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CHAPTER ELEVEN ll these people, the many people I have
written about in these
many
pages, are but a few of the dozens upon dozens of people who,
like
a river, flowed through my life. So many, in fact, I can not
begin
to remember them all. There were numerous transsexuals and a lot
of
transvestites, there were gays, there were dozens of women who
came
to me for their fortunes, mostly for help with recalcitrant
husbands, and there were dozens of men who came to talk about
their
sexual problems, from impotency to bestiality.
How did I meet so many people? Some of them were drawn by advertising: In certain papers my ad read: Transsexual Tarot Reader. Do you have problems with love, health, marriage, money, legal matters, with your children? Having walked in two worlds, Darlene has a unique perspective not available from any other reader. Understanding and compassionate. Call xxx-xxxx In other papers my ad read: LET'S TALK! Need someone understanding and compassionate to talk with about sexual problems, marriage difficulties, problems with your children, legal matters, or health? Veronica is a transsexual woman, intelligent, and, having walked in two worlds can offer a unique perspective. This is legitimate counseling. Advice only. If sex is what you're after, call someone else. Veronica xxx-xxxx The fortune telling ad drew almost entirely women needing help with alcoholic husbands, abusive husbands, womanizing husbands, and sometimes they even sought advice about good husbands who had health or employment problems. My advice was individually tailored for each patron and after a time I developed a small clientele of people who I considered to be friends, friends who paid for my advice while we shared a cup of tea and nibbled on crackers and cheese. Only one man ever called me for a tarot reading, a gay male who I freaked out during the first few minutes of his phone call by telling him he was gay and his lover had left him for another man. Grin! It wasn't hard when his first sentence was, ``Can you help me? I have a problem with my lover.'' Much of my reading was no more than sound advice cloaked in the guise of tarot reading, the cards and the mysticism supplying a bit more authority than conventional counselling provided. If a woman had a physically abusive husband, I invariably counseled her to leave him, predicting the violence would only increase if she didn't leave him. When they complained that they loved these abusive men, I insisted that if they loved them then they would help them best by leaving them. Yes, leave the door open if the husbands sought counseling, but otherwise close the door and keep it closed. If the man was an alcoholic I advised that he should lay off the sauce for a year, to prove he meant business. Otherwise, I predicted tragedy, and I didn't need psychic power to make such a prediction. It was gratifying when my clients listened to my advice and later reported that they had improved relationships. On the other hand, if a husband was verbally abusive, my advice depended on the severity of the verbal abuse and the age of the man in question. If he was a young man, tearing up the furniture and throwing temper tantrums, I counseled patience. Give him time to grow, time to learn how to control his emotions, emotions generated largely by the violent power inherent in male hormones. It fascinates me that we can learn to forgive female's outbursts during certain times of month, chalk these outbursts up to PMS, and then we dismiss the aggression of males who must deal with hormones of far greater strength. With all that said, I did caution that they should leave a man if he ever struck them, even once. Also older men, who should have been more settled, throwing similar tantrums were of greater concern. These indicated far more than rampant male hormones, these suggested deep seated emotional problems. It has been said that fortune telling is telling people what they want to hear and I suppose, if you don't give a damn about people and just want to make a fast buck, this is true. Some readers ``see'' demons and curses all around and they promise to pray for you, or burn candles, or lift some curse that only they can see, all for the low, low price of your immortal soul, your first born child, and the lint from your naval. A caring reader, however, doesn't tell people what they want to hear, a caring reader tells people what they already know is true, but need to hear from someone else. Let's Talk, was the exact reverse of tarot reading. Dozens of men called with all manner of problems; impotency, pre-ejaculation, fears of latent homosexuality, bestiality, problems understanding their wives, guilt feelings about their womanizing. Only one woman ever called. A lesbian who wanted advice over the phone because she didn't think she should have to pay. So what the hey, I talked with her a couple of different times and then never heard from her again. I charged twenty dollars for a reading, or for a counseling session. For that twenty dollars I gave each person my undivided attention for an hour. In the process I made many new friends, friends who cared for me and seemed to understand me. Shortly after James and Larry enlisted in the service I met Felicia, a closeted transsexual. I helped Felicia discover herself as a woman and Mary helped her get a job at Motorola. Felicia, an ex-marine and Vietnam vet, was small framed, and, as a woman, looked like Tootsie, as played by Dustin Hoffman. Her sense of humor was delightful and, as time passed, we grew to be close friends. We were as close as if we had been natural born sisters. We shared similar philosophies, attitudes about life, and interests. We were also both left-handed. This led me to, once more, consider a possible connection between left-handedness and transsexuality. I took a poll of all the transsexuals I knew, and was startled to discover thirteen out of sixteen were left-handed, and one of the others was ambidextrous. Assuming my conjecture was correct, what did it mean? Left handedness is a genetic trait. If transsexuals tended to be left handed, then transsexuality was a genetic trait. (In recent times scientific evidence has uncovered marked physical differences between the male and female brain, and current studies suggest that left-handed males have a similar brain structure to females. The studies are recent and there is much more to investigate, but apparently, as most transsexuals have always known, it suggests we are born to our gender and to our sexual propensity.)
