Talking for Granted

I'm in the big smoke again. Two meetings on consecutive days meant that a hotel room was booked for me so here I am alone with my laptop and telly for company, not wanting to mess up the huge pristine bed that begs for 2 lovers to share, but is stuck with a restless singleton. So what do I do with my night in the big city. Take in a show, sample the night life? No I am,  therefore I blog.

7 am this crisp bright morning, stood on the platform at Stoke, I had a moment of stark realisation. A moment of clarity and perspective. A slap round the face.
I was standing on the a train platform dressed in a knee length brown skirt, black boots and a long dogtooth winter coat (yes I had other stuff, but didn't want to ruin the flow (durrrr these endless parenthesis do that anyway). I was standing dressed as,, no! not just dressed, I actually am a woman, in full morning public glare, yet no one gave me a moments notice. I was accepted by my fellow travellers as just another commuting woman, even a bit dull and workaday. I was being the me I always wanted, but I was hardly noticing. My inner voice mouthed, "OMG (Oh My God), look at me. I have done it. I am doing it. I have made it and its brilliant!!!"

I have spent the largest chunk of my 40 years yearning to live like this, without ever thinking it could realistically happen. All those years of deception, obfuscation, lies and subterfuge, of burying my persona so not to let the anyone get too close to my secret. Years of constant compromise. Wasted years that can never be recovered. So finally I am living the dream. I, me, myself, the Geoff of old and Jenny of now, a 1 in 10 000 chance. Trans gendered, transwoman, t-girl, transsexual, tranny

or whatever, but most of all... WOMAN. I have crossed the great divide. I have looked at life from both sides now. I have crossed the floor of the gender partisan, social parliament. And what do I do with this gift. I take it totally for granted, and moan and whinge at every perceived slight or mis-spoken  pronoun. Instead of seizing this opportunity of a wonderful second half life, I seem to spend so many wasted moments wallowing in self pity and regret for years lost.

One of catalysts for this reappraisal is that I have just re made contact with a couple of wonderful Internet friends in Joanne and Samantha. 2 girls, 6 years ago, who were there for me in those darkest early hours, sitting huddled over my PC, trying to make sense of things. Coping with a marriage crumbling around my ears, I hoped that someone from this newly discovered Trans community would talk to me, and it was Sam and then Jo. We would talk to the first crackling of dawn, tired beyond belief but not wanting to let go of our escape from male humdrum. Sam and Jo have much different lives than me, complete with their own responsibilities and accompanying stresses. Jo in particular is in a happy marriage blessed with 2 young children. Although I wish I had children, it is her who envies me more. I know that she longs to lead a full and fulfilling female life, and I sometimes think that when she talks to me it just reinforces her sadness. So I owe it to Jo and Sam to make the absolute most of my given opportunity. The other catalyst is that I had a good session talking things over with Vix the other night and she gave me a good dose of tough love realism. Friends are definitely worth their weight, and the friends you have as a woman are double that.

Sooooo what am I going to do about it. I guess all I can do is try harder to see the positives and ignore petty irritants. Easy to say, but difficult to keep up especially with my personality being a cross between Victor Meldrew, Marvin the Paranoid Android and err... Eyeore. That coupled with this blogging lark which is tailor made for moaning at the world on a daily basis. Well I am going to try anyway, even if the great philosopher Homer (Simpson that is, not the Greek bloke) said "Trying is the first step to failure".

The other thing I tend to moan about at times is my job. Well again I really don't appreciate how lucky I am. As a paid Trade Unionist, I have a job which is all about helping people. I always take the moral high ground, in that I'm speaking up for those worker's who may be suffering for low pay or bullying or any manner of workplace ills. Its a privilege and luxury to be paid to do this, and yet again there is still a tendency to get complacent and blasé. I don't have to try and flog some crappy double glazing or peddle some unnecessarily complicated financial "product". I don't have to think about the bottom line or the overheads. I don't have to break my back to earn a crust or sign the P45 that breaks a heart. I need to take the responsibilities of my role seriously, while never losing sight of the privilege I've been given by those who elected me.

A good example of this privilege is this very swish hotel I'm sitting in right now. I could never afford to stay here and I definitely can't afford to eat here. I took the wise and prudent measure to stock up for an evening munch at the M&S on Euston station. I got a couple of tasty looking ham and egg salads. The only problem was that I didn't get any plastic cutlery. So, how to eat my salad? I considered a raiding party to the restaurant to swipe a knife and fork. I perused the room service menu for the cheapest dish that would come with utensils. I the end I have decided to have a go with a pair of ice tongs that could double as knife and fork. I am not sure how this will pan out. The mixture of my clumsiness, the salad dressing and inadequate tool could result in a hideous mess. I may have to lay out a few towels!

The best thing about this room is the view I have of the British Library on Euston Road. Anyway messy salad here I come, and the second episode of Survivors beckons.  

A phone call

Bbbbbrrrring, BBbbbbrrrrring, click

Call Centre Lady : "Good afternoon, Portman Travel, can I help you? "

Me : "Could I book a train ticket"

Call Centre Lady : "Where to Sir"

Me: "err, It's madam, not Sir"

Call Centre Lady : "Sorry, Sir"

.... a few minutes later .....

CCL : "What, is the name of the person travelling?"

Me: "It's for me, my name's Jenny Harvey"

CCL: "Sorry, was that Jerry?"

Me : "No, my name is Jenny, J.E.N.N.Y"

CCL : "Jenny Harvey, Thank you Sir"

Sometimes,  you just have to bang your head on the desk and concede defeat.

LGBT over and Out

Well conference over, and I'm back safe but unsound.

I really enjoyed my first LGBT conference despite my unfounded reservations about not fitting in. I should have learnt by now that not fitting in is my destiny so I'd better get on with it.

The second day was into the meat of the conference sandwich, with motions to debate and discussion groups to contribute to. I decided to speak on Motion 3 : Gender Reassignment and workplace stress, which just like the movie Snakes on a Plane is self pretty self explanatory.

Lucy moved the motion with a moving and thought provoking speech. My contribution was hastily scribbled in my notebook while waiting for the motion to come up. As I stood at the podium waiting for the microphones to rise a looked over and saw my face in close up on the  huge projection screen. Right then all I could think was "That lipstick really doesn't suit me". When I looked back at my notebook all my scribblings now appeared to now be in some long dead language almost totally unlike English. Luckily as I started to speak sort sort of translation emerged.

The text of my contribution went as so

"Morning Conference, Jenny Harvey, North Staffs Community Health branch.

It's my first time with you all and I have to say I'm loving it <applause, they always do this if you are a first time speaker>. Don't clap the only reason I haven't attended before is down to my laziness. The hormone therapy is great stuff but it doesn't fix everything

The motion mentions the Good Practice Guide produced by the Scottish region. It is important to distribute this as widely as possible.

Just as our employers struggle to understand the needs of Transgendered employees, our Union at times struggles to fully understand Transgendered members needs.

It is in my Union that I love, that even 4 years since I last used that worn out old gender I still got referred to as him at Headquarters and when I stood for a woman's seat on a national committee a senior member of staff told me "Its ok, I've checked it out". I'm not sure other women members had to be checked out.

These are minor niggles compared to what Transitioning employees can have to put up with in the workplace. Coupled to that is the huge amount of stress that an individual has to endure just to get though this period.

Everyone's job in an often under resourced public sector has a degree of stress. when you first transition this stress can go off any scale. To have to concentrate on every aspect of your being. To concentrate on your appearance,,, your poise,,, your walk,,, your talk, for every minute, every second of your working day is utterly exhausting.

This stress is only prolonged by delays in getting treatment. Even if you can convince your GP, your Psychiatrist, in my case he informed me he was a fundamental Christian so I guess he thought me a sinner, your Primary Care Trust and finally the Gender Identity Clinic that treatment is appropriate, you have a lengthy wait for an appointment and an expensive and long trek to the opposite end of the country, for a 25 min appointment.

This motion will not end workplace stress, but it will help build on progress to date and I hope continue the fight to push our NHS to give us the timely and respectful treatment we need.

Please support the motion."

Hardly, "I hav e a dream" but it went down ok. Later in the afternoon I attended a discussion group on Transphobia in schools. The government has refused to legislate against discrimination towards transgendered children in education stating that it was so rare and that  children under 16 were excluded from gender reassignment surgery. This totally misses the point. As transgendered people we were all children once (I'm still pretty childish at times) and struggled with our gender identity during school years. I like many buried these feelings. I was bullied for many reasons; my wonky eye (I was called Clarence after the lion), my weight, even my green jeans! I figured wearing a skirt and declaring myself to be a girl may not help the situation and would possible hasten an early demise so I kept Shtumn. Anyway the point is that the hostile environment in schools to anyone of difference is a complete barrier to anyone coming out. It would have made such a difference to my life if support and information had been available I may not have spent so many years thinking I was just a bit mad. It was interesting to note that the group was almost totally made up of male social workers and youth workers.

