financial problems.
I would face blatant discrimination.
But I had clear direction. I could list goals and objectives on a piece of paper. These could be written down and analyzed intellectually.

I still had many relationships in my family to mend. I had relationships with my children to develop as far as I might.
Although it would be a constant struggle, I knew that I could move on. Squirrel and I would list our goals and objectives and do them.

This is how I would analyze a situation. If it didn’t require the complex skills of interpersonal relationship, I could do it.

I took accounting of the finances I had.
I ran the numbers. And then I made my plans.

I drove all night to California.
This was when I learned what peace and tranquility inhabited the western deserts at night.
The skies are inky black and the starlight actually creates its own shadows on the barren earthscape.
I thought that I would tire in the early hours of the morning, but
the night
invigorated me
. Squirrel could run free in the desert at night and she enjoyed being let loose. I would return to see my family as often as I could. Most times, it would be only yearly. Sometimes, I could afford the time and money to return twice.
I would always try to make the drive at night so that I could use the peace and solitude of the road to let my mind and my spirit fly free.

I arrived in the LA area fairly early in the morning.
I quickly found Trish’s place. I had been there once before but I still had to refer to the directions once or twice.

Trish was going through transition herself.
She worked for an aerospace company where they seemed to be accepting her very well with her
transition
. Her parents were good Catholic members. They were very active in the church. Her brother was a priest. They fully supported her. I thought it amazing and I was extremely happy for her in that regard. I had to work through problems with my family. Trish would have serious problems with her finances. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Everyone has their own set of problems to deal with.

Trish had a fairly new condo. It was a small place with two bedrooms upstairs. The front door seemed to be in back. The main entry was logically through the garage door. A compact kitchen on the first floor joined a smallish “great room” on the main floor.

The place was dirty. I felt
compelled to take a few days and clean up. I didn’t hold it against Trish that she lived on the slobbish side. I have a bit of that in me myself.
When you follow the drive of the
Squirrel
, you will spend days doing some task or working on a project.
Housework
will always suffer. Trish was fighting her own demons, following her own
Squirrel
. In addition, Trish was one of the most considerate and kind women I
have
ever met. Every one was welcome at her place. There was always room, even though there were only two bedrooms. When I arrived, both rooms were
occupied
. Trish took the master suite and some other person had been renting the other.

I had the couch at night. It was comfortable.

“Terry will be moving out in a
few
days and you can take
her room Cindi” Trish told me.

We made arrangements for me to rent her second bedroom. I cleaned up the kitchen some and the immediate area around the couch. I would do a proper job when Terry moved out. Planted right in the middle of the small great room was Trish’s desk with computer.
I thought that it was a complete mess at the time. In all honesty, I look at my desk now and it isn’t all that dissimilar.
The keyboard was planted in the only open space surrounded by a forest of papers, letters, and receipts. These forests have a tendency to grow and migrate.
Their canopy can only reach a certain height. Their roots are far to shallow to stand with any stability. The stacks usually require more maintenance than it would be to file them.

I retrieved enough clothing from my car that I would need for a few days and stored it in a box next to the couch.

I found some quiet time and pulled out my paper pad to go through my to do list. I had prepared it several days ago when I was working in Salt Lake, before my lawyer had called.
Here were the items listed:

1)
Find a job

2)
Support my children

3)
Grow my hair.

I now knew exactly where I was going. The end goal was in sight. The objectives, the steps that I would take, were still not entirely clear.
Sometimes they are not. I pretend to write the goal on a post it note on my forehead where I
pretend to
see it every minute of every day.
When I figure out a step to work towards the goal I write it down.

I had money that would get me by for a few months. I somehow knew that by mid January, I would have a job of some kind. My financial obligations could be met for a while beyond that. Between now and mid January, while looking for work, I would have down time.
I knew this time should be used while I would not be working.

This would be a time to take care of some of my transition.
I
decided to get breast implants
.
I could probably pay for it and still have enough time to get working. To be safe, I use
d
a credit card to pay for the surgery and make payments until I did get a job. I would also focus strongly on electrolysis.
While I had
already
been through some
100
hours of
torture
, I knew that there was considerable work to be done. Getting rid of facial hair was the single most important thing I would do to be able to pass effectively. I attend
ed
to this task weekly for the next year and a half.

I called around and found a doctor with an Italian name who would do my implants.
I visited him that very afternoon.

He was
very proud of his
Italian
heritage and had a delightful
accent.
He was careful to read the recommendations of my therapist in Salt Lake. I showed him my letter and prescription from my medical doctor for hormone replacement therapy (HRT).