Our new home, although an older model, 1971, was in excellent condition and, for a mobile home, it was spacious, 14 by 64 with a 7 by 10 extension off the living room. Its age and size presented some difficulty in finding a mobile home park that would accept it. We finally had to settle on a park at 53rd street and Van Buren. A graceless park, drab and dreary, populated by cutthroats, ex- convicts, and murderers. At the time, I didn't know they were cut-throats, ex-convicts, and murderers. Although the scraggly beards, long unkempt hair, bared chests, tattooed bodies, and bandannas tied around the heads of many of them did suggest a crude, aggressive lot; and their men looked even tougher. I worried how my family would survive in this place, a place seeming to foreshadow doom. There were three reasons I bought my big 750cc, shiny black, Kawasaki motorcycle, a Specter I named Spook. One was for reliable transportation. I was tired of F.O.R.D. (fix or repair daily) automobiles, never knowing where and when they would malfunction, only knowing that malfunction was inevitable. Two, I had always loved motorcycles and having come to grips with my identity as a woman, I no longer feared expressing parts of my personality that might be considered masculine. Three, many of my new neighbors had motorcycles, and I hoped Spook would help us fit into the community, or failing that, intimidate the hell out of them. Spook wasn't my first motorcycle, but it was the most powerful one I ever owned. On the second day after I bought ``him'' I went riding. As I approached a red light near 35th street and Thomas an ugly dude in black leather covered with silver studs pulled up beside me on a chopper, (Harley Davidson). Neither of us were wearing helmets, although my hair was held in place by a head scarf. He grinned a toothless smile at me and winked. When the light turned green he goosed his Harley and shot across the intersection. Aggravated, I twisted hard on Spook's throttle. Spook responded by instantly leaping forward, rising vertically into the air as I shot forward. I was doing a wheelie! I had never done a wheelie! I didn't want to be doing a wheelie! The blood drained from my face, my knuckles turned white on the handle grips, knots tied and untied in my stomach, and, for a moment, I was paralyzed, unable to react. Launched on my rear wheel I shot past the Harley like it was standing still, only then did I gather my senses, realizing that, if I eased off on the throttle, I would settle back down to earth. Stopping at the next red light I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. My hands were shaking and my knees felt like they would buckle underneath me. I steadied my motorcycle only with enormous effort. The character on the Harley pulled up along side of me smiling a wide toothless grin. ``What now?'' I wondered. ``Hey, Hey, Big Mama.'' he called out in a loud boisterous voice. ``You do know how to ride that thing, don'tcha?'' The light changed and he took off. This time I let him go. Enough was enough!
In the mobile home park where we lived the trailers were not set in neat little rows like most trailer parks, they were positioned in a great circle reminiscent of a wagon train circled to protect itself from an Indian raid. For the first two or three months interaction with our neighbors was distant, but no one caused us any trouble. In fact, no one caused trouble for anyone in that court. Was it honor among thieves? An unwritten agreement that you don't steal from your own? My opinion is that everyone in that court was scared to death of everyone else. It was an armed camp and everyone knew it. If anyone offended, robbed, or hurt anyone there was an odds on chance that someone would end up dead. For whatever reason, my family and I were left alone. Our greatest inconvenience was occasionally someone wanting to borrow the price of a six pack, a pack of cigarettes, or needing a lift on Spook. Curiously, this place of hostile men and tough women, the Hell Hole of Phoenix, was one of the quietest, most uneventful places I ever lived. Spook, as hoped, was reliable transportation and he was incredible fun. More than once when he and I were on the highway I rapped "him" out. The wind would whip against my cheeks pinning the flesh hard against my face. Catching glimpses of myself in the side view mirror my face was distorted, as if viewed in a fun house mirror. I'd laugh and the wind would steal the cachinnation. As the speedometer passed a hundred creeping upward, telephone poles whizzed by like so many match sticks. Distant objects appeared and then were instantly beside me, then as instantly were far behind. It seemed magical. At 120 the wind, spiked and spiny, brought tears to my eyes and threatened to rip me bodily from the saddle. Intently I was aware that even a moment's hesitation, one slight mistake, a wobble, and I would hurtle to a violent and gruesome death. And yet, I loved it! The sensation of speed, control over my own destiny, knowing that death was a whisper away. God, it was crazy. God, but it was good.
