What I wanted – more than my psychiatrist’s hormone graph – was for a doctor to put his hands in me. I spoke with my psychiatrist over the phone, and she was reassuring, not least because she offered a guarantee, but I wanted to see a doctor face-to-face.
I’m not sure what outward signs I was picturing – wounds or cysts, granularities, occult changes to inner surfaces. There would be no way to tell if testosterone had somehow destroyed your menses, even if that were a consequence of exogenous testosterone (it isn’t). I thought a physical exam would ground me in health. It was a way of becoming a woman again, an immediate stopgap while I waited for my period to clock me on its own. Via my gynecologist and his instruments, I knew I had an inside.