That night there was a social do with a band who were a cross of Roxy Music, Human League, Queen and Russel Brand. It was a good night and noticeably the only ones who seemed to make an effort over our appearance were our small band of Trans members. Hey, what's point to tereotypes if we don't make an effort to live up to them.

Sunday was poetic justice day. I decided to miss the last hour of conference to make an earlier train home. Being a Sunday in Britain the railway companies decide to give timetables the day off to attend to everlasting track repairs. Instead of a simple 2 hour no change journey we had to travel to Gloucester to  catch a bus to Birmingham to wait an hour for a train to Stoke that was so overcrowded we had to stand shoulder to shoulder between carriages. The train announcer with no hint of irony announced "sit back in comfort for a pleasant journey. The whole shebang took over 4 1/2 hours. Serves me for skipping that last hour.

After managing to pack away my by now trashed room, I took a few more snaps of the bit of Bristol around our hotel. Wish I'd had more time to explore.

Rudolph The Well Guarded Reindeer

Unison LGBT day 2 10.30 am. Lobby of the Marriott Hotel.
Last night was good fun. I met up with Lucy from Southend who I have been cyber chatting to for a year. We had a real good natter and realised we are both Geeky T's. So most of the night was spent swapping transition tales mixed with a sprinkling of telly tattle.

This morning has been made up of a disappointing breakfast (continental, what's that all about.) and a nice mile long (and it did seem a long mile) stroll along Harbourside to this huge hotel where the conference is based. I must admit even on a dull morning, Bristol is a really pleasant city though surprisingly quiet.
The conference proper don't Starrt for a goodly few 'ourrrs yet (look I'm picking up the lingo already (actually that sounded more piratey than west country) so I'm toying with a trip to the shops. I've just noticed someone coming out of the lift that looked just like a guy Chris Bisson once of Coronation Street, but who knows I'm not going to ask him. ...... Laters...

12.45 coffee bar, Marriott Hotel
Got back from my shopping jaunt. It turned out to be more of an adventure than I expected. My main targets in descending order were , Evans natch, Hmv or similar, Claires and Waterstones. (for anyone overseas these may just be random words!) anyway a right turn found me in Cabots Circus shopping mall. This was a brand new looking, flashy, glassy arcade. Not seeing any of my targets, my eyes were drawn too the Christmas decorations (and for once both eyes were drawn in the same direction!) there were some huge wire Reindeers dotted with lights. Liking big things, I drew my camera and snapped away. Just as I was holstering my camera back in my bag, out of somewhere a large black overcoated man appeared. (large and black refer to the overcoat and not the man) with a telltale curly wire trailing from an earpiece and disappearing into his overcoat. "Do you work for House of Fraser" he asked. "Errm no I don't think so'', I replied unhelpfully. "You need permission to take photographs''. ''Do I ??'', as I pulled out my camera and brought up the pictures I had taken. "Look, I just wanted a pic of your stags''. Unimpressed, he said "you can't take photographs here'', and indicated away from the arcade. ''Oh sorry, perhaps a sign would be helpful and maybe some duller Christmas decorations'', and with that Cabots Circus, the security man and me parted ways. I did wonder what they were so worried about. My best guesses in no order are that I may have been an  international terrorist, a rival flashy glassy arcade  developer, or that everyone in Bristol is terminally camera shy.

Anyway I now found myself heading leftwards and lo I stumbled upon another oversized decoration in the form of a huge pyramid of baubles. So I was torn, I should really just walk away but the devil made this my quest. So I scoured the scene for possible securitas. There was one possible candidate the far side of a square, so unsuccessfully secreting myself behind a lamppost I waited for him to turn away and snapped my prey and quickly stowed away the incriminating camera.

  
The conference starts with a stutter rather than a bang. I'm used to the motion fests of the national conferences, but this is much more civilised with the first day taken up with meetings and caucuses, interspersed with networking and mingling. The meat and heat of debate starts tomorrow. I killed a few minutes bantering with some of the service provider stands selling insurance, breakdown cover, financial advice and credit cards. I asked how many of them had merged or been nationalised since the credit crumpet had landed, but from their expressions I guess that was really only funny in my head. Anyway, I have 3 meetings ahead of me, the Trans Caucus, West Midlands regional meeting and the Healthcare group meeting, so I was kept out of any further shopping expeditions

10pm All done and dusted and back in my Hotel cabin

The meetings went well. In the Trans caucus I was banging on about still getting called by my old pronoun. I even related the story of Gammo my cat to illustrate how hard it is to change the way peoples brains work. When I had Gammo off Vicky she told me it was a boy cat, so it naturally became he. On closer inspection, when one morning I awoke and found him sitting on my face, I noticed that he was in fact a she. The thing is, even with my trans super powers I struggle to call her she. If I can't get the bloody cat's gender right how can I moan when people get mine wrong. I guess the problem its it hurts me, much more than Gammo. I was less annoying at the other meetings and mainly kept quiet. The conference day was finished with a reception at the civic centre with speeches by the mayor, the council leader and minister for state Dawn Primarolo who brought the house down.

Sitting tapping away I have realised that I haven't eaten since my disappointing breakfast. I've taken my slap off so I'm not going to venture out. I will just have to stick it out till morning as the only things I can find to eat are 2 sachets of hot chocolate powder.

In S**t Shape for Bristol Fashion

My LGBT Conference diary

I've arrived via a soggy Stoke Station in Bristol ahead of Unison's LGBT conference starting tomorrow. My hotel is very new, and titled the "Ibis Waterside", although it is more like "Ibis  Multi Storey Carparkside". Curiously there is a giant boule just outside the hotel, although as there are no other boules around it must have been a very poor throw.All said the hotel is very nice but just a touch nouveaux for a Northern lass like myself.

My hotel betwee 2 cranes (not picured, any water!)

My room is like a cabin on the USS Enterprise NCC-10701-D (certainly not the NCC-1071-A of the woeful The Final Frontier! *geek alert*). It is a triangular shape with a a curved podule at one apex containing the shower room. Disappointingly the curved door to said room failed to open automatically with a shhhhhhhtt.

I've not really explored outside much mainly due to the miserable drenched and dank weather. I have made a quick sortie to the Marx & Sparks for some supplies(wouldn't a Marxist and Spencer shop be fab. The clothes may be drab but I'm sure the prices would be resanable). I am going to have a diet battle for the next few days, so I stocked up on salad and pineapple. I also bought some tights. Since a drab Summer turned to a cold Autumn, I have been on a Holy Grail quest for a well fitting pair of tights. I seem to be a shape that is almost completely incompatible with hosiery of any kind. Either they are too tight on the top of my thunderthighs that they tear, too short to the gusset to sit on my waist or just too short in the legs ending with a gusset around my mid thigh and leaving me with an ungainly waddle. So I am test driving a pair of Barely Black M&S (S&M tights are another matter altogether) firm support tights.

I hope later on to meet up with an internet pal Lucy, who is on down for the conference (or is it up, I'm never quite sure) so I going to see if I can cobble together a decent outfit from the unnecessarily large pile of clothes I stuffed into my case. I've just been distracted by my old Physics teacher. No, hes not in my room, that would be plain weird , but he is on the telly. His name is David Edwards and is famous for wining both Mastermind and £million on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and even more impressively he was on a pub quiz team that beat mine a few years ago at the Master Potter pub in Cheadle. He is appearing on Eggheads but sadly not winning, perhaps competing against me finally wore out his brain.

.....more tomorrow

Doctorin' The House

Down London again. I've been going to the capital so often I'm starting to slang rhyme. ''Cor blimey ! Its time to Mickey on my Kermit''  (work it out for no prizes at all)

Today is Tuesday so it must be the unison annual leadership seminar. As everything this year I have no idea what,s to come so I travel with hope and expectation.
I go through my usual routine of rushing and subsequently delaying my departure. If ever a homily was more apt to a person than ''more haste less speed'' is to me. So my carefully planned 2 hours turned into a mad dash to make the train after the one I wanted.

The seminar was in the extremely grand home of the British Medical Association, called the BMA house. However bad the credit crumpet is, its comforting that the doctor's seem to be managing ok.  Must admit as I registered my eye was taken with another event entitle Anthrax Seminar. It could either be the deadly sheep disease or the 90s thrash metal group, either way it sounded slightly more exciting than a union leadership seminar, but duty and coffee called so I headed for our meeting.

