When the wheel has come full circle…

What’s it like to live on the other side? As far as I can tell, I’m neither trans nor bi; I do not have any genderqueer feelings or aspirations, and for as many years as I’ve been in this body, I’ve been happy with my gender assignation. I’m merely curious about things I have not experienced –about things that I am not, I suppose. Is a rose by another name really the same -really a rose as we have come to experience it? Or would it be more appropriate to phrase it as the converse: does calling something else a rose, make it a rose? Even if it feels it is? It begs the question ‘what is a rose’, doesn’t it? And is the answer –even culturally contextualized- relative, temporal, or in fact, meaningless? Perhaps for someone invested in linguistic definitional stability, the idea of reassigning nouns is more confusing than helpful –notwithstanding the in-your-face examples of homophones and homographs… But I think it is worth exploring.

Jiddu Krishnamurti, the Indian philosopher, argued that naming the Divine -and therefore essentially defining­ it- confined what that concept meant, limited it. I can see parallels with gender appreciation and denotation. But this is certainly problematic for many of my generation who seem to be invested in the immutability of anatomically assigned gender –or perhaps merely question the wisdom of reallocating something that already is, to something it does not appear to be…

Confusing? An interregnum usually is. When those things to which we have become accustomed are swept aside –or, more disturbingly, simply ignored as if their validity had always been in question- there is often a feeling that some moral law has been violated. An ethical boundary crossed. No matter that the boundaries were themselves arbitrary, templates from a different paradigm, to borrow from Kuhn –a different time. It’s not so much that they were wrong, as that they saw the world from a different perspective –much like we might view the customs of another country as being quaint, if not inimical. But, hopefully, when analyzed carefully, there are usually negotiable commonalities. Values which transcend differences, attitudes which, on reflection, are not that hard to accept. Not that different from those we had come to trust.

So, in time, the misgivings fade, and it becomes not only uncomfortable to deviate from the new norm, but to wonder how we had ever thought otherwise –the subtle memory readjustment that neuroscientists tell us occur with time and circumstance.

Many years ago when I first opened my specialist practice in gynaecology, attitudes were different from today. I was asked to consult on conditions that would now be referred to sub-specialists –doctors who have gained added expertise in specific fields. But in those distant times, we were left to deal with things we had never seen in our training as best we could.

It’s when I first met Jo. There were few computers then; my day sheet was typed and the name seemed to have been left purposely vague. But Jo sat straight and proud in the chair, anything but vague -beautiful, in fact. Dressed in a full-length light blue dress, and large, dangling earrings, I wondered how she avoided getting the slowly swaying waves of her long black hair entangled. I could see her bright brown eyes following a little diapered baby crawling erratically across the rug, both of them smiling at each other, both of them obviously delighting in the moment, however fleeting. Another newly pregnant mother, I thought, although in those days, my day sheet was just a list of names and times of appointment –no other details.

Her eyes lit up when she saw me coming across the floor to greet her, and a warm smile surfaced on her face as if it had been carefully wrapped and stored for just this occasion. For me.

I led her into my office down the hall and showed her a seat across from my desk. I have to admit I was smiling broadly by that stage as well –her face was contagious. “So what can I do for you today, Jo?” I started. I hadn’t yet learned the value of the small-talk that often helps to dispel the initial anxiety before having to confront the reason for the visit.

For a brief moment, her smile disappeared, and her eyes examined the window beside her. “I guess my doctor’s note didn’t arrive…” She summoned her eyes and promptly dropped them in her lap. The smile tried to reassume it’s command of her lips, but I could see it was having some difficulty. “It’s a bit complicated,” she said, shooing her eyes from her lap.

I smiled, picked up a pen from the desk and opened her chart to show that I didn’t mind. That I would judge just how complicated it was. It was then that I saw the note from her GP.

But before I could read it, I could feel her gaze leaning heavily on me so I looked up. I remember her expression was almost pleading with me to listen –not write.  Begging me to understand. I put the pen down and leaned forward in my seat.

“I…” she hesitated, clearly wondering how to begin. Wondering if the explanation she had memorized would suffice. “…I’m not what I seem, doctor,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

I said nothing; I sensed it was a time for silence, even though I had not yet learned its value.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been what I seemed… But I’m 23 now, and I realize that I can’t live like this.”

I watched her face slowly dissolve into tears, so I reached for the tissues I kept on the desk, and handed her one.