I was ordered to see a government appointed doctor for reevaluation of my disability status. During my appointment I tried to explain that I would probably do well on the stress test. In short bursts I could do almost anything, but a few hours afterward I would start sweating profusely accompanied by severe chest pain and considerable difficulty breathing. He politely thanked me for the information and told me he would take it into account. When we finished the stress test, he proclaimed I would be able to return to work. I was well, now! Yes, I left his office feeling fine, but by evening I could hardly stand, my chest hurt, and my breathing was labored. Okay, so I was able to work. The government doctor said so. I went to work. Always it turned out the same. At the end of the work day, whatever work I was doing, my clothes were drenched with sweat, my chest ached, and breathing was difficult. Inside of a week, two at most, I would be sick in bed. Then, either I would be fired or asked to quit. Mary usually insisted I quit. She preferred me to stay home and take care of the house. Eventually, since she made enough to cover our expenses, I gracefully gave in. Mary would be the breadwinner and I would be the housewife. She would be the man of the house and I the woman. Steve, because of necessity, had been reborn. Over the next few years my life centered around homemaking, and raising our two remaining boys. It was an ideal life for a transsexual. Mary and I had an uneasy compromise that was weighted heavily in my favor. I tried to be a good wife, and like to think I succeeded. I no longer roamed the streets looking to get laid, no longer sought out exciting adventures, and was no longer confused and bewildered. For awhile, life seemed ideal. Indeed, my only activity outside of the home was Friday night pizza and cold Lowenbrau beer with Spirou. Spirou and I would go for a drive, pick up a pizza and some beer, and then, in some private spot, we'd stop to park and talk. That's not entirely accurate, we didn't talk. Spirou talked! Spirou pontificated endlessly on trivial nonsense. I listened! After all, he bought the pizza and beer, and he treated me like a lady. I enjoyed it; it got me out of the house once a week. Four uneventful years rolled by, then, on an evening in October 1985, my chest pain became severe, and the dizzy spells started. An angiogram revealed major 100% blockages to four sections of my heart. My doctors scheduled me for an immediate emergency triple bypass. October 30th, 1985. Mary stayed the night with me at the hospital. She slept in a chair near my bed. Off and on we talked as the long night passed. We reaffirmed our love and, in case the operation failed, we said our goodbyes. We were both scared. This wasn't a romp in the park. It was real and it was still listed as experimental surgery. We were informed I had a one in five chance of dying on the table. For once Mary didn't blow off about some imagined injury and gave me the support I needed. The ordeal began. When they opened my thoracic cavity, the surgeon, Dr. Grunsfeld, slipped with a scalpel precipitating a heart attack. His mistake would mean four grafts instead of three. Additionally, a balloon pump had to be inserted in my left leg to jump start my heart. Fortunately, I remember none of it. Out like a light! Unfortunately, I do remember waking up with tubes coming out of every orifice in my body, and there were some orifices I hadn't had when I went in. My temperature was 104, my throat was dry and raspy, yet, I was refused liquids. With a tube down my throat their concern was that I might drown in a swallow of water. Some two hours after the operation I signaled the nurse I wished to write a message. My hands were kept tied to prevent me from accidentally doing myself serious damage. When they untied my left hand and provided paper and pencil I wrote, ICE CHIPS? PLEASE? The nurse called the doctor and the doctor said it would be okay. After that, I incessantly begged for refills. I was given shot after shot of morphine. I wasn't feeling any pain. Suddenly, however, I became aware of the secret plot the hospital staff had to kill me. After each injection of morphine I noticed my heart beating slower and slower. I began sweating, realizing I was powerless to prevent my murder. It was then that I realized the men and women in white uniforms hovering around my bed were in reality alien creatures disguised as nurses. My hands were tied down. There was a tube down my throat. Tubes sprouted like porcupine quills from all over my body. I was helpless. Across the room I noticed malevolent eyes staring at me, plotting, scheming. I tried to scream but the tube in my throat prevented it. Twisting against the tubes and wires I searched for some way to free my hands. I had to escape. I didn't have a chance trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Twisting and thrashing against my restraints, something metallic snapped, an alarm went off. The nurses heard it too and came running. This was it! They weren't going to take any chances on my getting away. Now, they were going to kill me. ``He's pulled the monitor wires loose. Plug him back in,'' I heard one say. I watched as the nurses checked me over and then I thought, ``M'god, this is a hospital. These are nurses. No one's trying to kill me.'' I signalled for them to free my hand and bring paper and pencil. I wrote:
``You don't want any more morphine. Okay, we'll give you something else.''
``Days? You were operated on this morning. You've been out of the operating room about four hours.'' Four hours! How could fours hours seem like days? THANKS. I wrote and let them retie my hand. Without morphine the pain was awesome, an agony that transcended any pain I had ever known. I disassociated myself from it as best I could and sought the comfort and solace of sleep; fitful sleep, troubled sleep, healing sleep. Recovery was slow, frightening, and painful. When I tried to move, my chest felt leaden and pierced with long, sharp needles. Two weeks passed before I was allowed to go home and for two months after that I was still convalescing and still on a narcotic, Percodan. Many times, waking up on the sofa, it seemed I would never heal. During those agonizing hours, I resented being alone more than at any other time in my life. But Mary, in her room, still had to watch her television and read her books through the early hours of the morning. Romantic moments between Mary and I had been few and far between in recent years. However, there were some that were memorable. One that I recall involved our motorcycle. Mary seemed to enjoy Spook almost as much as I did. One Saturday we slipped away for a trip to Old Tucson, a sound stage and theme park where many western movies had been made. On the way we pushed Spook over a 100 mph for a few minutes. Mary, addicted to roller coasters, was thrilled with Spook. Gripping me tightly around my waist she screamed in delight as I increased the speed beyond highway limits. We must have made quite a spectacle; a big women flying down the highway on a big black motorcycle with a smaller one, eyes squinted tightly shut, hanging on for all she was worth. Old Tucson was a pleasant treat. We rode the stage coach, saw gunfights in the streets, toured the sound stage, rode the train, and ate cotton candy. For three or four hours we ambled around enjoying ourselves, and then I noticed the sky was growing dark and ominous; a storm was brewing. I suggested it was time to head home and Mary agreed. We rolled out of Tucson and took to the highway. The storm broke in full fury about forty miles outside of Phoenix. There isn't anything more dangerous in the world than a motorcycle on wet pavement. I slowed our speed to 45. The rain pelting my eyes, obscuring and blurring my vision, made it almost impossible to go on. In minutes Mary and I were drenched. We drove on for about ten miles and then I spotted a viaduct, a possible shelter from the pelting rain. Pulling over I locked the bike and helped Mary climb down into the gorge. Ducking inside the nearby concrete viaduct we snuggled together for warmth and comfort. Cuddling and kissing, teasing and laughing, we delighted in each other's company. Laying back, our arms wrapped around one another, we waited out the storm. Memories of our youth wafted though my mind. Why couldn't it always be like this? Why did it take a rainstorm and a motorcycle before we could have a romantic interlude? The rain broke. Mary and I, taking advantage of the opportunity, climbed back on Spook and headed home. I twisted the throttle down hard, eating up the highway. Before the next down pour, we were safe and secure inside our mobile home. Once home, I wished we had stayed in the viaduct awhile longer. Mary trotted off to her room to read, which left me to settle down to play Atari games with Anton, who had just returned from school a short while before we had arrived.