The seminar had 2 keynote speaker's , our very own and brilliant leader David Prentis, and the political editor of the mirror and frequent news 24 pundit Kevin McGuire. The main theme was around our Unions agenda in the light of the current political and economic environment and the upcoming general election. It is clear politics in UK is reaching a watershed. After years of the stampede for the middle ground and the votes of those wretched Daily Mail readers (although I do like their Sunday Supplements and free DVDs, even my political principles take a back seat when faced with a free Time Bandits DVD!) we have finally reached the stage where the country is crying out for a progressive radical agenda. This can be supported by the election of a new US president with possibly more left wing policies than our own government. Well we can all hope, I suppose but the danger is that Public Sector spending could be squeezed out by tax cuts.

After it was over we were all due to have dinner (or lunch as we are down south), but I am determined to stick to my bloody diet so I opted out, and not wanting to sit at a table with no food sat in the corridor outside watching everyone eat heartily and network thoroughly. I made a couple of phone calls and after I got an attack of my shyness and social awkwardness and found myself feeling like a bit of an outsider so I didn't  join a table for a coffee and get to know you all chat. Its completely stupid on my part as everyone I meet at these events is so welcoming. I really have to get to grips with myself someday. Anyway I made my way back to Euston and managed to hold back the creeping tears of self pity and self frustration. A Marks and Sparks salad filled the hole in both my tummy and my mood.

I am now packing as tomorrow I'm off for 4 days to Bristol for Unison's LGBT  conference which is not a Lettuce, Garlic, Bacon & Tomato sandwich (though that would be nice) but Unison's Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender conference. I've never attended this before but I feel as one of the few visible T people in our Union I have a duty to get involved.

Fat Index latest. Like the stock market I plummeted and bounced. Last week I was down 5 llb to 24 stone 8 1/2 llbs but this week bounced up 1 1/2 lbs to 24 stone 10lbs. I hope in stock market terms its a Dead Cat Bounce (sorry Gammo)

Capybara fact of the week (or last 2 weeks): They are allergic to Stilton

Threaded & Breathless

I blame H & M.

I am sitting in the Britannia pub overlooking EUSTON station concourse. I have been on my now tri monthly visit to the Charing Cross gender identity clinic and I'm waiting for another hour until the trains are cheaper. I booked an advance ticket but not advanced enough so I have to wait until 7 pm. As usual with me a straightforward day has been writ through with my bumbling. It all started at 11 am this morning.

 
I knew that with my cheap off peak train ticket would come much hanging about. My appointment was at 3 pm and would be lucky to stretch much beyond 20 mins so I needed to be fully armed with distractions. Now my handbag is chock full at the best of times. Like some twisted Parkinson's law the amount of stuff I feel the need to carry, increases to fill the void created as my  handbags become bigger. I shall call this Harvey's law. So, in addition to  my makeup, umbrella, oversized mirror, huge purse, perfume and other detritus, I now squeezed in my camera, my mobile, my blackberry and finally a copy of Andrew Marr's ''A History of Modern Britain'' oh and my slimming world record sheet (for reasons later). Well in the words of Scotty ''She canna take any more captain'' and as my bag passed warp factor 8 the straps have way. It completely served me right for buying a cheap sweet shop handbag from H&M (lawyers note, we substituted sweet for sweat). So I hurriedly searched for a replacement. One emergency bag-ectamy later I had transferred all my contents to my casual purple bag, almost completely  successfully.

Wind forward to 1.45 pm and as we pull into Hammersmith tube station, I start to feel a bit wheezy. This was no big deal as I've been asthmatic since boyhood (sounds weird using boyhood, but it is correct I suppose). I rummaged around in my bag for my ventolin inhaler. It produced a result, the result being I had left it at home in my now ruined old bag. I didn't panic. I hadn't really suffered badly from asthma recently so I thought I would be ok if I took it easy. It was only a fifteen minute walk to the clinic and I had some time to spare. I took my mind off things as I wandered around the shops outside the tube station.  While perusing a concession stand for a new bag to replace my damaged work handbag, a friendly middle aged Asian lady handed me a leaflet. It was for an eyebrow shaping service. Well my eyebrows were a mess. Initially, I had been very diligent with my plucking, but laziness and a sin hiding full fringe had left me relying on the occasional strategic use of a razor (I know that's so wrong). So for £7.50 I thought I would give it a whirl. The technique this lady used was Threading. This involved very skilful use of cotton to rip out several hairs at once. Even with my tough bristly eyebrows from razoring, the process was relatively painless, and in just a few minutes I was done. The lady was an artist and genius. My eyebrows have never looked so feminine and sculptured. I may now consider a thinner fringe in the future.

Thus pruned I set off on my short walk. However my asthma got worse with each step. By the time I was outside the clinic I was a shambling wheezing wreck, so I sat in a bus shelter for a couple of minutes to regain some composure. This was a total failure. So spying a Boots chemist across the road I headed for some salvation. My pal Vicky has told me in the past, that when desperate she has had an emergency. Prescription over the counter at a chemist, so I thought I would try my luck. My request went thus ''Wheeze, can you help me, wheeze, I have left my inhaler, at home, wheeze, could you, wheeze, give me, wheeze, an, wheeze, emergency, wheeze, inhaler wheeze, please?'' The reply was more succinct and distinctly less wheezy ''Sorry , you need a doctor's prescription. Try an A&E department''. I had no more time to argue, so I left and crossed the road to the clinic situated above the Sainsburry,s opposite.

Buzzed in, I took the lift up to reception, thinking I couldn't waste what breath I had left on stairs. Sitting in reception I calmed myself a bit, and exchanged smiling eye contact with my fellow receptionees. We were a mixed bunch. There was a stunning young T girl with flawless dark skin and stunning breasts shown off to good effect. There was a younger T girl, in boy mode with lovely long brown hair, sitting with her mum. How I wished I had been brave enough to tackle my gender at an earlier age and have my mum's support. There was another woman about my age reading a year old Heat magazine, and there were a couple of Trans men chatting away. Most bizarrely there was one girl who had brought a large black builder's bucket with her. I just hoped it didn't contain a sample of some sort. My time came and Dr X summoned me in  with a cheery smile. (I have changed his name to X after I had  web site libel training, and because Dr X sounds more exciting than Dr A).

As I sat down, he asked me how I was, and I explained that I was great except for the lack of ability to breathe properly. Out of kindness or the fact that I might collapse and mess up his schedule, he scrawled out a prescription on a sheet of A4 paper and said to pop to boots across the road after we had finished. Buoyed by the hope of my ultimate salvation, I settled down for the consultation. After four appointments, Dr X and me had developed an understanding, so we went through our usual roster of subjects; my weight, the NHS, politics (this time with a emphasis on the much maligned John Prescott and Peter Mandelson) my voice therapy, more politics and finally his bête noir, my wonky eye. He persuaded me to visit an optician back home, and get contact lenses for my deficient eye. When I said it would be nice to have stereoscopic vision at last, he informed me, to my chagrin that I would probably only gain binocular vision because my short sighted eye was not corrected in childhood. So it seems I will never see the world as all you lucky stereoscopic-ians do, and I will never be able to use those 3 D glasses or see those once popular Magic Eye pictures. I guess as disabilities go its a pretty trivial one. Appointment over, we decided to resume our verbal sparing  in another 3 months. I should feel irritated that a long expensive trip, feels like a box ticking exercise. But I have grown to like Dr X, and I guess the lack of him probing into my transitioned life means he feels I am psychologically ok. In addition I am always up for debating politics. Dr X is very eloquent and knowledgeable on all sorts of stuff, and is not someone who is familiar with doubt.

The consultation was soon over, so with prescription in hand I bounced over the road back to the Boots chemists. I wish I had layed off the bouncing because I was soon wheezing to the Max. Still I knew, once I had that lovely full blue inhaler in my hands, I would be fine. After 5 mins waiting the pharmacist came back to me. ''Your prescription is ok madam, we have one ready in stock for you. Just one problem, we need a stamp on the prescription with the address of where Dr X practices''. I pointed to a window on the first floor across the road. He is there, look you can see him right now, look that's the back of his head'', I pleaded but to no avail. ''I'm sorry, we do need the details for the computer''. So, I made my way back over to the clinic with absolutely no bounce. I eventually got the stamp I needed after the receptionist had to interrupt Dr X's next consultation. So for the third time that day I was back in Boots and  after waiting another 15 mins, I eventually got my hands on that little blue plastic piece of gold. By now though, I was hunched over on a chair, savouring every drop of air I could squeeze past my constructed tubes. Puff, hold breath, puff, hold breath, puff once more for luck and I was done. If you are not asthmatic its hard to imagine the instantaneous restorative effect of Salbutamol.

