Five Weeks of T: A Healthcare Adventure

This is the last week that I will be able to count on one hand the number of testosterone injections I have shot into my thigh. Anything can be symbolic if you give it a chance.

With the beginning of week five I have noticed a little more mustache fuzz than usual and some hair growth on my stomach. Fortunately, I am so busy I have little time to obsess about every tiny change. But I won’t pretend that I don’t love every second of singing Motown in the shower and hearing how much different my voicemails sound.

In this week five I have also experienced the all-too-familiar feeling of being kicked in the ass by the healthcare system. I will start with that the outcome of this situation is uncertain and I have nothing yet to complain and/ or worry about. That doesn’t make me less afraid.

I rarely check my mail. One of my two unnecessary doors in my apartment looks out to the mail boxes on the side of my house so there is no need to do so very often. Yesterday I peered out to see junk mail and a few envelopes. “Fair enough”, I said, and made a brief trip into the alleged ‘spring-like’ weather. The first envelope was addressed to my legal name from the Kentucky Health Foundation. The weight of its name under my fingertips felt like it could ruin my day. Confirmed. I read the letter as I walked back into my apartment. It read that my insurance came back from my last doctor’s appointment as ‘inactive’. Had my fears of my parents pulling their deviant child off of their insurance come true?

This fear sat with me just long enough to compel me to the computer lab at school. I emailed my mother the story and asked “if you pulled me off of your coverage you would tell me, right?” My mother emailed back shortly thereafter to say that I was still covered but they had changed plans about a year ago. She gave me the plan number then switched topics to graduation questions. Baffled, I responded “did you tell me that? Do you have a card you can send me? I imagine I now have a lot of paperwork to fill out because of using the ‘old card’”. All she said in response was “I’ll send you a card. I don’t know why the provider took your expired card.”

It seems communication is not a priority in my family. My reactions outside of the email were rooted in fear. I can own that. I edited them out. But I couldn’t help but think what would have happened if I were to have gotten in an accident and I tried to bill the charges to the expired account. My mother blessed me with an imagination for worry. I have two transactions to fix with UK Healthcare now. Tomorrow I will start making phone calls and I’ll find out if it’s going to be as much of a pain in the ass as I imagine it will be.

A few days before this I received a letter from said parents. It read:

Hey Kiddo,

Your last letter was so honest that we feel we need to be honest with you. We know we can’t tell you how to live your life but this is certainly not the way we thought you’d go. After all this time calling you [legal name] we just can’t call you a male name or describe you in male pronouns because to us that means we’ve lost our daughter completely and that thought is heartbreaking!
Help us find a compromise here please! We want to see you and stay in your life!

Love,
Mom and Dad

Hey G-d, remember me? Elias? Please. Please. Please give me a break.

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