Feb. 4th, 2016

dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I'd just finished having my vitals collected when he walked into the room with me. I was a bit startled: I expected to have to wait a couple minutes. Upon greeting me, he paused to read my shirt. After a laugh, he offered a compliment. That it seemed unfamiliar surprised me: surely I was not the only one of his patients who had one. Perhaps they hadn't worn theirs to see him. For me, it fit the occasion.

I'd dropped 17 pounds since the last quarterly weigh-in, 12 more since the one before that. Little wonder, then, that the first several skirts I paired with that shirt wanted to fall off my hips. As the average day involves a dress, I had no inkling until that moment. Still, I managed to make up something with the clothing I had on-hand, and biked to his office just after the morning rain had passed. We chatted about my hormone levels, as we did exactly two years earlier.

I asked whether my estrogen level was acceptable. This day, though, there were no adjustments to be made. "I'd prescribe more if you weren't seeing the feminization you wanted, but I don't think that's an issue," he said, looking me over.

I blushed.

Two years is a long time. On that day, I suffered sticker shock (literally) at the price of the first round of estrogen patches. After applying the first, though, I slipped out of the coffee shop I was sitting in to work, and in what has become a tradition, took a picture of myself in front of the mural outside. Its caption: "Say hi to Daria"

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