Fully recovered, I headed off back to Hammersmith for some shopping, as it was a full 3 hours till my train home. I resumed my bag hunt. Unfruitful after an hour, my last stop was TK Max. As I rummaged through a pile of bags under a clearance sign, suddenly one bag caught my eye like a fleck of gold in a prospector's pan. It was just, so right. Large enough for work documents and handles long enough to be shoulder comfy. To my untrained eye it looked classy. Closer inspection proved it was even more perfect. The leather was soft as could be and inside it had just the right compartments. I had to have it. Then I looked at the price  tag, 50 quid, double what I have ever paid for a handbag before. I figured fate had brought me and the bag together at this particular time and place. So I took the plunge, and she was mine. After any impulse purchase I need to find a rationalisation and this time it was ''what the f****!''.

 

So that is my day so far, save for an event free tube ride to Euston.
I'm now on the train back home to Stoke. While I was standing waiting for my train to be announced, I perused the departures board and briefly toyed with the idea of heading off to some of the exotic sounding places, such as Tring, Llandudno, Bletchley or Eldorado (ok I made one up. There is no such place as Tring) when our platform was announced it seemed somehow fitting that it was number 13. As I joined the rush to the train for the free seats, the doors at the end of the ramp to the platform closed. We all concertinaed together and then a sign flashed up saying this was due to the train being reset. Now I have no idea what this meant but I just hope no one was in the train cab holding Control, Alt, Delete to get the thing restarted. Finally the doors opened and we spilled out onto the platform, the more sprightly of us surging to the front. I got swallowed up mid pack, but still  managed to bag a good seat. So now I'm done with this post, I'm going to resume my day long phone based scrabble game. I've been determined all day to use the word WHELKS and I've  finally found a spot where it will go.

 
Oh, I did mention I would explain the slimming club record sheet. Well I was informed from the start by Dr X that I couldn't get on the surgery waiting list until I was down to a safe weight. When asked at previous appointments I may have played down my actual weight (ie lied) saying I was down to 22 stone. I think I was worried that Dr X would not believe I would lose enough. So this time, I was going to come clean, but demonstrate with my chart, that I was now losing steadily. In the end I was not asked what my current weight was so I never had to use it.

Becoming Jen (Part 20) Harry Potter and The Lost Parking Ticket

Well congrats for sticking with my rambling story. It has has whizzed about a bit in the last few chapters. I really wish I had thought more about a structure, with some sort of surprise reveal. Perhaps the final chapter could end up with me confessing to be the real Keyser Soze or something. Sadly I think this tale will end up just petering out in a rambling mess of asides (such as this one) I think I would benefit from a kermodian (I'm doing my bit to get it into the dictionary!) critique of my writing style. So where in my ever shifting timeline had I reached?

If my memory serves me at all, I had got to the point where, had completed my first few weeks as a working woman. The first flush of euphoria was over. The weeks soon turned into months. It was now Spring 2006 and the honeymoon period with my work life partners had gone relatively well. Though like many newlyweds the amount of sex never quite lived up to expectations. Looking back now I wish I had taken move care about my transition rather than just blundering into it like an elephant in heels. I realise looking back over this period I did make some fundamental rookie mistakes.


The first mistake revolved around was my chosen name. I have said before that I hadn't given my new new name more than a moments ponder. I just went for something phonetically close to my old redundant male one. There was no real logic far this but once chosen felt toothed to change again. I don't regret the name itself. I think Jenny sort of suits me The big mistake was that I asked collages and friends to "just call me Jen" That was what I had ended up being called by my friends, so it felt comfortable and accepting that everyone used this (insert) The problem that soon became apparent was that Jen was too close to Geoff As soon as the Je sound left someone's lips then their brain just followed, with unconscious thought, the finishing Eff sound. It I had said from the beginning call me Jenny then perhaps the incidents of "Jeffs" would have been fewer. Who knows, perhaps I should hare chosen a name that could never be confused such as Delilah or Rapunzell !!!


The second regretted mistake, was not to late myself seriously enough. I've said before that I often used humour to put people at ease. For instance, I made fun out of my homemade Rice' n' Tights breast-forms. This was fine at first, but months down the line, and they were still being referred to as the "Uncle Ben's" I started to regret my levity. It just didn't help everyone lose those thoughts that was still a man pretending to be a woman.


The third was that I totally underestimated hour much time was needed to prepare myself for a working day. If everything went to plan I uses five, but it only took a mistimed sneered to smear mascara goo all over my painstakingly applied makeup, setting me back half an hour. Similarly laddering three consecutive pairs of tine cost ill afforded minutes, not to speak of expense! I was never more regularly late for work than this period of my life. Actually thinking now I have been more tardy, and that was when I lived in the Nurses Home at my place of work Stallington Hospital (aside alert!!!). I have figured that my promptness for work is indirectly proportionate (or is it directly?) to the distance I lived away. Ergo the nearer I was, the later I was. The only explanation I could think of was that when I lived on site, work is only a couple of minutes away so lets have another 5 in bed.


Other Rookie Schoolgirl Errors from the first couple of months: Unwearable high heels, doh!Peep toe shoes/ tan tights, doh! Black trousers just that vital inch too short, double doh! and White blouse / Black bra debacle, double doh!

Still all things considered my transition went really well, better than expectations (if I'd had any). I still count myself lucky that I work in such an accepting liberal working environment, I can't imagine how tough it must be to transition in a male dominated workplace, such as the building trade for instance. That is not to say I didn't have the odd hiccup. I remember once when I corrected a colleague on referring to me as he, the response came back "At least I didn't call you It".

It was during this time that I suffered my only incident of street level abuse. Now of course I'd witnessed the odd titter and occasional snigger, and on one occasion a car full of neanderthal unevolved testosterone heckled me, but to be honest their grunty shouts were barely distinguishable as English. These were thankfully rare occurrences that have almost slipped from memory. The one incident that does persist was a day shopping in Longton (one of the famous 5 towns described by Arnold Bennett. Bad luck Fenton!). I was sat on a bench in the spring sun, staring blankly at my mobile thinking of somebody to text when a wet splat hit my right cheek. Looking up I just saw 2 teen aged lads riding past, one of whom shouted "scum of the earth" at me". I was so taken aback I wasn't sure what had happened. Slowly a dawning realisation was that these 2 cycling Asbos in waiting, had spat at me before yelling their witty retort! To be honest I was too shocked to be as upset as I should have been, but the incident is now indelibly inked on my mind.

Anyway enough of the dark side of a life in transition. I know everyone really wants me to get back those stories of my own folly (ie falling down and all that!). Well I have another example of How Not To Pass.

Well, I bored one day I decided to make a solo trip to the Flicks. I was by then pretty cocky about my ability to pass while out and about. After all I was now a working Girl. I plumped for a visit to the Warner Brothers Cinema in Newcastle under Lyme, mainly because they had more comfy (wide) seats. I cant fully recall the film I saw. I wish I could say it was a deep foreign art house opus, but it was actually one of the Harry Potter films. Leaving the cinema I first had to pay for my parking ticket at the machine, just inside the foyer. Duly done, I made my way via the lift to the multi storey car park beneath. Driving down the two levels to the barriered exit, I pulled up to insert my paid up ticket into the barrier machinery, but of course I had now lost it. Somewhere between the foyer and this barrier I had secreted my ticket but couldn't for the life of me remember. After a good 10 minutes of frantic rummaging I abandoned all hope of exit and reluctantly reparked my car. I needed another ticket which was only supplied on entry to the car park. So, I made my way back to the Paystation in the foyer.

When I got there there was a newly formed queue of cinema goers waiting to validate their parking tickets. The machine had a sign saying Press here For Assistance. I pressed the button and a voice boomed out of the speaker situated adjacent "Can I help you?". I looked up at the queue of impatient car parkers who up to this time had taken little notice of the suspiciously tall woman in their midst. "Ive lost my ticket" I spoke softly into the mic, not wanting to draw any more attention. "Sorry you will have to speak up", came the response. "I've lost my ticket" I replied at fuller volume. "I will be with you in a couple of minutes SIR" came the answer even louder out of the machine. By now the whole queue was either staring at me or whispering to each other about me. Either way any semblance of passing had gone. Right then I could have used Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. I then had to stand there in solitary uncomfort as I waited for the Parking attendant, as the queue filed past, the more discrete of which at least attempted to hide their sniggers. Eventually a rather bemused man in a security uniform arrived looking for a man who had lost his ticket. I caught his attention and confessed it was me he was seeking. I made sure I kept hold of my ticket all the way to the barrier. Sometimes you just have to shrug and accept that however well you think you are doing the world will find a way of of bringing you down to earth.

Becoming Jen (Part 19) Charing Crossing

Today I had my third appointment at the Gender Identity Clinic, Charing Cross Hospital on the Fulham Palace road in sunny London. Yet again like many other experiences, it just proved how I can misjudge people and situations. Ever the revisionist I now greatly respect my consultant and the work of the clinic Let me explain.

