Artificial

When I clicked to add a post (my first of 2023, a desperate bid to inspire myself to return to writing), I discovered a new button twitching in the upper left corner of my drafter. Yes, actually twitching, jiggling back and forth every few seconds to catch my attention. It succeeded, and upon hovering my mouse over the lightning bolt icon, I was not surprised by the floating text announcing Squarespace AI.

AI is already selling itself to me in so many places. It offers to write emails on my behalf. It conjures descriptions of parties I want to throw with my friends. It wants to banter with me on SnapChat.

It’s already old news that ChatGPT and its brethren are not reliable resources. At this stage, AI is a smooth liar, citing papers that don’t exist and inventing reasonable-sounding but ultimately inaccurate answers to the questions it begs us to ask (sometimes with costly consequences). Some say that the current shortcomings are nothing to worry about; just a nuanceless mirroring of linguistic patterns that can’t match the human voice.

That may be true right now, but how quickly will it advance? And even if the product is subpar, are the hollow paragraphs and overly-rendered art pieces of today already enough to take work away from living creators? Gotta say, it was deeply disheartening to rev myself up to work on some overdue creative writing only to discover the hungry phantom that is wide-spread AI text generation haunting my drafting screen with its annoying “LOOK AT ME!!!” wriggling.

Sure, “Squarespace AI (beta)”, go ahead. Write about my experience of top surgery, the original subject of this post:

“I underwent top surgery two years ago and it has been life-changing. As a transgender man, having a chest that aligns with my gender identity has brought immense relief and joy. The surgery itself was a major undertaking, but my surgeon and medical team were incredibly skilled and supportive throughout the process. The recovery period was challenging, but I had a great support system to ensure that I was taking proper care of myself. Overall, having top surgery has allowed me to feel more confident and comfortable in my own skin, and I am grateful for the opportunity to have had it.”

Oh sweetheart, I WISH it was two years ago. Anyway, what a detail to provide, surely not stolen from some other trans person’s writing.

Because that’s what AI is right now: a regurgitation machine. It’s a toy and a shortcut and a plagiarist and a hallucinating self-appointed professor. But it won’t be like that forever. In fact, there are concerns about the pace at which this technology is developing, the lack of constraints on it, and even the potentially apocalyptic consequences of its present trajectory.

A little paranoid? Maybe, but hey, I’m originally a science fiction writer, after all. With the rise of political deepfakes, AI chat “buddies” that feed and grow off our interaction with them, and art-thieving image generators, I feel my anxiety is at least a little justified.

I mean, that little AI blurb about top surgery was essentially accurate. Yes, I absolutely felt relief and joy, and recovery was uncomfortable at best, and I had a great support system. Like, a really, really great support system. I have very rarely felt the kind of communal love that I received in the weeks before and after my top surgery. Friends and family were so incredibly generous both financially and emotionally. Over and over, I was moved to tears by the kindness I experienced in those magic weeks.

Yes, that blurb summed the general feeling up, but it doesn’t know me, doesn’t know how nervous I was for days before my surgery because it felt like it might be yanked away from me, something I fretted about even as I donned the surgical gown in my little pre-surgery cubicle (backwards, because, you know, the nervousness). It doesn’t know the sudden desperation I felt when I realized anti-trans legislation was closing in around me, the fear that choked my heart like strangling vines at the thought that my long-delayed surgery would be delayed even further (or worse). AI couldn’t know, much less express, just how much of a struggle it was for me to give up on my original surgeon and seek out someone out-of-pocket, someone I couldn’t afford without the incredible, tear-inducing assistance of loved ones and strangers alike.

Only I can share the lived truth of my experience. There are so many details I could call upon, like how I tried to take a shower the day after my surgery, accidentally tugged my blood-filled drainage bulbs, and genuinely thought I was going to pass out on the pink and blue tiles of the bathroom floor. It was worth it to rinse off the hospital smell, and I had my partner’s supportive, experienced arms to keep me on my feet.

Oh man, I could go on and on about those damn bulbs, which dangled, gory and translucent, from both sides of my ribs like some sort of deep sea parasite. And when they came out? Somehow, I hadn’t realized just how deep they went, and when the nurse pulled them free, it felt like she was tugging flaming snakes out of my pecs by their tails.