She accepted it with a wrinkled smile she found somewhere and wiped her cheeks. “Sorry,” she said, the smile disappearing again despite her efforts to pin it to her lips. “It’s just that my GP didn’t know what to do with me. He said he didn’t know anybody who could help –apparently there’s nobody here in Vancouver…” She took a deep stertorous breath and grabbed another tissue from my desk. “Anyway he said you might know more about it.” Her eyes suddenly perched on my cheeks and stared at me. Through me, as if my eyes were only guardians of the doors into my head. “I’m a man, doctor…”

She –he– waited to see how I would react. She –I couldn’t help but regard Jo as a ‘she’- had obviously had uncomfortable reactions to the revelation in the past. And I couldn’t disguise my expression, I’m afraid –this was not a time of social media or tolerance of any egregious flaunting of norms. Homosexuality was beginning to evince some token acceptance in many circles, perhaps, but transsexuality was still felt to be beyond the pale. Cross-dressing was a deviance that needed to be closeted away.

Jo shrugged and sank further into her seat, as if my reaction had somehow punctured her only hope. “You know, I’m only Jo, doctor. I’m really no different from the person you met in the waiting room… I want to be that woman you greeted so innocently.” Her eyes sought mine again, like supplicants before a judge.

But in that moment, I could not judge. She was the Jo I had first met moments before –the delightful woman in the waiting room engaging with the trusting toddler. “I know,” I said with a reassuring smile, my heart taking over my words. “Let me see what I can do to help.”

And with that simple acknowledgement, Jo straightened in her chair again, her eyes alive as she adjusted an errant strand of hair that had wandered onto her now hopeful face.

Sometimes, there are surprises in all of us just waiting to be discovered.

Recycling the Old

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven

Really? It made sense when I was young, I suppose -when all of Time was ahead. When I needed to think there was some order to things. That past and future meant old and new. But as the years slip past, I find myself wondering about disparate things. Opposites. Like what, really, is the difference between new and old? Is it merely a temporal distinction? A nudge along a spectrum? Or a more fundamental change -a conceptual shift? I suspect it can be any of these, of course, but it still begs the question: does any change, any difference qualify? What if there is no change in form at all, but rather a change in function? In Purpose? Would that be new, or merely a rose with another name?

The concept of recycling has been with us from the dawn of time. When materials were scarce or unavailable things were used again, either in their original roles, or repurposed for something else their makers had not anticipated -a new situation, a new need. And so the old rises from its ashes like a Phoenix, but this time in a different play as another, unfamiliar actor.

The tradition of respecting the wisdom of elders and retelling their stories is also an honoured tradition. But as stories do, they alter over time and are often interpreted in new and unexpected ways. The knowledge is not lost, it’s just explained in different words. Understood in a new context. Reconstituted. Society has learned that there is often a benefit that accrues to re-examining the old and looking at it from an altered perspective. So has Science: http://www.bbc.com/news/health-33635575 Bisphosphonates have been around for a while as treatments for osteoporosis, a condition in which there is decreased bone mass. They help to prevent bone loss and so strengthen the bones themselves. It is most frequently used in the post menopausal woman when she no longer produces bone-protective hormones from her ovaries.

Bone is a common site for breast cancer cells to travel to (metastasize) however, and they can lie dormant there for years after the primary tumour has been removed from the breast. And yet, interestingly, those women who were already being treated with the bisphosphonates in the menopause and later developed breast cancer, showed a 28% reduction in cancers developing in their bones. http://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(15)60908-4/fulltext And because the patents on bisphosphonates have expired in many jurisdictions, the cost of these bisphosphonates is minimal when compared to other ‘new’ treatments on the market.

But there’s more. A medication originally designed for diabetes –glitazone- has been found to decrease the likelihood of developing Parkinson’s disease. http://www.bbc.com/news/health-33608725 Of course this is just a comet in an otherwise cloud-filled night because glitazone is not without its own serious side effects –bladder and heart problems, to name just two- but it is a promise whispered emphatically, albeit quietly, to anyone working in the field. A starting point for future research…

So I suppose we should keep poking about in the ashes. Stirring embers to see if there is a Phoenix hiding somewhere in the cinders, fast asleep and dreaming of another job. We affix labels to things –categorize, then name them for all time. It’s a way of keeping track. Knowing what to expect. The problem, of course, is that things change. Evolve. Mutate. And as Jiddu Krishnamurti, a philosopher, once said of the disadvantage of naming god, it constrains the concept. Limits it. Doesn’t allow for growth and development. I think it is sort of like naming and classifying something when it is only a seed and we are still unaware of its potential. Maybe old is something like that. Where there is life there is always a seed and its age is beside the point. Meaningless.

I’m beginning to see age as a definitional issue, and not in the currently favoured framework of chronological versus biological –or even psychological- age so condescendingly mouthed by those too young to have experienced the ill-disguised discrimination it entails. There is useful wisdom that accretes with years and experience of course. But age is an oven that cooks whatever has been put inside –changes it into something else. Sometimes something entirely new.

I opened with a quote from Ecclesiastes, so let me close with one from the Talmud: ‘For the unlearned, old age is winter; for the learned, it is the season of the harvest.