My first visit was as far back as Sept 07. Not knowing what to expect I trailed my way via train, Euston tube and Taxi to the clinic. It took some finding as it was not on the hospital grounds.I eventually found it on a back st tucked behind a convenience store. The plain but solid looking brown oak door, only distinguished from its neighbours by a small blue NHS sign instead of the "Speedy Loans" and such. I guess its an advantage for the clinic to have a low key appearance, but it does give the whole experience an air of back street naughtiness. Anyway after buzzing my way in I made my way up the stairs and found myself in a modern spacious reception area. I checked in and waited for my appointment with Dr Barrett. I rummaged through the cliched pile of outdated magazines with nothing grabbing my attention. There was only one other girl waiting. She was perhaps in her late teens and dressed in a short denim mini, a deliberately ripped off shoulder t shirt and long black goth style black boots. To my eye she was totally passable and if she hadn't been in the gender clinic then I would never figured her to be transgendered. I felt really dull in my black and white office wear. I had really struggled to know what outfit to choose. Ultra feminine or dress down casual girl look. In the end I just went in what I would have worn to the office anyway. I thought it would have given the impression of being in control of my life. I felt wrongly that I had to give a really good impression, else the doctor could turn me down for treatment. Just a dose of my usual neuroses.

"Have you come far" was my opening gambit to my fellow patient. "Cornwall" came back a nicely soft feminine voice. "God, that must be quite a trek" I said, softening my voice to almost a whisper, in an attempt to sound as good as her. "Pardon, I didn't catch that" she said. I repeated but this time in an audible normal voice. I really have to work harder on this speech thing I thought. "Who are you seeing?" she asked. I told her that it was a Dr Barrett. She informed me that she thought that Dr Barrett didn't like her because he had previously made a comment about her wearing a mini in winter. That made started me off. How dare a middle aged male doctor tell a girl of her age how to dress (I was guessing at his age, but aren't all doctors middle aged). It made me wary of Dr Barrett and put me on guard even before the consultation had begun.

I was called in. Sat down in his small consulting room overlooking the high street, he kicked off the session. He informed me that this would be an assessment to see if I was suitable for treatment. Well Ive been living and working full time as Jen for 2 years and have been on hormones for a year so I will be screwed if he decided I was not suitable. He told me that I would have to have a follow up assessment with another doctor in order to get a second opinion.

First off he wanted to talk about my weight. Now I already understood that this sort of elective surgery was only possible if I got my weight down and I was already dieting. However once I gave him my weight and height he made a point of tapping away on a calculator for what seemed like minutes to work out my body mass index. I could have told him straight away. The answer was too bloody much. He did give me a target weight, which I feel is a realistic goal. Then the questions started. First up were the usual ones; "Any history of mental illness?", "When did I first start dressing as a female?", "Did I used to masturbate while dressing?", yadda yadda yadda and so on. I answered absolutely truthfully and avoided the temptation to tell him what I thought he wanted to hear. Then the questions got progressively more irrelevant. "Do you have many friends?" "A few I suppose" I answered. "Would any of them lend you £20?" Took aback I said "I suppose they would, but they are generally more skint than me". I was getting irritated. What bearing does this have on my gender identity. Then it got a bit prickly. "Do you have any debt?" he asked, stone faced. Tempted to tell him it was none of his bloody business, I capitulated "I have some debt I suppose. The usual you know, mortgage, loans etc". That was not enough detail for him "How much?" he said pen poised to record my answer. Tempted again, I gave him a round figure answer. I so wanted to challenge this question but I thought discretion the better part of not screwing up my consultation. To me he was really flippant in his manner. When I said in response to a question as to my marital status, that although I was still officially married, we were separated for over 2 years and the divorce was going through, he barked back "You are either married or not". The session ended after 20 mins when I was packed off to the hospital for some blood tests. I presumed he wanted to see my hormone levels, but I wasn't given a reason. Not only was I perturbed with some of the questioning, I failed to see how anyone could make a reasoned judgement in only 20 mins. Surely I was more complicated than that.

Travelling back on the train I started to get angry and frustrated with the whole experience. I thought that he was testing me and I was upset. I couldn't imagine that any other NHS patients would have been treated in such a manner. Why the hell should I have to disclose how much debt I was in. As transgendered patient we are totally reliant on these medics for our treatment. They have the total power to block the treatment we need. This means we will generally not complain or question our treatment for seen as being awkward. I was frustrated with myself that I hadn't complained. In hindsight my views are probably unfair on committed medics who could have chosen a more sexy and high profile specialism, but on that day I was pretty down on the whole thing. All day off work, an expensive and long journey for just 20 mins of questioning. I was not impressed.

The consultation did produce some positive results. A referral came through for speech therapy and my hormones were changed to ones that were less likely to have the side effect of death.

My second appointment was January this year. It was with a different, younger doctor who asked me more questions though this time with more obvious relevance. I did say to him that I was a bit unhappy with my previous visits. He assured me that Dr Barrett was very experienced and would almost certainly support my treatment. I immediately got on well with this doctor and did my usual talking at him until the session overran.

So we now come to today's visit. I wasn't relishing another session with Dr Barrett, not least because my diet had gone a bit wobbly (like my figure) for a while, although I am now back on track. This time it was standing room only in reception. There were at least half a dozen girls some with partners, and a couple of Trans men. The common link was that they all looked pretty miserable. It wasn't a great advert for a transgendered lifestyle, but I suppose it is a stressful time and aren't all waiting rooms designed to make you sad. Everyone seemed to be avoiding eye contact with each other, which was difficult in a crowded room, so we mostly looked at our feet. I think there must be a correlation between unhappiness and shoes. Sad people tend to spend more time looking at their feet as also tend to spend more on shoes (well it's a theory, and would account for the vast number of shoe shops in Stoke-on-Trent!)

Anyway in I went for Round 2 with Dr Barrett. He was really smiley and welcoming this time. This unsettled me a little as I was ready to give him all guns about his half baked assessment. I very soon put those guns on safety and holstered them (I strain analogies like I strain my tights!) After asking me how I was we ended up through some circuitous route talking politics, which for a Trade Unionist and a Blogger is manna from heaven. So for 15 mins we talked about the state of the country (and it is in a state!). I did say that I was surprised to be talking politics in a gender dysphoria session. He said that it was useful for him to engage in conversation to see what sort of rounded functional being I was (perhaps he gets bored talking gender stuff all the time). Anyway the upshot is he thinks I'm doing well and if anything I'm a bit tough on myself. He actually made me feel really good and used the analogy that as a woman I am now flying and that I will reach full altitude in time, whereas some struggle to take off. I made some bad joke about how many engines would be needed to get me off the ground. This kind imagery and the fact he commented that I looked really well led me to revaluate Dr Barrett, from thinking what a stuck up arrogant quack he was, to a generous empathetic gender identity visionary. It is a gift that I have such flexibility of opinion, although in truth it probably means I am just shallow and easily flattered. He did mention my weight, which was fine and reasonable (even if he did get his calculator again). He also mentioned my wonky right eye (he did use a more medical term) and suggested if I sorted it it would help my appearance (fair enough). I suggested a contact lens, but his idea of a monocle may not be up to current trends.

The result was a long journey home, feeling much better about myself and my doctor. So as I said at the top I am really not good at judgement at first sight. My next appointment is November at now I am quite looking forward to it. Wonky eye and all.

Becoming Jen (Part 18) - Jen's Not Mad

For anyone who remembers the documentary "John’s Not Mad", this title doesn't mean I am going to have a bout of Tranny Tourettes. Oh alright then “SKIRTS! SHOES! BAGS!”... Thanks, I feel better for that. I again move away from the linear nature of this tale. This post will cover my treatment locally at the hands of my employer the NHS up to being prescribed those vital hormones. Oooops I may have spoiled the surprise ending!!!

I had almost forgotten about my referral to see a Psychiatrist. In the end I nearly missed it. Tucked away under a pile of loan offers and debt demands was an envelope franked NHS. I ought to send the loan offers to the debt collectors and vice versa, so they could just work things out together. Anyway, I usually filed the exponentially increasing daily pile of junk mail directly into black bin bags. Well junk mail is referred to as direct mailing. It was unusual to get something worth opening, and I could have easily just filed it as usual.