It was all worth it. I am overjoyed! I am grateful! I am still in awe of my own reflection as I massage jojoba oil into my purple-pink scars every night, and last week, I went swimming with my top off (don’t tell my surgeon). At last, my shirts button evenly over my torso and I don’t have to worry about throwing on a binder to answer the door. To my absolute delight, I can cross my arms and wear tank-tops and hug my friends without feeling constantly aware of my chest!

I don’t know what the future holds, but hey, even if we are plunging deeper into a cyberpunk dystopia, at least I’m entering it feeling more myself than ever.

And, you know, tit-free. That feels pretty damn good.

Enjoy this very flattering photo of me asleep on the couch after coming home from surgery. The fortress of pillows was a necessary line of defense between me and my incredibly clingy Chihuahuas.

Off My Chest

I arrived an hour ahead of schedule for my appointment, budgeting for a variety of obstacles. I’d only been to this medical center once before, and only to the ER section to visit a friend who’d been in an accident. I remembered the labyrinth of cold linoleum, the many identical passages branching from each sterile hall. Even after rereading the emailed directions a dozen times, I feared I’d wind up in the wrong building, resulting in me missing my appointment (and perhaps being trapped forever within an infinite sick-white sprawl of hospital walls).

I couldn’t afford to miss this consultation. I’d scheduled it almost a year prior after leaping through a series of hoops just to earn the right to be seen. I’d changed primary doctors in order to have a better shot at being referred and I had to see that doctor regularly over the course of several months before he felt equipped to write a strong enough letter of support for me. I collected letters from him and from my therapist, knowing that I’d have to collect new versions of those letters eventually anyway. I called my insurance and spent almost two hours on the phone confirming and documenting coverage with a young woman who, though kind and patient, was not at all familiar with what I was asking after. I’d even contacted a local health support group to get back-ups of the required letters and documentation in case my doctor or therapist accidentally misphrased anything in a way that my insurance would automatically reject.

If I missed my consultation, I wasn’t sure that my heart would be able to take it. That’s why I plopped myself in that waiting room an hour before I was scheduled to be seen, clutching a folder stuffed full of my medical history and extra copies of every document that had ever been requested of me.

“Last name Douglas?”

A tiny moment of relief as the nurse called me by my surname and led me past the reception desk. I’d heard great things about the surgeon I was seeing, but didn’t know how tactful his staff would be.

While I waited in the exam room, I mentally rehearsed my arguments.

Hello, Doctor. My name is Gordon and my pronouns are he/they. I am transmasculine and have socially transitioned. I am out at home, at work, and in public, and feel safe and supported enough to continue with my medical transition. By July, I’ll have been on testosterone for a year, and it has been the best year of my life. I have worn a binder off and on for ten years and have worn one almost every day for the past year. It is very important to me that my body more accurately matches my gender identity and expression, which is why, after years of consideration and discussions with doctors and therapists, I’ve decided to seek a double mastectomy.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to be prepared for an interrogation. The top surgeon walked in, greeted me warmly, and we got down to business. After a few minutes of conversation, questions, and physical inspections, he announced that I was an excellent candidate. He also noted that, thanks to the pandemic, surgery couldn’t be scheduled yet, even though operating rooms were opening back up. He told me to expect a call late in the summer for a surgery that could happen in late fall or at the start of the next year, at the latest. Disappointing, sure, but I’d waited 30 years to get this done. What was one more year?

At the end of the visit, after the surgeon assured me that he was experienced at working with picky insurance companies, he looked me square in the eyes. “We will get this done,” he said, and I almost cried.

That was in January of 2022. I’m writing this in December of 2022, and as of yet, no surgery date in sight. The updates I used to receive every two months have stopped arriving in my inbox. When I finally contacted the surgeon’s office to make sure I was still on the waitlist, I was assured that I was, but instead of the just-under-a-year wait they’d originally predicted, they were now estimating one and a half to two years between the consultation and the surgery.

I was gutted. I was supposed to swim topless next summer. I’ve been loading up my closet with cheap button-downs to wear during recovery. My mom was awaiting a date from me so that she could take time off work to care for me after the procedure. I had tried to keep myself somewhat pessimistic about the surgery time frame in the first place. “Definitely in 2023,” I’d repeated to myself. Now even that isn’t a guarantee.

