None of the Above(17)

Relief.

He waved me over to his computer. He was reading what appeared to be a magazine article, with a really detailed picture of AIS anatomy. I looked at the diagram, wondering if I was missing something, and then looked back at my father.

“Dad?” I said.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed his eyes.

“You don’t have a cervix.”

“Huh?”

He pointed to the diagram with a trembling finger, and I looked closer. No uterus. No cervix.

I was never going to die of cervical cancer like my mom.

And that’s when I started to cry.





CHAPTER 9


The first couple of days after my diagnosis, my alarm clock would go off like it always did and I’d stumble to the bathroom half asleep. Then there’d be a moment—as I was brushing my hair or going to the bathroom, for instance—when I remembered that I was a hermaphrodite, or intersex, or whatever people chose to call me.

The day after I realized I would never die of cervical cancer, though, I woke up knowing what I was. It had settled into my bones, heavy and uncertain.

It wasn’t supposed to be a running day, but I pulled on my tracksuit anyway. Some people eat comfort food; I take comfort runs.

Sam was probably already awake, doing strength training in his basement, but I didn’t call him. Having him there running beside me would only muddle me up even more.

If there’s anything more head-clearing than the air at five in the morning in late October, I’ve never experienced it. I’ve always loved running in the cold, loved how my sweat evaporated right away when I ran. The way the wind made my cheeks rosy and smooth, and how I could see my breath scar the air. The cold always made the track faster. Harder on the knees, but quicker on the rebound. I never lost races in the cold.

You also tended to overthink less when it was close to freezing outside: Don’t look at a problem from so many angles that you lose sight of the real issue. Don’t worry about how your boyfriend will react to your being a hermaphrodite, when you might never be ready to tell him what you really are.

As I ran back home toward my neighborhood, the early birds started coming out. Mrs. Davidson was a nurse, and her silver Camry was the first car I saw, rear lights glowing like demon eyes in the blackness of predawn. My dad wouldn’t be far behind—he usually got ready for work while I was doing my cool-down stretches.

I jogged up to our front porch, stepped inside, and in the warmth suddenly things felt less clear.

The coffee table was still a mess of highlighted printouts. The handout that Dr. Cheng had given me on vaginal dilation lay on top, along with the unopened kit. I’d finally read it the night before. It assured me that dilation “can feel a little strange at first, or unpleasant, but after a short while most women and girls can dilate quite easily.” It gave a link to a YouTube video that demonstrated the dilation process, and described a specialized stool called a “bicycle seat” so you could do it hands-free, in case you wanted to do schoolwork or email while you were growing your own vagina.

The whole thing made me feel queasy. I shuffled the pamphlet to the bottom of the pile when I heard my dad’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Morning, Dad,” I said, reaching above the fridge for the cereal and putting it on the table. I sat down in front of my laptop, opened up my mailbox, and saw:



Subject: Fwd: New Diagnosis



My heart stopped. I clicked on the email.



Hi Kristin,

I am so glad that you emailed me! I would love to speak with you and answer any questions you might have about your diagnosis. When is the best time to talk?

Yours,

Maggie Blankman



“Dad! I got an email from someone in the Support Group!”

“How about that?” he said, brightening.

I wrote Maggie a quick email telling her it’d be fine to call anytime after seven at night.

All of a sudden, I didn’t need any coffee. I wolfed down my Raisin Bran and did some thigh stretches while leaning against the kitchen counter. “Dad, is it okay if Sam and I go out tomorrow night?” I knew it’d be fine, but I always liked to tell my dad my plans ahead of time.

“I’ll see if any of the guys want to come by and watch the Rangers game. You go have fun.”

“Love you.” I pecked him on the cheek and sprinted up the stairs to take my shower.

“We’re on for tomorrow,” I told Sam at lunch.

“Sweet! It’s gonna be awesome. It’s Richardson’s turn to be DD, and she’s gonna bring her parents’ van.” Sam leaned down to whisper into my ear, and a flutter went down my spine. “I’ve been thinking about you every night.”

The flutter expanded, settling nervously in my belly. I faked a smile. “Me, too, baby.”

It wasn’t a lie. I had been thinking of him, too. One of the Frequently Asked Questions on the AIS-DSD Support Group website was:



Can I be sexually active?

Yes, and we’re here to help give you support on how to be healthy, active, and fulfilled in and out of your bedroom. . . .



They didn’t go into specifics. Maybe the people in the Support Group knew that I was this close to running away from the whole thing, screaming, “TMI!”