My appointment was in a dept called Liaison Psychiatry. I wasn’t actually sure what that meant but I liked the idea of a Liaison. Perhaps it meant that the appointment was slightly furtive in nature, perhaps conducted on a Station platform after dark. Unfortunately it was nothing as sexy as this. According to the font of all knowledge that is Wikipedia Liaison psychiatry is the branch of psychiatry that specialises in the interface between other medical specialties and psychiatry. In (not very ) short because I maintain that I am actually female and to this end I need to change my body, then the medical proffession sees this as a mental disorder that has a physical impact….or something like that. Anyhow although I would argue that I am not in anyway mentally ill or have any sort of disorder, I was quite happy to go along whichever route was needed. The doctor who I was due to see, I actually knew. In my so called job I sat on a bewildering range of committees and I knew Mike from one such meeting.

I turned up at our Acute Mental Health hospital in plenty of time. I visited this hospital countless times in the course of work, but this felt so different. I was a patient, or service user as they, I mean we, are now referred to. It felt so unreal to be sitting in the waiting area in this role. I have to be ashamed to say I wore my staff id badge as if I was trying to demonstrate I was not here as a patient. That is terrible to admit because I guess it showed a degree of prejudice towards mental illness. In my defence, because staff coming in and out knew me, I didn’t want them all to know my business, which in hindsight is both wrong and futile. As I was the only openly transgendered staff member, sitting in the department that dealt with gender identity, what other reason could I be there for. I am glad to say that since then I have endeavoured to be open and honest with colleagues that I am a service user

When my turn came I was informed that I would not be seeing Mike but one of his juniors. This was for his development reasons. The junior doctor was called Andrew. A pleasant mannered clean cut man in his late 20s, I guessed. I was to be his first case of gender dysphoria (The technical diagnosis for my condition, though sounding impressive actually just means gender unhappiness). I didn’t mind this at all. I liked the idea of being somebody’s first. I really wanted to make a good impression on him, which is not the ideal way to approach a consultation. The first session was to be an assessment, so basically I had to answer a pre-prepared bunch of questions. Although I really wanted to be accepted for treatment and say the right things, I did want to be honest in my answers. There was a temptation to say just what I thought he needed to hear. I did not want to give the “I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body” shtick. I couldn’t have told him that I would have been suicidal if I couldn’t change gender. All those stories I read about in magazine articles, and saw on the TV, didn’t necessarily relate to me. It would be wrong if I had said I felt like a woman. After all how could I know what any other woman or any person felt like. I just knew what felt right for me. I was honest with Andrew the Shrink. If my marriage had been successful, then I would probably have continued my life in that role and been relatively happy. As I never really imagined I could live as a woman, so I didn’t beat myself up about it. Sure, I would always have dreamed, but I was, and am quite pragmatic at heart. Circumstance changed however, and I found that I could release myself, and I have to say I have never been more fulfilled than I am right now. I worried that this in some way meant I was less deserving of treatment than those poor souls who end up on the brink of suicide over their gender identity. Was this just feeling right for me, enough for them. Anyway as soon as Andrew started his list of questions, I started pouring out all this sort of guff. I rabitted on in this manner for the whole session, while he made notes and occasionally nodded. The poor man, I thought afterwards. He barely got much of a say and I’m not even sure I answered many of his question properly. Mind you it was clear from his demeanour that he didn’t really have much experience in this field. Perhaps he would have been better with a less self opinionated, know-all fool for his first patient. We got on ok though. He informed me that although I was his first he would be having supervision from Mike, who had vast experience of gender identity, so I was happy
..
My second appointment a month or so later went pretty much the same as before, just without the set questions. I basically just talked at him for half an hour. We did get onto more practical matters. He asked what help I was looking for. I said I definitely wanted to start on hormone therapy and eventually be considered for surgery. At the end of the session, when he was able to get a word in edgeways he dropped a mini bombshell. “I am going to support you”, he said, “but there is one issue”. Slight pause. “It’s my religion”. “Oh…what is your religion” I said. “I am a Christian” he replied. “Well I guess I’m a sort of Christian” I retorted (I guess I regard myself as an agnostic Christian. I like all the hippy forgiving stuff in the bible. I’m just not sure about the god stuff!). “Well I guess I am what you would describe as a fundamental Christian” was his response. Well it was clear what he meant by that. He must have seen my desire to change my gender as some sort of sin against god. I suppose I should have been angry at this, but my first reaction was good on you for being honest with me. He suddenly looked apologetic. For a moment the clinician/patient dynamic was reversed. He was sharing with me, and seemed to want my acceptance. “I can assure you I won’t let it affect my treatment and support of you” he said rather quietly. “If you want to change to another clinician I can refer you back to Mike, if you like” he offered. I seized on the chance to be magnanimous. “Thanks for telling me” I said in my softest most compassionate voice “Lets stick with it, and see how we go” I said, almost patronisingly. I was honestly impressed with his honesty. He didn’t need to tell me about his religious quandary. I would never have guessed. If his branch of Christianity was against people like me, then his religion is just plain wrong, full stop. However I felt sort of sorry for this misguided man hamstrung by his misguided religious views. I actually thought he might be a little upset if I had him replaced. (This was a little arrogant on my part reflecting back). So I decided to stick with him. I secretly decided that it would be my aim to convince him in the error of his ways. I might even get him in a skirt by the end of our sessions.

Over the next six months I had a few more “talking at him” sessions. In all honesty that was all they were. He had nothing in the way of advice to offer me. I am arrogant if I assume he wasn’t doing his job and in effect analysing me. By the end it felt like we were both wasting each others time. However he did his job and I eventually got a referral to the legendary, notorious Charring Cross clinic, who would see to the nuts and blots (or removing such) of my treatment and hopefully start me on the Hormone therapy. I was told that it might take some months for my appointment to come through. I was happy though, just to be making progress. My sessions with Andrew eventually ended when he got another job. I was then passed over to Mike…

Mike was a completely different kettle of shrink to Andrew. He had vast experience of supporting people like me. He was a big cuddly kindly bearded man. I liked him immediately. He was wise enough not to let me just talk at him. When I would start wittering off into unfocussed ramble (I should have him edit this blog) he would reign me in. We did have one hiccup. In one session I was bemoaning an experience I’d had visiting my GP.

Now my Doctors had changed my name ok, from my first visit as Jenny. However on one visit, they had changed the system from a tannoy calling out “Jenny Harvey to room 2” or something, to a flashy scrolling LED sign. Now when my time came up flashed the message letter by letter as slowly as a crawll ...G.E.O.F.F...H.A.R.V.E.Y...T.O...R.O.O.M..2... It then just hung there.I had no choice but to stand up in front of a crowded waiting room thus instantly outing me to everyone. As I walked out of the waiting area a trail of murmers followed in my wake. As you can imagine I wasn’t best pleased, and after a couple of maoning phone calls to the Practice Manager in which she tried to blame it on the IT, they have now rectified it. As an aside my surgery now has me listed for a smear test! Which is in its own way equally stupid and annoying.

Anyway after I told this story to Mike he has now referred to me as Geoff on two occasions. Each time he hasn’t realised, and when I pointed it out he was beside himself. We ended up having an interesting conversation on how the brain perceives. He said he had never made this error with a patient before. He absolutely accepted me a Jenny from the start, although he had briefly known me pre Jen. My recounting the GP story had obviously reconnected some pathways deep in his psyche. It showed me that even though people genuinely accept me they cannot totally override what there brain perceives. If the foremost Gender Dysphoria expert in North Staffs can slip than anyone can. Sometimes the brain will see what the brain will see. I argued with him that it would have been different if I was 5’9’’ and build less like a truck, and that it would be easier for that brain to see a female. This hiccup aside, I really valued and still do my sessions with Mike. He has given me confidence and helped me gain perspective when I’ve been down about things, and despite all my neurotic, self opinionated, over rationalised utterances, he told me that all things considered I was pretty well balanced.

It was now 4 months from my referral to Charring Cross and I had heard nothing. I decided to contact them. The Clinic informed me they were waiting for my PCT (Primary Care Trust, the part of the NHS that moves all the money about) to give the go ahead. The problem was that at this time my PCT like most in the NHS at that time had massive financial deficits. Someone somewhere had overspent by about 12 million quid! So… the first thing they do is cut, and what is one of the easiest, softest targets, Gender Reassignment. So right at the time I was referred the PCT publicly stated that they would no longer automatically fund treatment! If I was slightly more paranoid then I would have started to think that NHS was plotting against me (I haven’t totally rued this theory out yet). On my next visit to Mike, we discussed this situation. He decided to make an exception with me and start me on hormones prior to Charring Cross, as it was unclear when or even whether I would get an appointment. By then I had been working and living as Jen full time for over a year, and he was satisfied that hormone therapy was right for me. I was so grateful for this. The hormones were the most important part of the treatment to me. Sorting my bits out would be the important icing on the cake, but I was always more keen on the chocolate filling anyway.

So there it was. I had finally started my journey to physical womanhood

Morning Gory

Well this morning I managed to make a bigger mess of myself than usual.

