Sixteen the Hardway -5- Exam (Patreon)

The next few days of school were excruciating. I tried to talk to no one, and not look anyone in the face. I did have to take my note from the doctor to the school office, and they changed my schedule so I would go to study hall instead of gym.

And I wore Mom’s little elastic chest-band every day. Heck, I even tried to sleep in it, but it turned out to be a little too uncomfortable for that, riding up under my armpits in my sleep and stabbing me in the back with the stiffeners.

But no one at school paid much attention to me, just another short skinny sophomore. It didn’t even seem to be bully season, though I did see Rod Pick chatting up my sister. He gave me an almost friendly wink, but I clutched my books and hurried past him.

* * *

Thursday morning came at last and I got ready for school as usual. My appointment was for 9 a.m. So the plan was for me to go for the morning and attend school in the afternoon. I stayed out of Donna’s way till she left for school, then I did my own morning routine, including putting on the chest-band.

Mom and I had an hour or so to sit around the kitchen table before we really had to think about leaving. I don’t drink coffee, and it was still too summery for hot cocoa, so I had a cup of tea while Mom sipped her coffee.

We nibbled a bit on butter cookies. She looked at me curiously and I fidgeted a bit under her gaze. “What?” I finally asked.

She tilted her head and looked at me a bit more intently. “Just noticing who in the family you look like.”

“Um,” I said.

“You actually look more like your Aunt Hilda than you do me,” she commented.

I shrugged. Aunt Hildy was four years Mom’s junior but they looked quite a bit alike. Both round-faced blondes with blue eyes and dimples. “I look like you,” I said simply.

She nodded. “Yes, but you’ve got that determined little chin, like Hilda. And when you grin, it goes a little sideways, just like hers. And your hair has red highlights in the sun.”

I rolled my eyes. I wanted to think I looked like Dad but really that was Donna’s department. The narrower eyes, more gray than blue, darker hair and a wider mouth — since Dad was adopted and didn’t know his birth family, we didn’t have any of his other relatives to compare to. Dad always claimed he looked like Barney Fife or maybe John Denver which made Mom laugh and shake her head. “Your ears don’t stick out far enough,” she would tell him.

But talking about who I looked like reminded me of what Mom had admitted after the last doctor’s appointment — that they hadn’t been sure when I was born if I were a girl or a boy. I’d been trying not to think about that. It was just too weird.

* * *

The doctor wanted to do a lot of tests, including ultrasound and several blood draws. Why do they need several tubes of blood? Can’t they do it with just one tube?

By the time I’d been examined (I had to take off the chest-band), poked with needles, tortured with an ice-cold sonic screwdriver, and dressed again, the morning was gone. Mom and I sat in the doctor’s private office, waiting for her to finish looking at test results.

Oh, I had a new doctor, also named Silva, but Dr. Beatrice Silva this time. Being switched over by the clinic to a female doctor disturbed me a bit. Did that mean anything? And if so, what? So I fidgeted.

“Sit still,” Mom scolded, just as the new doctor entered carrying a sheaf of folders. She was tall, blonde, and slender and looked more Northern European than someone named Silva probably should. I wondered if she were the other Doctor Silva’s wife.

Smiling at me, she leaned against her desk. “Jonny?” she said. “Do you prefer to be called Jon or Jonny?”

I shrugged. “Either is okay, I guess. Being short, I’m not going to talk everyone out of calling me Jonny, am I?”

She smiled wider. “Probably not,” she agreed. “Well, the ultrasound didn’t show much, some technical problem, but we have your blood tests results from before. I ordered another sequence to confirm because they are a bit — unusual.”

I felt a sinking sensation in my chest. I wanted to make a joke, but I’m not good at improv and something like, “Give it to me straight, Doc. How long have I got to live?” likely wouldn’t go over well anyway. Something in her stance or attitude prepared me for bad news.

“I’ll try not to get too technical,” she said. “The actual numbers are not that important but your body, Jon, is beginning puberty with the wrong flavor of hormones.”

“Huh?” I said. Strawberry? I thought inanely. I did mention I wasn’t good at improv.

She nodded as if responding to the unasked absurdity. “You have slightly more estrogen in your system than a girl your age and almost no androgens. We’ve ruled out conditions like adrenal hyperplasia and androgen insensitivity, but the imbalance seems key to what is happening.”

I blinked. I didn’t know what those conditions were. I felt Mom’s hand grasp mine, but I kept looking at the doctor.

She nodded again. Maybe it was a nervous tic. “This is almost certainly why you are experiencing your symptoms. It’s unusual but not unheard of. Both sorts of sex organs normally produce both kinds of hormones. You just seem to be making more of the opposite kind than usual.”

I wanted to protest that I was not doing it on purpose, but I swallowed that and looked across at Mom.

“Is there anything we can do?” Mom asked.

Dr. Silva nodded again. Definitely a tic. I repressed an urge to fidget and tried to keep listening and not let my mind go screaming off into the mental underbrush.

“We’ve already got you an appointment with a specialist, an endocrinologist, next week, but I just spoke with her on the phone and made a suggestion she agreed with.”

“Huh,” said Mom. “What would that be?”

The doctor looked at me. “Your problem seems to be that your body is not producing enough androgen. We decided we should try boosting your blood level of androgens with an injection.”

I don’t like shots but it would be worth it if it went some way toward solving my problems. No one mentioned that injecting testosterone into a muscle is one of the most painful shots you can get.

* * *

I was still rubbing my thigh where I got the shot in the car on the way home. Mom was saying something, trying to be supportive and optimistic, but I really wasn’t listening.

I had a lot to think about but every topic seemed to end up in tail-chasing circles. What if I really were a girl? Nobody was out-and-out suggesting that but something sure wasn’t right with me. My ex-friend Rod thought I was queer and girly. Even my own sister seemed to have doubts about my masculinity. Mrs. Henderson wanted me to watch her kids, not an offer made to many teenage boys.

I thought again about what Dad had been saying the night before. Had the whole point of that conversation been to give me permission to… to do what? Even if the shot of testosterone made my body more manly, would that really solve my problem?

“…after the swelling goes down,” Mom was saying.

I had totally lost the thread of what she was talking about. “Huh?”

“If the shot works, you’ll probably be able to stop wearing the chest band I made for you,” she said, evidently repeating herself.

I glanced down at my chest. The homemade constriction kept it nice and flat, making me look more like a boy. But was that just a lie?