Anton was an extraordinarily sensitive child. When he was eleven he wrote a short ditty revealing that sensitivity.
As a Junior in English class at Camelback High, Anton was assigned to pick a favorite or famous character from history and then do a monologue as that character. Most of the kids picked characters like Bud Abbot and Lou Costello, Michael Jackson, Madonna, and David Lee Roth. Anton chose Vladmere Thalkan, a chronicler of Norse mythology and instead of acting the character, he became the character. The vignette was as follows: Elderwraith, a beautiful decorative sword and that year's Christmas gift, was wrapped in black silk and in the care of the school security guards. Anton, wearing an ancient medallion with a lion crest on a heavy chain around his neck and a black dragon pin on his collar symbolizing his skill with the sword, was in class awaiting his turn to speak. He also had a pewter drinking cup emblazoned with a dragon. When it was Anton's turn to speak the security guard brought in Elderwraith and laid it, still wrapped, on the table in front of the class. Anton, taking his time, slowly, lovingly, unwrapped the sword. Then, the drinking cup in his left hand and the sword in his right, he turned to face the class. Brandishing the sword and using the cup to punctuate his words Anton, in a deep resounding voice, began his tale. ``My name is VLADMERE THALKAN.'' he said, his voice booming. ``I was born in the year of the Ox. It was a long time ago. I FOUGHT MIGHTY BATTLES, SLEW MIGHTY ENEMIES, AND CONQUERED MANY LANDS. Perhaps you've heard of me ... NO?'' ``Perhaps you know of me by another name, the Pirate of the Crimson Sea ... STILL NO? Then by this name you surely know me ... CAPTAIN DEATH!'' As he spoke the name of Death, Anton, laughing a hearty laugh, downed a drought from his chalice. He continued, ``I was a pirate, Captain of three ships, the scourge of SCURVY ENGLISHMEN, and the ravager of many comely English lasses. It was a hearty life and a happy one.'' He paused pensively. ``Until that fateful night upon the Northern Sea when my three ships, torn by storm and wave, were set upon by a fleet of CURSED ENGLISH. EIGHT SHIPS they were, each equipped with battering rams, and of my three ships only one, my lead ship, was so equipped. Two of my vessels were rammed and sank swiftly beneath the waves. Then my own ship shuddered and shook as it received the brunt, port and starboard, of two blows struck at once.'' ``COWARDLY ENGLISH!'' Anton screamed venomously, and then continued, ``I was thrown from my perch on the deck into the turbulent sea. There I beheld, MY FURY UNBOUNDED AND SWEARING OATH TO HAVE MY REVENGE, my last ship and the last of my men, my destiny, sinking beneath the dark roaring waters. Before the FILTHY SWINE sailed away I too felt the grip of darkness, knew the icy touch of death. My limbs dead, breath denied me, I drifted into ... nothingness.'' The word nothingness was a mere whisper. Anton paused before going on, then speaking softly at first, ``Recently I was restored to life by a powerful wizard from your time, using a magic known as ... science?! I was found frozen in the Northern Wilderness and through this ... science ... and by a means unknown to me I was made to live again. I find your world strange, BUT I AM NOT AFRAID. I FEAR NOTHING! NOT MEN, NOR BEASTS, NOT YOUR STRANGE MACHINES, NOR YOUR STRANGER GODS. Yes, I am returned to life, returned to challenge, returned to conquer new lands. Let all know that VLADMERE THALKAN WALKS AGAIN UPON THE LAND, AND BEWARE! BEWARE! BEWARE!'' Finished, Anton turned around and slowly, lovingly wrapped Elderwraith in its sheath of black silk. There wasn't a sound, not a whisper from the class, until security removed the sword and Anton returned to his seat. Then the applause came, thready at first, then robust and full. As the class quieted down the teacher, clearing her voice, said, ``That was excellent Anton. It'll be a hard act to follow.'' His eyes glowed and twinkled as he related the story to me; as did mine upon hearing it. We share many things, have much in common. Laughter is chief among them.