He
asked
me about where I was in the process.

“I’m essentially just starting” I told him.
I briefly explained a little of my history in Utah.

“Please”, he started “I can tell you have a strong will and know where you are going. Now, let me examine you,” he went on.
I removed my blouse. “I can see some development of the areolas from the Premarin,” he noticed.
“Feminization is clearly noted,” he said as he wrote in my freshly prepared file.
“I must tell you Cindi that I am Italian,” he
said
.

“I couldn’t tell
with that Texan accent
,” I said as I grinned at him.

“Cindi, Italian men know breasts. Yes, if there is anything we know well
,
it is breasts,” he said as he winked.
It was his manner to make me feel more comfortable. He was definitely a likeable doctor.
I took no offense at his comment at the time. I was just grateful that he was willing to work with me.

“Let me show you some samples,” he said as he pulled out a few implants.
“We can go with saline or silicon,” he said as he explained the differences between the two.
We both agreed that the saline filled version would be the most practical.
“Now what size do you want Cindi?” he asked.

“I’ve been wearing size B and I like that very much,” I replied.
“But Cindi, you have an opportunity here to be much larger,” he went on.

“Doctor, I learned a long time ago that bigger is not better.
I want to live life by blending in, not by sticking out. And I mean that most literally,” I explained.
I insisted. He smiled at me.

“Cindi, I can say honestly that I have never met anyone quite like you. I will be honored to help you.”

Three days later the nurses rolled me out in a wheel chair. One of Trish’s friends had volunteered to take me to the office, wait, and bring me home.
I compared this event to one similar in my distant past. Here was a man I had only met but was willing to donate his time to help a friend of a friend.
When I had my surgery in South America and discharged, I could not get anyone from the mission home to come and get me.
I had to take a cab and lay down in the back seat. The young gent who accompanied me this afternoon was kind and gentle as he helped me into his pickup truck. I was still coming out of the anesthetic induced sleep. He was very gracious when I asked him to stop and pick up tacos at the Jack in the Box on the way home.
They were two for a dollar.
I bought him a pair for his trouble.
We went back to Trish’s place and ate our tacos.

I laid
on the couch for the next three days.
I did manage to get out a few resumes.
I was glad that I had not waited to do this. My skin was tight and it was very uncomfortable.
I had a tube sticking out in each armpit to drain.
On the fourth day, I returned to the doctor’s office.
My Italian doctor was very happy with his work.

“Americans do not know breasts.
Italians, yes Italians, they know how a breast should look,” he explained.
I smiled and he smiled back.
He deftly removed the drains from each side.
“These are doing very nicely Cindi, what do you think?”
I stared at myself in the mirror.
My skin was bruised and very tight but the shape was very nice.

“I am very pleased” I answered.

“You will grow some with the hormone therapy and as your skin stretches Cindi.
You will be a size B as you wanted,” he said. We set up a follow up appointment just prior to the Christmas holiday.

On the way home, I had to take a walk through the mall.
I was wearing loafers, corduroy jeans, and a tank top.
I kept looking at myself in every window.
I purchased nothing. I couldn’t try
on anything,
I was so sore.
The wonderful feelings I felt were not sensual. They were fulfilling. I truly felt happy.
No one at home would know of this. I could not share meaningful events with my family.
I was alone in my joy.
I reflected
not
upon sadness but dwelt on the happiness in my heart, for I had taken a big step towards my ultimate goal for change.

*****

Thanksgiving was coming up. Trish would be gone for the holiday. I would be alone. I had attended a Sunday service at the local MCC.
They were very nice to me there and invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner.
I would not be alone after all.

My mother had already sent me a couple of letters. Every single one expressed her love for me and her worries and concern about my happiness. She was having a terrible time coming to terms with
the new me,
still. But she never gave up her love for me. Each letter was welcome and I read every one 3 or 4 times immediately upon opening it. I continued to receive correspondence from other family members. It was painful to say the least.
Charlene would continue to mourn her loss as she faced the financial realities of going back to work. I truly did feel sorry for her.
I had royally screwed up her life.
She related stories of my children that were heartbreaking. They still stick in my mind.
These are things that will always be hard to forget.

Trish was always there to cheer me up. She always had a shoulder to cry on. Her compassion and love embraced all in her vision. I felt sorry for her as
I could see the poor soles that
streamed in and out of her house only to take advantage of her goodness.
Matty used to call the place “Trish’s Home for Wayward Girls.”
It was pretty funny but also very true. Throughout our friendship, I would see her give so much to so many people. Some would be grateful and some would not. I will always value her friendship. Trish became a lifelong friend.