I had an 9am appointment with my wonderful speech therapist Kate, at the Outpatients of the North Staffs Hospital. Last night I realised as usual I had totally neglected to practice my speech as she had advised. I would have to make time in the morning

Plan A: 6am Wake Up, Have a wee!, Bath, Hair, Breakfast, Makeup, Practice Speech, 8.15 Set off in time to get car parking space, 9am Speech Therapy, and Relax.....In the words of Hannibal Smith "I love it when a plan comes together"

I failed at the third hurdle.

6am alarm went off, Got up, had wee, Fine so far then..Got back in bed for a vital extra 15 mins sleep, 7.46 woke up again, 7.48 finally realised I had overslept, 7.50 finished panicking and got up.

I needed a Plan B: 7.50 Wake Up, Bath, Hair, shortened Breakfast, 8.20 Set off for Hospital, Practice speech while driving. Find parking space in time, Do make up in my car, 9 am Speech Therapy, and Relax...

I rescheduled makeup to the car to save time earlier on. If I got to the hospital a bit later then all the spaces would be taken. Doing my speech practice in the car would be fine and a good use of time management. It would be like doing my homework on the school bus, just with less shaky handwriting!

The first part of plan B went like clockwork. So precisely at 8.20 as planned, I donned some inadequate sunglasses as a futile disguise and left the house otherwise barefaced. At 8.40 I am in traffic practicing my soft H words, and the trying to mimic Sheilagh Foggerty, the nicely voiced Radio 5 news presenter. I felt quite positive about my voice. I was improving. For some reason I looked down at my handbag. I looked a lot emptier than usual. Mmmmmm. The penny dropped slowly. Where was my makeup ? I vainly rummaged with one hand. Nothing. My practiced female voice gave way immediately to a gutteral yell "*********!!!!!". There was no way I could walk into a crowded hospital with absolutely no makeup on. I had been ok dashing to the car unseen, and driving with the sunglasses on, but walking through with blotchy skin and the highly visible shadow from a thorough shaving. Not a pretty sight. I couldn't do it. I couldn't face it with such a face. I had to turn back and retrieve my precious makeup.

I finally got to the hospital at 9.10. I hate being late. Of course there were no parking spaces left, so I risked the wrath of a parking wardens and parked in a consultant only space. I had no time for the full facial slapping on of makeup, so I just used some cover stick over the worst areas, bit of lippy and sunglasses over my unmade and baggy eyes. So I walked through the busy hospital in my sunglasses like a Z list celebrity, trying not to be seen, while trying to be seen! I entered Kate's consulting room, with much huffing and apologising. She smiled kindly, and to her credit did not flinch when I removed my glasses.

I had a good session, and feel like I am making progress. Sadly Kate informed me she is retiring and that I would have a new therapist. Kate has been brilliant in boosting my confidence and I will miss our sessions. I will now have another poor therapist to be a victim of my rambling neurosis.

Gosh, life was simpler, way back when.

Karen Maclean

Yesterday I heard the saddest of news

Karen Maclean the driving force and heart behind the T-Junction support group in Derby has passed away. This was sudden and surprising news.

Karen was an unsung heroine of the Transgender community. The work she did with T-Junction helped many a fledgling T-Girl, just like myself. I remember the first time I attended her group. I had been out and about as Jen a few times but had never really socialised. I was very nervous walking up to the Community Centre, but as soon as a walked in Karen was there, with a warmth of welcome and understanding that immediately put me at ease. She took time to introduce everyone personally, and made sure I was included in the conversations. I saw her do this countless times over my couple of years attending the group. The success of T-Junction is its inclusiveness. Anybody, whatever shade of gender was always made to feel welcome and wanted.

I remember one evening in particular. There were a few teenagers milling around the community centre entrance. Karen was worried that this might be intimidating some some members, so me and her went outside to talk to the kids. Instead of just shooing them away, we talked to them. After their initial giggling they started to ask us questions about being transgendered. They turned out to be genuinely interested. After chatting for a while, she explained that their presence may put some people off attending. They accepted this without any fuss and went off to mill around somewhere else, problem solved. I remember this as an example of Karen's patience.

It is a measure of the impact she had on me and the vital part she played in my eventual transition, that although I only saw her once in the last year or so, I miss her already.

Rest In Peace Karen.
I hope you knew how loved you were.

Becoming Jen (Part 17)

The Day After the Day Before

It was T-day + 1. I had now been full time Jenny (Fun Time Jenny might better but untrue) for one whole Earth day. So there I was again, waking up far too early in order to make myself look less like Chewbacca and more like Princess Leia. Shaved to within a micrometre of my life, make up overcarefully applied and wig teased and adjusted to the nth, all that was left was my outfit. I couldn’t go for the Princess Leia gold bikini for reasons of sanity and taste, so I had to go for boring office wear. I chose a another long black skirt, a black blouse with a pink polka dot, and the black jacket again (enough with the black already!)So skirted and blouse-ed I headed off into day 2, with a bit of a spring.

My morning had no meetings booked. So I was office bound, which meant much phone answering. This was part of the job I hadn’t really considered. I was so worried about the appearance side, I had not really thought about my voice. Now, I had evolved a softer slightly higher pitched version of my natural timbre, but this had only ever been needed in short bursts in shops etcetera. To concentrate over a long phone call was something else. On top of that the sound quality of the phone mitigated against a Princes Leia sounding voice, but really needed to endeavour not to slip into a Chewwy growl (I am beginning to tire of this star wars metaphor already, and there is a danger that anyone who knows me is now thinking about Jabba the Hutt!) Lacking confidence I decided not to answer the phone as i would usually do, with my name. That way I would leave the issue unaddressed. However at the start of my very first call, the member asked to whom she was speaking. “Jenny Harvey, the Branch Secretary” I replied. “Jerry?” came back through my earpiece. “No sorry, it’s Jenny Harvey”, I reaffirmed. “Was that Kenny?” came the reply. She clearly couldn’t reconcile my name with the voice she was hearing. “No it is Jenny Harvey. I am transgendered”, I explained more firmly. A pause, and then “Oh, sorry” she hesitated back and then we got on with the conversation. This was the first of many, many, such conversations I would have over the phone over the next few months.

Just after lunch I had a big recruitment presentation to do. There was going to be a gathering of 60 odd OT staff (Occupational therapists. Oh and they are not that odd!). I had to give a few minutes talk on the importance of Trade Unions and to try and recruit one of them as a rep. Now, to my knowledge only a couple of the managers had known me previously, so I should have been able to address them without worrying about the baggage of my old identity. I stood up before them apprehensive and a bit shaky. I hate speaking without something to sit or stand behind. I felt exposed, desperately holding in my tummy. I desperately wanted to create a good impression. I knew that even if I had passed on first view, once I opened my mouth it would be more difficult. I wouldn't be able to rely on a quietness in my voice as I was speaking to a large room. However In my best female tone I started... “Hi, I’m Jenny Harvey and I’m your Unison Branch Secretary”, and off I went into my well practiced stride. As I spoke, I scrutinised faces for reactions. All I could really gauge was boredom. Oh well, perhaps I’m not the engaging raconteur I thought, but at least they were not staring open mouthed at me. I finished and sat down, relieved and satisfied. That was 60 more people who knew Jenny… Then Don got up to speak!!...

Now I have known Don, an OT manager for years. We get on really well, and I like him a lot. I could tell he was a bit nervous speaking to a large group. I wasn’t really paying attention, and then I heard his opening words “Thanks to Geoff. I just want to echo everything He said”! Oh B******s I thought to myself, and I grasped my head in my hands. So much for first impressions. Now I was absolutely sure that Don hadn’t meant to refer to me in this way, but it was the first time he’d seen me as Jen, after knowing me for 8 years. I also think with the natural nerves anyone gets when public speaking his brain went on to auto pilot, which had a default setting in which I was Geoff and a male. Sitting with him afterwards, I ribbed him about it. He honestly didn’t realise what he had said, and apologised fully.

I was upset with how things had gone, but I had to learn to get over it. This was clearly not going to be as easy as I had first thought. Still 2 days down I only had 6075 more working days till retirement!

Becoming Jen (Part 16)

Crossing That Floor

 The time had finally come. October 2005. It would be T-Day the day of my Transition

I had now told so many work colleagues about my better side that it was no longer going to stay secret. I knew when I told one particular individual, that she couldn’t keep it secret, so I guess I brought it on myself. Vicky confirmed that there was now some gossip going around. I decided that rather then let people talk, which would inevitably lead to me being imagined as some weekend drag queen, I wanted  everyone to see the real me and judge for themselves. So I decided I needed to start working as Jenny. There was no real planning, and I can’t even fully recall the thought processes that I went through.. I was also now living apart from Caz, and staying with a couple of friends so I just decided the time was probably right. For someone who has always taken the path of least resistance in life, this decision was by far the most important one I would ever take. Transition at work would be the last most important piece of the puzzle. Once undertaken, I would then be Jenny absolutely full time, with no going back. In terms of this blog title I would have Crossed the Floor.

