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.


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