December 20th, 1985, five days before Christmas, at sixty nine years of age, my father died of a heart attack in the backyard of his home in Goodyear. He had been knocking ripe nuts off his pecan tree with a long stick. When I heard the news I went crazy. For the next three days, whenever I was alone, I wailed and screamed, primal screams at the top of my lungs. ``No, not my Daddy! Not my Daddy you don't! I won't let you! I won't let you!'' I was, of course, screaming at that faceless, formless, anthropomorphic nothingness that wells up from the hypothalamus, the primitive animal portion of the brain. Tears blurring my vision, my brow furrowing, and my mouth twisting in helpless defiance I willed my father back to life. Knowing that it was impossible, knowing he couldn't and wouldn't live again, I willed all the harder, as if by sheer strength of mind I could change the fabric of the universe. My body trembled with the effort and the cords on my neck threatened to burst, the arteries in my temple gorged with blood, swelling so that from that day on they would forever stand out visibly on either side of my head. I screamed without cease, on an on. The edge of madness brushed my mind. Knowing it, I yelled the more ferociously, sought to embrace that madness. ``You're not dead. I won't let you be dead. Live! Live, God damn it!'' I had been fortunate, at forty six years of age I had never had to endure an unexpected death. On some level I had begun to believe that Old Lady Death had forgotten about my family and that we were all immortal. After all, it had never happened, therefore, it would never happen. I wasn't prepared for it. When I was with my mother or my brother, I tried to be strong. I'm sure they were trying to be strong for me. But when alone, each of us was going through our own private version of hell. On the day of the viewing the family gathered together at Mom and Dad's home in Goodyear. Felicia was there too. To me Felicia had as much right to be there as anyone in the family. I took comfort from her presence. My brother's wife, Teresa, was far from sympathetic or supportive, toward me. I received a message from her by way of my mother, a message she didn't have the backbone to deliver in person. She didn't want me to appear at my father's viewing while her parents or friends were there. It might embarrass her, or cause problems for her at her employment. Her attitude was offensive, but I felt compelled to accommodate her. When Dad's father died there had been a huge blow up at the funeral and Dad had always said he didn't want fighting at his funeral. Thus it was that I asked Larry and James, home on emergency leave, to attend the viewing and tell me when Teresa's parents and friends left the mortuary. Then I would skulk down, like a thief in the night, and spend a few minutes with my father. We waited, Felicia and me, on easy chairs in the living room at the house. To add insult to injury, Teresa returned to the house at about eight o'clock, an hour before the viewing was to end. She plopped her ass down on a chair in the middle of the living room, and sat there silently, a distant look on her face. To break the silence I spoke up, ``It's okay Teresa, I'll sneak in to see my father after everyone has left.'' ``What the hell's eating you?'' she snapped back. ``Let her alone!'' retorted Felicia rising to my defense. ``Haven't you done enough? Her father's dead!'' Teresa jumped up and stormed out the door, slamming it behind her. Once she was gone Felicia asked, ``Why are you doing this? You have a right to see your father. You should go. To hell with Teresa.'' ``My father didn't want any fighting at his funeral. I'm honoring his wishes,'' I replied. ``It's the only thing I can give him now.'' A few minutes passed. Tires squealed outside and my brother rushed into the living room. Falling to his knees beside me, crying, he begged for my forgiveness. ``Please come see Dad with me. I want you to come.'' I found no fault in my brother and I agreed to visit for a few minutes. I instructed Greg to go on ahead and promised I'd be along shortly. Later, when Felicia and I were alone, she looked at me strangely, then shaking her head she said, ``I can't believe your family.'' ``What do you mean?'' ``You almost miss your father's viewing to prevent a fight with your sister-in-law, and then your brother humbles himself to get you to go. In my family it wouldn't have been like that. They would've been fighting like cats and dogs.'' ``My brother didn't humble himself. It isn't humbling yourself to do something out of love. I can't remember when I've been prouder of my brother. I was afraid he might feel the same way as Teresa.'' Eventually, I forgave Teresa's insult. She is my brother's wife and I will treat her accordingly, but some of the respect I once had for her lies buried in my father's grave.
There was a special moment at the viewing, one that Dad would have appreciated. Every Christmas and on birthdays Dad gave silver dollars to the kids. It had become a family tradition. Every year the boys had looked forward to receiving their silver dollars. Now, there could be no more silver dollars from my father. At the viewing, Larry, bending over my father while James held open a pocket on Dad's suit jacket, slipped in a centennial silver dollar. Dad would have been pleased.