2022 has been a rocky year, to put it mildly. I experienced new and interesting ways in which to get my heart broken. I finally caught Covid for the first time, and boy howdy, did that suck. I flew from Indiana to Oregon twice, and the second time, I returned via U-Haul with my girlfriend, two cats, and a sense that all of our lives were about to change dramatically.

Luckily for me, despite the grief and chaos, I’m a professional silver linings finder. I spent what could have been a very lonely summer pushing myself out of my comfort zone and making new friends. I finally proceeded with my legal name and gender marker change, since it no longer seemed like I’d have to time that around my surgery (else risk further insurance hurdles). Despite feeling pretty gross and miserable during my Covid experience, it also gave me the chance to slow down and rest a little without feeling as guilty about not being productive. I attended two weddings, got two(!) tattoos, started running a D&D campaign with my buddies, and even performed a very silly cowboy-themed burlesque act, complete with a fake mustache, tear-away pants, and a lasso trick that I practiced for hours using my stationary bike as a bull.

You know what they say: Save a horse…

When it comes to putting a positive spin on my indefinitely delayed surgery, however, I tend to struggle. Still, I’m looking for the bright side! To start with, between rising inflation, car trouble, and several cross-country journeys, finances are a bit tighter than usual. Even with insurance, my top surgery will be a larger expense than I’m accustomed to swallowing. I need time to fill my savings back in, and while I’m emotionally devastated by the distance between me and a flat chest, I’m financially relieved.

Another unexpected benefit of waiting is that I am immediately readable as trans to fellow trans folks. Would I like to pass as a man better than I currently do? Certainly I would, but from the jump, I figured a short, flamboyant, baby-faced fairy like me would always have some sort of tell. That aside, passing isn’t the be-all end-all of transition for some people. I like being perceived as queer, and if my bound chest tips other queer people off, then that’s great! I’m fortunate to be surrounded by friends who use my correct name and pronouns, and when trans and/or non-binary strangers see me being loud and happy and respected as transmasc regardless of the shape of my body, it conveys that this is a safe place to be oneself, even if your looks don’t line up with your identity.

On that note, I’d like to remind folks that presentation and appearance are not the same as identity. We live in a culture that has trained us to make quick and “accurate” gender assessments with everyone we encounter. That culture is shifting, albeit slowly. For most folks, their gender and their presentation are likely in sync. But for plenty of other folks, whether or not they’re transgender, that’s not the case. There are straight, cisgendered men who have lived their whole lives as men with he/him pronouns but who happen to wear more traditionally feminine clothes. The “gender reverse” of that is true as well (though perhaps less visible, considering how masculine clothes have become the “neutral” standard). I try to use neutral language until I know someone’s pronouns, and when I introduce myself, I try to include my pronouns as well.

These are behaviors and attitudes I had to learn and which I’m still learning. Despite everything I just said about avoiding assumptions, I still hope people look at me and see a man. A quirky little muppet of a man, sure, but still a man. That’s difficult when one of the major ways people make gender assessments is through body shape. I’ve managed to grow a goofy little goatee that helps guide people toward masculine assumptions, but what good is that under a mask? Even when I’m not masked, there are times when I get the quick, awkward up-down glance from strangers who are usually trying to be polite and don’t want to “sir” me in case I’m just a butchy, hirsute lady.

The best I can do for now is to continue being my boldest and kindest self. I’ve had to fight quite a lot just to get where I am now (I’ll have to write about the ridiculous experience I had just trying to get my pharmacy to fill my first testosterone prescription sometime soon, because wow, I really wish I’d been braver back then). The surgeon who spoke with me is skilled and sympathetic and surely overworked, as so many in the medical field are, especially in midst of ongoing pandemics. Currently, he’s the only top surgeon in my state who takes my insurance, and while I’m tempted to find a way to pay out of pocket for another plastic surgeon, that feels like such a financial waste.

So I’ll wait. I’ve made it this long; I can certainly make it a bit longer. My body isn’t who I am. I know this, but the more I pass, the lighter my heart feels. It’s hard knowing that there’s nothing more I can do but be patient and keep enjoying the things I do have control over.

Maybe it won’t be next summer, but some sunny July, I’ll run down a dock and dive into a lake looking more myself than ever, and I know it will feel just like flying.