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Change in Me -2- Option Year
🕑 Added 2023-11-05 20:28:45 +0000 UTCFor there's a change in the weather
There's a change in the sea
From now on there'll be a change in me
My walk will be different, my talk and my name
Nothin' about me is gonna be the same
—— Billie Holiday
© Billy Higgins / Benton Overstreet
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I lay in the bed pretty much numbed in more ways than one. The pain lurked behind the numbness, waiting for the anesthetic to wear off.
Had I been talked into something I would regret for the rest of my life? Maybe, but I had been convinced that my life might be very much shortened if I refused the surgery.
Testicular cancer can take several forms and some of them are among the fastest spreading and growing varieties of the disease. I felt sick at my stomach just lying there thinking of some of the things I had been told, without even getting into what had been done to me to stop the advance of malignancies.
My testicles were gone, along with various other tissues, glands and nodes in the area. I had been radically neutered. I felt a little like one of those frogs in high school that’s had vital organs removed. They call it pithing the frog.
Which brings up the question of how I’m going to….
I didn’t really know just how much had been left down there. Enough that they should be able to rebuild something, sometime in the future. At least, they had promised to try….
The curious thing might have been that, past the numbness, I didn’t feel an emptiness there but rather a fullness. More like a stuffed turkey than a pithed frog.
A twinge of pain penetrated the anesthetic, like a twinge of doubt that I had made the right decision. I flinched and that caused another pain.
Someone beside the bed said, “Easy, Addy. There’s nowhere you have to go. Just rest.”
I squinted my eyes tightly shut before I remembered how to open them, but I had already recognized my sister Beth’s voice. Six years older than me and a mid-level pro in the LPGA, on a Friday, she should have been in the qualifying rounds of some tournament somewhere. If it was Friday, still Friday, ever Friday, the last Friday ever, wasn’t it?
I coughed, then resolved not to do that again because it had hurt. “What are you doing here?” I asked in that voice you get from having a tube forced down your throat.
“Well, Mom has a new gallery opening down in Newport and Dad and Evinda are off in some friend’s yacht on the way to Morro Bay and…I’m your next of kin.” She spoke brightly as if it were a joke on the way to a punchline.
“Lucky you,” I croaked. We hadn’t always got along, what pair of siblings ever did, but we had real affection for each other, and bore up under the trials and travesties of our family life together. Our parents divorce and remarriages complicated any communication inside the family complex.
“Rhona says ‘Hi’ and that she will get Mom here as soon as they can. I haven’t been able to reach Dad on that damn boat.”
Lying there, looking up at the ceiling, I blinked. Was my sister about to start crying?
If she did, I realized I would either have to cry, too, or laugh. And either was likely to hurt. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” I asked firmly.
She was quiet for a moment. I couldn’t see her without turning my own head.
“You’re shaking your head no,” I noted. “I can hear your brains rattling around.”
She sniffled and choked back a snort, then blew her nose. “Always a joke with you, Addy,” she accused.
“That’s how you can be sure it’s really me, despite parts gone missing.”
“Dammit!”
Beth liked to curse when stressed. She’d even been fined for it on her home course. Hearing her let loose made me smile.
“What are you smiling about, you damn fool?” she demanded, knowing very well what made me grin.
She was quiet again, and this time, I did turn my head to look at her. Carefully, in case of twinges, but nothing happened. She was just sitting there smiling back at me.
“You’re going to live,” she allowed.
“So they tell me,” I agreed.
Some person wearing a hospital ID and carrying a pad came in. “Mr. March?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “Can I let you know about that later?”
“What?” She looked up from checking the pad. “You are Addison March?” she asked again.
I let her have that. “Yes,” I responded without snark.
“I’m Dr. Alexander. I did your surgery,” she said.
I nodded, though, I didn’t remember meeting her. “I thought Dr. Rivers was my surgeon.”
She made a face. “He was called away on a family emergency. I was in the next operating room, and I took over.” She glanced at the pad, then smiled vaguely. “I’m kind of a specialist in genital reconstruction.”
“Ah,” I said, not having a single thought in my head while I processed that information.
“You’re Jane Alexander,” my sister said suddenly.
“Yes, Dr. Jane Alexander, I am,” the woman corrected.
Beth nodded. “I’m Addy’s sister, Bethany.”
The doctor showed some interest. “Beth March?” she inquired.
That opened my eyes a bit. Years ago, Beth made some noise as the youngest LPGA player to win a major tournament this century, but at best, she’s only a narrow-gauge celebrity. “You’re a golfer, too?” I asked.
Dr. Alexander smiled. “Guilty. I’m at my club every Wednesday, working on my slice.”
“Well, you are a surgeon,” I noted.
They both rolled their eyes, and I smiled.
“We were both in that Pro-Am in Sedona a few years ago,” Beth suggested.
“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “You shot a six under for the leaderboard.”
Beth nodded, “My partner duffed it, and we missed the semis.”
“If you two are going to talk golf, I’m leaving,” I announced. “I’ve been pre-bored on that subject for years.”
“Don’t leave just yet, um, Miss March,” said the doctor. “We’re going to keep you overnight, and you will need instruction tomorrow in wound care before you can be released.”
I winced. “I do the jokes, Doc.” I scowled at her.
She looked apologetic. “Do you prefer to go by Mr. March still? Your situation is unusual, if not unique.”
I kept scowling. “You’re that Jane Alexander, aren’t you?” I accused.
“Dr. Jane Alexander, yes,” she corrected again.
I’d remembered who she was. Not just my surgeon, apparently, but the top West Coast doctor in sex reassignment surgery. She made the papers now and then since she had done her magic on some minor celebrities.
I smiled, tasting sourness in the back of my throat. “Considering everything, I guess I lucked out getting you. You’re supposed to be the best.”
She nodded confidently. “Yes,” she said. “Not just supposed to be the best; I am the best.”
I blinked and glanced at Beth, who blinked also. Ego, much? I thought.
Comments
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
In the 1840s, Alexander Cartwright wrote down and had printed the rules of baseball: 21 of them. Later, he walked to the California goldfields from New York, teaching people how to play baseball on the way. He finally ended up a British citizen and Fire Marshall of Honolulu. I don't know if he said "hi," to cousin Ben in Virginia City on the way. :)
Sammy C
Jane Austen refers to base ball (two words) in Northanger Abbey, during Regency Era England. However, base ball was what we know as rounders and not the game with a ball, bats, and a diamond shaped field of play. Eric, who knows more about the history of baseball than I, can probably further elucidate the matter. There is a mention of baseball in the late 18th century in North America but it’s not certain if it’s the game that emerged in fuller form in the mid-1800s.
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
Baseball and golf are close cousins, closer than baseball and cricket :) Baseball and golf are derived from a game called One 'Ole Cat in which one tried to pitch, throw or hit a ball or bag of grass into a hole in the ground -- cricket is derived from a similar, related game called Two 'Ole Cat. Honest!
Sammy C
Golf might be in Addy's future. Addy and Beth could be for the LPGA what Venus & Serena were for tennis. Eye-hand coordination and swing mechanics in golf are pretty comparable to baseball skills.