Four months after Dad died, I enrolled in Maricopa Community College. My courses were Human Anatomy, Psychology, and English, prerequisites for a Nursing curriculum. I attended Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 9:30 AM to 3:30 PM. Additionally, I went to work as a Nurses Aide for Friendship Village Health Center, one of the ten best such institutions in the country. I worked graveyard, 10:45 PM to 7:15 PM, in the geriatric ward. Mary tried to tell me it was too soon, and my cardiologist, Dr. Pearson, had cautioned, wherever I worked, I wasn't to lift more than thirty pounds. Under the circumstance, I couldn't tell him I where I was working. Stubborn! Bullheaded! I had a new lease on life and I was going for the gold. All the frustrated hopes and unfulfilled dreams of a lifetime were pushing me. Here was my chance, possibly my last chance, to be the woman I knew myself to be. I was alive, healing, and felt better than I had for a long time. Previous to my bypass, I had worked as a Nurses Aide on three different accessions. Each time the exertions had been too much for my heart and I was forced to quit. That was then, this was now. My heart had been repaired and a whole new life was bursting over the horizon. I bought a used bike to ride to school and back, a little over five miles. This provided the three weekly cardiovascular workouts I needed. I worked hard in school. My grades were straight A's, but it wasn't easy. I poured over my books, and paid rapt attention in class. I made many friends, and, although I made no secret that I was transsexual, it was never addressed directly. My transsexuality, if anyone knew, didn't seem to matter to the other women. What mattered was that I was competent, nurturing, and that I loved what I was doing. One reason I got along with the other girls was that everyone wanted to copy my notes. I made up dirty little cartoons with mnemonic codes for everything we had to learn. What I did with mitochondria, rough endoplasmic reticulum, and the chromatic thread would have made prime time on the Playboy channel, not to mention what I did with ribosomes, vacuoles, and centrioles. You can't forget it when you see the structure of a cell cartooned in all its pornographic implications. I loved college, and I loved my work. I was well liked both places. At work, duties were assigned in teams of two and everyone wanted to team with me. My greater strength made the work easier and I enjoyed talking, which made the night go faster. My strength and size worked to my advantage in other ways too. When a patient needed restraint I could lock my fingers loosely around their wrists like a padded handcuff, then, straddling them with one leg on either side of their knees, I could immobilize a patient without causing them any discomfort. Whenever I was on the floor and a patient needed restraint, the nurses would yell for someone to, ``Go get Laura.'' Agitated patients often calmed down as soon as I entered the room. One of my co-workers remarked that my size intimidated them. Maybe it's wishful thinking on my part, but I like to think they calmed down because they knew I cared about them. When a patient thanked me for something I did, or said, ``Laura, I love you,'' I sucked it up like sponge. Unfortunately, after a month, my chest pain started again. I also had the sweats and shortness of breath. I ignored it for another two months, hoping it would go away. Finally, I was forced to consult with Dr. Pearson, my cardiologist. Dr. Pearson was very angry when he learned where I was working. Admonishing me that I had no business taking a job lifting patients, he ordered me to quit. The following day, with heavy heart, I turned in my two weeks notice. In the medical profession, women are at their best. Intimacy, nurturing, and social awareness are at a premium, and patients are people at their most vulnerable. The ability to sense the needs of a comatose patient, to understand the garble of a stroke victim, the patience to gentle a hostile geriatric, or knowing when a few minutes of conversation might help someone out of a depression, these are priceless skills. I feel privileged to have been a part of that world, even if for only a brief time. I only wish society valued these special people, mostly women, as they deserved. Finishing my prerequisites at college, the following year I enrolled in nursing. The first few weeks were great, I was still getting straight A's. Although it was harder than it had been the previous semester. Then, when we started our practical training working in a hospital environment taking care of patients, my heart let me down again. As soon as I began to lift and turn patients, getting them in and out of bed, my old symptoms reappeared. I was forced to drop out of the nursing program. Gene was of age and, although he hadn't graduated from high school, he did get a G.E.D. With his G.E.D. in hand, he went to the Navy and tried to enlist. Over a period of six months he took the Navy entrance exam three times, twice failing it. On the third time he made it by a thin margin and was permitted to enlist. One by one the boys were growing up and beginning their own lives.
The quadruple bypass had not noticeably improved my cardiac condition. My life expectancy was five years, I was informed, but I was given to believe that my life expectancy had been substantially less before the bypass. I suppose there was some comfort there. However the quality of my health hadn't changed that much. I still sweated profusely, became short of breath easily, and had chest pain. Evidently my heart was a seriously damaged piece of merchandise. The one tangible benefit that came out of my bypass was that there was now medical evidence of the seriousness of my condition. I was and had been legitimately disabled ever since I had my initial heart attack and now I had proof. Engaging the services of a lawyer, I presented my case to the Office of Disability. I applied for current benefits and, armed with my complete medical dossier, I applied for the four years back benefits that had been due me. My disability checks started coming the following month and my application for past due payments went for review. Knowing that you might not live a long life changes your priorities. Everything takes on an immediacy that it never had before. I could die and my family wouldn't have any security. Sure, Dad had bought us a mobile home but we still had to rent space for it. What we needed was a lot of our own and, if we bought one now, I might even live long enough to pay it off. Mary and I, after a little discussion, decided my disability money should be used to purchase a lot. Mary too, recognized the need for security. Buying acreage for a mobile home didn't turn out to be an easy project. Maricopa County legally discouraged mobile home owners from buying property in Maricopa County by not permitting Mobile homes on less than five acres of land. We couldn't afford five acres of land. If we could have, we would have bought a house with that kind of money. We were forced to look toward Pima County and Casa Grande. The unfortunate part about buying in Casa Grande was that it was forty five miles from Mary's work. Even with the freeway ending almost at the door of Motorola, it was quite a commute. What choice did we have? If Mary was to have property and a home of her own, there wasn't any choice. With my first disability check, we made a down payment on a lot in Casa Grande and with my second check we moved our home. With our lot purchased and the mobile home moved on to it, Mary decided it was too far to drive back and forth on a daily basis. Mary was acquainted with a disabled woman, Drenda, who needed someone with her during the week. Mary announced that, rather than commute, she would be moving in