Saying Goodbye to My Son (and Hello to My Daughter)

Last week was a week of changes. They were giant hungry tentacle creature kind of scary changes. Crawl out from the river bank and eat your dog kind of scary changes.

(Maven watches too much sci-fi kind of scary changes.)

Gutsy had her first endocrinology appointment on Tuesday. It was an all-day event in which much testing was done. We had to find out if she is in puberty, and, if so, how far along. Puberty goes in "Tanner" stages, from I to V (in pretentious roman numerals, of course, because it's medicine.) Tanner I is at the very beginning and V is at the end.

Gutsy is in stage III. Mid-puberty.

This is both good and kind-of-ok news. It's good because it's still early enough that she doesn't yet have a lot of masculine and non-reversible traits seen in later puberty. It's kind-of-ok because it's a stage later than they like to start hormone blockers for transgender kids. Normally Tanner II is when the party gets started, before any of the changes happen.

But the endocrinologist assures us that it's ok. We're arresting puberty mid-way, before the big growth spurt, the extreme deepening of the voice, the Adam's apple and the facial hair. If Gutsy had waited much longer to tell us, things could have been very different. I'm breathing a sigh of relief for her. Going through those pubescent changes when you don't identify with the body you were born into can be very traumatic and have long-term, unwanted consequences.

This is step one in what will probably be a long medical process. It's the beginning of saying goodbye to the son we used to have.

I didn't think it would be this hard, you know. I was foolish to think I would handle it better than I have been. I figured I have two other sons, so that might make it easier. I guessed that the fun and excitement of having a daughter would outweigh any sense of loss. I was wrong. Oops.

Because last week we also started packing up her boy clothes, and I can't even bring myself to pass most of them down to her younger brother. Right now, the idea of seeing those clothes on him in a couple of years makes me really sad. Maybe that will change, but I don't want to find out. I just want to give them to someone else's child and never see them again.

Last week, we started the name change. She's having a very hard time seeing her given name on official documents. She broke down when she got her very first bank card in the mail, tore open the envelope excitedly, and saw her old name printed in big gold letters on the front. It's very masculine and reminds her of the unhappy person she was before she came out. That's not who she is; she's someone else now. She's ready to legally become that person.

My heart doesn't feel so ready.

Letting go is hard. Saying goodbye to him is hard. I know the same amazing person lives inside my daughter, but it feels like my son is gone. I'm grieving. I'm not saying it's the same as losing a child, because it isn't. But it's still grief, and it's still real, and it still hurts. I know I need to ride this wave. It's an unfortunate part of the process.

But it's not all ravens and emo haircuts over here. On the other side of this emotional chasm is a whole lot of joy. It's great watching her come out of her shell, little by little. She's smiling more, going out more, and spending more time with all of us. She and I are growing closer. We're getting to know each other as mother and daughter, which has been a lot of fun (and at times a little OMG TWEEN GIRLS WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME). She's my giddy mall companion, my partner in crime for cheesy teen television. Those parts are great.

I'm watching her grow up before my eyes. She faced some big fears in the name of being who she really is. She's terrified of needles - absolutely panic-stricken - and yet she had three of them at the hospital last week, including a giant one in her thigh. She's staring down years of injections - possibly a lifetime. And yet she's willing to do it all to live an authentic life. Her resolve is strong and her bravery astounds me. It also drives home the fact that this is not a choice for her. It is a medical necessity.

So I'll go through my own shit knowing how important this is to her. I'm sure it pales in comparison to the shit she's going through. I can't even begin to imagine how she must be feeling, how scary this all is. She talks to us about it, but I think we'd have to be inside her head to really see it.

These are big changes for an eleven-year-old, and big changes for me. Some days, I feel like I'm on the bank of the river, holding a leash attached to an empty collar. What life giveth, the giant tentacles taketh away.

Transitions are tough. But my love for her is, thankfully, a a lot tougher.