By Lena Ingram

Special to Desert Outlook

The shrill sound of a curtain on metal rings echoes in my left ear as a voice calls out to me in my Percocet haze, “Good morning, my dear, are you ready for me?”  As I turn to my right, I see a golden sunrise with streaks of pink and red dancing across my droopy eyes.  My phone reads 6:22 a.m. I am not nervous, just a bit curious with a hint of joy as I reply, “Yes, Eunice, thank you.” 

I had imagined what this moment might feel like a hundred times, with different versions of tears and hysterics, but that is not what happens.  As the bandages come off slowly, Nurse Eunice looks at me and smiles, “Would you like to see?”  I had only dreamt of what miracle could have been performed by my surgeon Dr. Marci Bowers.  I pick up my new floral antique mirror that a friend had given me, as if to christen it, and angle it downward between my legs. “ She is beautiful,” I say in a fairly calm and tranquil voice. 

No, this is not the reaction that was promised.  Where is the magnificent, thunderous joy of exclamation that comes with such a brand new present?  How could it feel as if nothing else ever existed there before it?  My mind has already adapted to the correct order of things. 

A rebirth

With little fanfare, Nurse Eunice redresses my beautiful albeit swollen flower and as she walks over to my side, I ask her for a hug as a celebratory memento of sorts.  As she wraps her arms around me, I feel myself unravel and suddenly the release of my entire gender voyage rushes over me like an almost violent lightning bolt.  I come undone.  A lifetime of hysterical tears gush from my eyes as I try to mumble an apology to poor Nurse Eunice, who holds me with the compassion of a new mother.  Tears of pain, inexplicable joy, hard work, rebirth, determination, love and freedom are unleashed and welcome a brand new baby girl into the world; I am her and she is me.  Although there will be weeks of healing and a year of therapy ahead of me, I have reached the pinnacle point of my transition and truly feel like my mother’s daughter. 

As I wipe my eyes with an endless stream of tissues, the nurse leaves the room smiling as she closes the door quietly behind her.  I cannot shake this feeling of brand newness.  I even look at the christened mirror and utter to myself, “I do look different.”  There are some post-surgery, morphine-induced tears with my mama Nancy Collins, my niece Shivani Ingram and dear friend Stuart Locklear, who stand next to me smiling and holding my hand as I babble, but this moment is different.  Actually seeing my new body, knowing it is how I was always meant to be, changes something inside of me.  There is an inexplicable complete embrace of and confidence in who I have become.  I feel a permanent gratitude to all those who helped me along the way.  I am the happiest girl in the world and it is the best day of my life to date.  I cannot help but to reflect on my entire psychological, emotional and physical gender voyage and how it brings me to this moment. 

The path

I knew to be three minutes early to that preschool lineup after recess, so I could be the first one to grab the apron at playtime and be the “Mommy.”  The feeling of putting that pink frilly thing over my neck, letting the ruffles dance off of my underdeveloped little hips and naturally delegating a boy to please tie the back for me, felt right.  The powerful feeling of adorning myself with the simplest example of femininity felt normal to me, even at that young age.  I had my parents as female and male role models, but it was more natural to emulate my mother rather than my father.  I truly understand the desire that transgender children have when they are brave enough to declare to their parents who they are.  I was not that brave, especially growing up in a household with two cisgender brothers whose dreams were to be a Marine and a professional athlete. 

I remember being nervous thinking about what it was going to be like to be pregnant, to carry a child in my womb, until I was corrected by my brother after sharing my fear: “Boys don’t have babies, stupid.” 

There is no memory of discovering my gender, as I have always been female.  But I can pinpoint the moment when I knew that others saw me as physically male with “abnormal” feelings.  I needed to stop playing with dolls, I needed to sit with my legs open (which felt vulgar to me), I needed to be more like my brothers, I needed to stop crying so much, I needed to be tougher, I needed to stop “acting” like a girl (even though I was just being).  Baby and Girl were a couple of my names for quite a while until I could find a way to combat the hideous bigotry, but that would not be for years to come. 

It was made very clear to me that I was to conform my mind to my body, pretend to be a boy, if I wanted to be accepted and not cruelly mocked.  I had to find a way to cope, as children often do to survive, so I did.  I would express myself through any creative means necessary until my happiness trumped the fear of being rejected.  I knew I would have to find my voice if I was to become the woman I was meant to be, the woman of my dreams.  With my gender confirmation surgery complete, I am finally living the dream.