with Drenda. This seemed an adequate, if not perfect solution. Staying with Drenda Monday through Saturday Mary avoided the long daily drive. On Saturday night I picked her up and brought her home, dropping her off at work again on Monday morning. With Mary spending most of the week at Drenda's, the three oldest boys in the service, and all my friends living in Phoenix, living in Casa Grande gave me ample time to reflect on my life. There was Anton, of course, but he had school and after school he was involved with a girl. Having time to reflect, I reflected. Believing that now I could never have the life I desired, I wanted my life to mean something to my family. I dearly loved my family and wanted to provide a sanctuary for them. I wanted Mary to have a place to live. I also wanted a sanctuary for the boys if times got hard. To do what I wanted meant a shift in priorities. There was a ton of work to do at Casa Grande and it couldn't be done wearing skirts and makeup. When my father died I asked Mom for one of his hunting shirts, a red and black checkered affair, as a keepsake. In memory of my father I slipped into that shirt and a pair of jeans before starting to work on the property. It was strange wearing men's clothes again. I didn't feel like a man, but the shirt did make me feel closer to my father. The first time I put the shirt on I wrapped my arms around myself. It felt so much like Dad hugging me that I wept. I looked at the mobile home sitting on a barren desert lot, imagining the work ahead of me. There would be skirting, putting in tie downs, erecting an awning, putting down a new roof, fencing the yard, building a drive way, landscaping, building walk ways, and a mail box to put in. A considerable amount of work for a healthy person, and I wasn't healthy. As the days and the work rolled on, with Anton's assistance, the place started to take shape. Anton worked after school, shoulder to shoulder with me. More than once, when he knew the work would be especially strenuous, he took a day off. Through all of it he remained on the honor roll. Anton and I had always been close, working on Casa Grande brought us closer still. Anton understood me, and he knew that what we were doing was meant to be a gift to the family, perhaps the last gift I would ever be able to give them. Sometimes the exertion laid me low and I would be forced to take a day off and take to my bed. Anton on these days, concerned for my health, redoubled his efforts. I, in turn, pushed myself to do as much as my heart permitted. These were terrible hot days, my heart pounding painfully against my chest, and these were restless nights, short of breath and sleeping fitfully. Still, I was going to die. If I could just get everything finished first I would have accomplished my goal. I couldn't give my children the financial support my father had provided for his family, but I would have given them something. One morning, in the mailbox that Anton and I had put up early on, I found two government checks. I hadn't believed for a moment I would get any retroactive disability, but I had been wrong. It had come through. A chill washed over my body, this was more money than I had ever had at one time in my life. Thirty six thousand dollars. Good God, I could feminize my face and have the long delayed surgery. I would never have to live as a man again. These were my first thoughts, then reality took hold. I was dying. Sex reconstructive surgery, under the circumstances, would probably finish me off. Besides, what kind of a woman would I be to indulge myself before taking care of my family. No, this money had to pay off our land, our mobile home, our cars, and our bills. It was slated for everything that was needed to build the home at Casa Grande. Felicia and Anton tried to talk me out of my resolve. They thought I had more than paid my dues, that I should take the money and follow my hearts desire. Felicia, in particular, was adamant, leaving no doubt in my mind that, had she received such an amount, nothing would take precedence over her surgery. I couldn't do it. Maybe, had I not been terminal I could have, maybe I would have. But the ever present thought in my mind was, ``What for? At best a year or two with a pretty face and a twat and then I'd be buried with them and my family wouldn't have a damn thing.'' I opted to pay everything off. It seemed to me a greater expression of my femininity. The money paid off the land, the cars, the bills, and there was money left to improve the property. I bought gravel, fencing, skirting, tie downs, everything I needed to improve our home. Driving myself, as the end of my goal came into sight, I increased my work load. I was determined to finish what I had started, expecting in the process to finish myself off. Across the street contiguous on the corner was a vacant lot with numerous mounds of gravel left over from some previous construction. Obtaining permission to scavenge as much as we wanted, Anton and I hauled dozens upon dozens of wheelbarrows full of gravel, spreading it evenly in our driveway. Next we tarred and painted the roof, put on the siding, painted the trim, put in the tie downs, built the fence and the walkways, and landscaped the dry barren desert lot with grass, shrubs, and trees. When we were done it was splendid. Not a mansion, nor a magnificent estate, but a respectable mobile home on a respectably landscaped piece of property. We were both proud of what we had accomplished. Each day I had felt myself slipping a little, my life force seeming to be the mortar from which the work was accomplished. But that was fine, I was ready. In fact, I almost wanted to die. It seemed my life was over. I could never attain my heart's desire, but I would at least die a noble death. The closeness of death was like a stench in my nostrils, and that stench drew me as surely as a moth is drawn to the flame. With the work at Casa Grande finished I spoke of these feelings to Mary. It was during one of her Sunday visits, and I was proudly showing her all that Anton and I had accomplished. ``Mary, I made this place for you, and for the boys. I don't think I have much time left, but now I can rest in peace. My family has a home and property and it's free and clear. Those four years you supported us when I didn't have any income meant a lot to me. This is my way of showing how much I appreciated it. It's a gift of love.'' ``It's not a gift of love,'' she snapped unexpectedly, venomously, her face souring. ``If it was a gift of love you would have been happy to build it. You haven't been happy, you've been miserable. You never smile anymore. You didn't smile the whole time you worked on this damn place.'' My heart plummeted to my stomach. I turned and walked away. I didn't want her to see how much her words had wounded me. Ever since Mary had moved in with Drenda, a Fundamentalist Christian, she had taken to deprecating everything I tried to do. The harder I tried, the more likely it was to be viewed contemptuously. Any sense of fairness she might have had at one time was gone. Drenda's belief system was the sour judgmental attitude that tends to infect all fundamentalists, and it was infecting Mary. Doing something for her was no longer sufficient, whatever you accomplished had to be done her way, otherwise it wasn't worth a damn. Now it seemed, all of my efforts weren't going to be remembered as a noble gesture, not even as an act of love, all that would be remembered was that I hadn't done it with a shit-eating grin on my face. ``Well, it doesn't matter,'' I thought, knowing that I wasn't being entirely truthful. ``I didn't do it to be appreciated. I did it because it was the right thing to do.'' I owed her something for those years she had supported the family. Still, it hurt to be kicked in the teeth.