I have read the stories of other girl’s transition at work. They always seem to have properly planned ahead, with letters to Personnel (I hate the term HR, it just sounds Orwellian) and meeting after meeting to discuss all aspects. I had done none of this. I had shown my colleagues (including the director of Personnel, who I regard as a friend) pictures and hinted that one day I may work in my new gender, but that’s as far as it had gone.

T-Day minus 5

Transition was not going to be simple. Although I hadn’t planned properly I felt I needed to give my decision proper and thorough consideration. So I sat down, one evening, steadied myself with a stiff Chocolate Milk and did some thinking.

My job as a full time Union Officer is a unique role in the NHS. I am not conventionally  managed but at the same time answerable to our 3,000 members. I manage no one but I have to organise the branch and the reps. To transition in this role could not be done quietly or subtlety as I guess the job is fairly public. I have to deal with the local press. Make presentations and speak to groups of staff. I also have to represent individuals at very stressful points in their working lives. If I made someone feel uncomfortable then I could not do my job effectively. If I was dealing with a female member and they wanted and needed a female representative, do I legitimately insist that they accept me as a woman. The other big risk for me was that I have to be elected every year. If the membership did not feel comfortable with a transgendered woman leading their branch, they could vote me out, and there would be little I could do.

I was confident that in the workplace no one would overtly discriminate against my gender identity. It would be what was said when I wasn’t there. I knew that my employer and Union would support me, and I accepted that I was lucky to be working in such a liberal and Inclusive environment. I’m sure that if I had been a builder (unlikely with my DIY prowess) or even worked in a Pot Bank (Stokie for Pottery Manufacturer) it would have been so much harder or well nigh impossible. I knew that many other girls transitioning had not been able to stay with their employer long term. Either the employer or colleagues had forced them out of their job. I often read that it was easier to make a complete fresh start, with a new employer. That way you could cast off that old worn out male identity. It would be so difficult for everyone I come into contact with to disassociate me from the Xxxxx Harvey that they knew and loved (or tolerated more like).

Question fizzed through my mind Would I ever be totally accepted as a woman? Would I always be seen as Xxxxx in a skirt! Could I still be taken seriously, or would the sniggering gossip that was abound turn me into the biggest joke. Would my female colleagues see me as one of their own? Would my male colleagues ever see me as a woman ? Would I be viewed a genderless outside ?r

Phew, all these things whizzing round my head gave me a headache. When I had started this musing, I was fairly certain what I was going to do. The more I thought about it the more problems, barriers and hurdles I could see ahead. Every consideration seemed to suggest I was taking the most absurd risk of my life. I even started to question my Transgenderness.

Why me? Why do I need to do this? Why can’t I just get on with my life? After all  if my marriage had been solid and survived I would ever have had the courage have come out. Did that mean my drive to a new gender was not as strong as those other girls I have read about? Should I just stop now? Could I take everything back? Although I was not content I was able to sort of  function as a male at work. Is contentment really enough of a reason? Surely I should have been suicidal if I had to stay as a man. I just wasn’t, well not at that time (though these thought had been a times through my life). What about my family. I knew mum and dad would be shocked (and disappointed) that I would be living full time as a woman.

I needed something stronger so I supplemented the Chocolate Milk with my favourite gourmet snack of Barbeque Beef Hoola Hoop crisps with Galaxy Milk Chocolate, eaten together at the same time..

I managed to get a grip. I hadn’t come this far to give up now. Even if All these obstacles were piled together and doubled were not enough. I was a woman. From that first exhilarating moment I first stepped out in the daylight I knew it was right for me. Since then, at every opportunity of choice I had presented as a woman. This was no passing phase. In the cheesy camp words of Gloria Gaynor “I am what I am”. Who cares why? Logic was not going to help me. My decision was right. I needed to think about the Hows and not the Whys

And so to the How. I have read that other girls had taken some time off work with their colleagues prepared for the change when they got back. I didn’t see that working. Apart from the fact that my workload was crazy full, I didn’t have an easily defined bunch of work colleagues. I could be with new staff and members every day. There was no way to prepare them all. I decided for a touch of Shock and Awe approach( or depending how it was received Shock and Awful)

T-day minus 3

So one wet Friday in Early October I spent my day ringing around various departments of the NHS in North Staffordshire. I picked out those managers and colleagues I would be meeting with that next week. The phone calls were all fairly brief.

“Hi it’s Xxxxx Harvey from Unison. Just thought I would let you know that from Monday I will be coming to work as a woman and my name will be Jenny”.

In those few simple words my life changed. Some of my colleagues had been prepared for, but never expected it so soon. Others had no pre warning. I guess everyone was at the least wrong footed, while others felt hacked down from behind. To their credit, and my eternal gratitude, they were to a man and woman supportive and kind, although I suspect some were still concerned how they would react to me when they first met new me.

I ended that day feeling drained, excited, scared, resigned, elated, worried, numb and excited again. Whatever I had done, it was done. I spent the weekend trying desperately not to think about it. I failed.

T-Day

I got up so early on the Monday. I knew I had to get my appearance just right. Every woman is judged on appearance at work. A Trans woman doubly so. I knew everyone would be judging me even if they weren’t conscious they were doing so. If I made a hash of my appearance that first crucial impression would be tough to overcome. This would make the difference to see I would be regarded as a woman or a Transvestite.

I wanted to look feminine and appropriate. I could easily overdo the girliness that would not usually be seen at work. Too understated would not suit the tools I had to work with. It was no simple task to transform me from the shambling oaf that was my male appearance to a sophisticated (what!) working woman, so I needed plenty of time. I plumped (very plumped in my case), for a long black skirt, pink stripped blouse under a dark pink v neck sweater, and my trusty black zipped jacket, I applied my makeup with more care and subtlety than ever before, and made sure my wig, that was so necessary to make it all work was perfectly styled….and so, with no going back it was off to work.

Out of the 4 colleagues that inhabit (or clutter up) the office only Dave had not met Jen before. I burst into the office with declaring “I’ve done something different with my hair, can you tell”. As ice breaker jokes go it was very poor, but it was a  start. I had decided that I would try and use self deprecating humour as an approach to A) put people at ease and B). to blunt any potential unkind comments . This was the exact same way I used humour at school to counter bullying. I must admit I came to regret a little the over reliance of this tactic. It was useful at first, but after time it didn’t help with serious acceptance.

Anyway on that first day I was due to do a presentation to some visiting assessors from an NHS initiative called Improving Working Lives. There would be about 20 people in the meeting with most being my employers senior managers. I didn’t imagine the visitors would not be expecting a fledgling transitioned Trans woman and I worried they might be distracted from my presentation. So I decided to open with the ice breaker of my now legendary and poorNHS trans “joke”. In the NHS there has been a huge pay restructure called Agenda for Change (I guess you’re ahead of me) so I opened with. “Hi I’m Jenny Harvey of Unison and the Staffside Chair. And I wish someone had told me earlier that Agenda for Change didn’t mean I actually had to Change my Gender” Well It seemed to work and nervous laughter turned to genuine laughter, and everyone seemed at ease. I have discussed this approach with my Speech Therapist, who thinks I am wrong to draw attention to my gender in this manner and it is like I am trying to excuse and apologise for who I am. In reflection she is right, and I do make a conscious effort now to avoid this, though as a frustrated stand up it’s hard to drop a joke that works.

Well this was quite a baptism of fire for my first day. No settling in gently for me, but that was good to be honest, it meant I had no time for anxiety. The only hiccup on the day occurred at lunch. Ian our Branch Treasurer came into the office. Now Ian was the only branch officer I hadn’t told about my gender identity. I had just missed him out by accident. He really had no idea. So he stood chatting to a colleague unaware that the female figure in the corner was me. I walked over to Ian saying “Hi Ian, I am sorry I didn’t warn you” As he looked at me and then at hearing my voice, the phrase “The penny dropped” just doesn’t do justice. He visibly paled and swayed at the shock. The worry was, that Ian had not that long suffered a heart attack. I felt really bad, that I had surprised him like this. When he returned to his office, I phoned him to check he was ok, and we had a good chat. Ian has been a rock since and never once slipped up with my name or pronoun. I was just glad I hadn’t finished him off.

Well that was day one over. It had gone really well. I was absolutely exhausted through the stress and the concentration needed to present as female without lapsing in male mannerisms. So there you have it. I Crossed The Floor. I was now a member of the other party, and I was happy there.