None of the Above(14)

Dr. Cheng must’ve seen my eyes glaze over, because she finally stopped all the science talk and explained what all the mumbo jumbo meant in real life. I would never get my period. I could never have a biological child of my own. My vagina was only two inches long, which was why it hurt like hell when Sam and I tried to have sex—not that I mentioned anything about that in front of my dad. Finally, the testicles in my hernia might need to come out in the future because they could become cancerous.

“Why the future?” I blurted. “Can’t we do the surgery now?”

“It’s very controversial,” said Dr. Cheng. “If you take the testicles out, you’ll have to start taking estrogen for bone health. Plus, the risk of cancer in the gonads is very small.”

“But not zero,” my dad insisted.

“No,” Dr. Cheng admitted. She looked down at my chart.

“I’ve done some reading online,” my dad said reluctantly, not looking at me. “Sounds like surgical removal is the way to go. For psychological reasons, too.”

Like not having to walk around knowing that you have testicles inside you. “I’d like to. . . . I do want to take them out.”

Dr. Cheng leaned in. “Kristin, I totally understand that impulse. But why don’t you go home and think about it before scheduling the surgery? There are side effects, and risks.” She turned toward my dad. “There are a lot of issues to sort out, and if you want to talk to someone, I know some great therapists. This is a difficult, scary life change, and it will take some adjusting to.”

“What, being gay?” I asked.

Dr. Cheng blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“That’s what I am, right? I’m a man. But I’ve always liked boys, so . . .”

“No. Just having a Y chromosome doesn’t automatically make you a man.”

“Am I trans, then? Like, a man trapped in a woman’s body?”

She shook her head. “I know it’s really confusing, but chromosomal sex, gender identity, and sexual orientation are all separate concepts.”

At my blank look, she took out a piece of paper and drew a quick sketch that looked like a gingerbread man. She put a circle around the groin area and wrote SEX. “Your biological sex is usually determined by your chromosomes, but in your case there’s a disconnect—even though you’re XY, externally you look female.”

Next, she circled the gingerbread man’s brain and wrote GENDER IDENTITY, underlining this twice. “Gender identity is one’s internal sense of whether they’re male or female. It often correlates to one’s external sex, but not always; that’s what being transgender is.”

Dr. Cheng looked down at my hands, still clutching the stupid intake form. She took it gently from me and spread it. “This box here? You should put female. Because that is how the vast majority of women with the complete form of AIS identify themselves.”

It took a moment for what she said to sink in. I was supposed to be a girl. A straight girl, even. But what kind of boy could ever love a freak like me? I didn’t know if Sam was the kind—or if I was brave enough to see if he was.

“Kristin, in a way, you’re very lucky,” Dr. Cheng said. “AIS is a relatively straightforward form of intersex. There are other syndromes where the anatomy is more . . . complex, and all these issues of gender identity aren’t as clear.”

I didn’t feel lucky, but Dr. Cheng didn’t seem to notice.

“The next time you come back,” she said, “I want to do a quick pelvic exam. I’ll give you some sedatives to take before, and we can talk about dilation—stretching the vagina naturally. Here’s a sample kit—you can take a look and read about it on your own.” She handed me a nondescript white cardboard box and another pamphlet with pictures of what looked like plastic dildos.

“What do you mean, stretching myself down there?” I felt like I wanted to throw up.

“Kristin, I know it all seems very awkward. But with all of this—the medications and the dilation—most women with AIS live perfectly normal lives.”

Yeah, right.

“So when can she schedule surgery? To get the . . . testicles removed that may have cancer?” My dad stumbled over the word.

“Mr. Lattimer, please be reassured that this is just a potential for cancer, and there are risks involved. . . .”

“I know there are risks,” I said. “But I want those things out of me yesterday.”

Dr. Cheng sighed. “Why don’t I go print out some information on the procedure so you can review the risks and benefits and really ponder them. Ethically, I need to give you some time to make this decision. Okay?”

I sagged into my father’s shoulder as Dr. Cheng left.

“I want those things out.”

“I know, Krissy. So do I.”

When Dr. Cheng came back with some handouts, I stared at the hieroglyphics before stuffing them into my purse. I looked at the time on my cell phone. It was getting old, and the paint was starting to chip from its hot-pink case. I wanted to go home.

“Are we done now?” I asked.

“It depends,” Dr. Cheng said. “Do you have any more questions?”

“No,” I lied. Of course I had questions.

I just didn’t know what they were yet.