A few nights later, Mary back at Drenda's and Anton out on a date, I crawled two thirds of the way into a pint of brandy. Unsteadily, my mind a bit muddled, I ambled out into the middle of the yard. It was dark, as only the desert can be dark at night. I could hardly discern the hand that held the brandy, and while the stars and crescent moon gleamed brightly, they shed scant light on my surroundings. Turning around I examined the huge dark form of the mobile home, and the fenced and landscaped property surrounding it. It had been a piece of work, but it was finished. Miraculously, I had survived. My chest ached dreadfully and I struggled to catch each breath, but I was unmistakably alive. Raising my glass I toasted a job well done. Then, sipping on the brandy, I smirked. ``Not a gift of love.'' I mused, feeling sorry for myself. ``Well, fuck you Mary Ann.'' Tears welled up in my eyes and I shook my head slowly and sadly. Setting my jaw, I wiped the tears away with my sleeve. Looking myself over I noticed the clothes I was wearing, male work clothes, and my father's shirt that I had washed out and wore each and every day. I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging my father's shirt, feeling the fabric with my fingertips. Tomorrow I would dress properly again, but I would miss the smell of my father. Even after all the washing there remained a hint of his scent. Or perhaps it was my own scent. No matter, the aroma was distinctly that of my father. ``What a woman,'' I ruminated with irony, referring to myself. Sitting down in the yard on the soft grass, sipping yet more brandy, I laughed. I laughed hilariously at the futility of it all. I laughed hysterically, laughing so hard tears came to my eyes. Life was so god damn funny. A person would have to be crazy not to laugh. Nothing had worked out the way I had hoped. Much of my life I had thought of myself as either an abomination or a freak, take your pick. It took me thirty-eight years to discover what I was, by then I was married, had children, and had acquired responsibilities. Pushing myself, feeling at times like I was battling the world, I tried to conduct myself with integrity. I had a heart attack and later a quadruple bypass operation. Unable to return to work, depending solely on Mary's income, there was little enough money to keep our financial head above water. Finally, I get a little bit of money. Do I use it to reconstruct my incompatible body? Do I spend it on myself? No, I spend it building a homestead in Casa Grande. Not that I resented it. My children and Mary were more important than anything as superficial as reconstructive surgery. Next, dressed in male clothes and working like a farm animal, I, with Anton working beside me, create a haven in the desert. What was my reward? Mary tells me my efforts didn't mean anything. They had no value. Why does she say such a thing? Because I hadn't worn an idiotic grin on my face. The futility of everything I had hoped to accomplish cascaded down upon me. Mary refused to see what was in my heart, neither my womanhood, nor my love of family. I stood up, tears drying on my cheeks. Yep, no doubt about it. I was feeling sorry for myself. I looked up at the moon. Some primitive portion of the mind, larger in some than in others, supposes that there might be something that controls our destiny, a something that would give purpose to our otherwise meaningless existence, a something that makes us feel we are not so god damned alone in the universe. With a bit of brandy inhibiting my reason, believing I was rushing toward the end of my life, I indulged my bicameral mind. Spreading my arms, standing with legs apart taking the spread-eagle position of the Star Goddess, indulgently, I called out in a loud voice, ``Is this how it ends? With a whimper?'' ``What was it all about?'' I demanded, my voice growing louder. ``A woman's brain in a man's body; did that amuse you? Did I give you a good laugh? Was I entertaining? Did I cry enough, scream enough, bleed enough to suit your Royal Highness? Did I?'' Tears were streaming down my face. Yes indeed, feeling sorry for myself had turned into a righteous case of self-pity. Still, everyone earns the right to a little self-pity in a lifetime. ``Where's my reward? When a dog's good, I pat it on the head. I throw it a bone. Where's my bone? I want my God damn bone.'' By this time I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Lights began turning on around the neighborhood and people were sticking their heads out their doors to see what the racket was all about. Recognizing that the better part of discretion was to shut up, I did so. Sitting down on the grass, still a little brandy left in my glass, I brooded for a long time. After awhile Anton came home with the car. I met him at the back gate and walked to the house with him. ``How was your date?'' I inquired. ``I'd rather not talk about it,'' he said. ``It didn't go so good.'' I draped my arm around his shoulders as we entered the house and said, ``Life do get tedious don't it?'' ``It sure as hell does,'' he acknowledged. Each of us sounding ever so much like my father, we went inside. It had been a long day.
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