Hellooo Nurse
I’ve rarely met a nurse I didn’t like...
I’ve rarely met a nurse I didn’t like. I’ve encountered ones who were exhausted - rushed off their feet all day, and maybe a little bit short with their patience. I’ve witnessed a few, perhaps having a bad day, and not really being as present as they ought to be. But, for the most part, they’re Saints. Paramedics, too. Hell, even the receptionists. Unlike doctors, who I’m more ambivalent on, these professionals - who are often women or gay men - are Icons, Kweens, Divas, Mother etc…
Every three months I get an injection. It’s a hormone blocker called Decapeptyl. I always think it sounds like a dinosaur when I pick it up from the pharmacy. The Decapeptyl is a carnivorous, winged creature that can change its sex at whim. It’s a mysterious, yellowish liquid which comes in a little glass vial. I’m allowed to pay for it, and pick it up, and store it at home - but I’m not trusted to inject myself with it. So, every three months I have to book an appointment to see the local nurse, so she can stick a needle into my ass and save me from the terminal disease I have - testosterone. Each nurse I’ve encountered has had a slightly different technique. In London, for example, I used to have to stand up, with my underwear half down, while she stuck the needle into my upper fatty area. Here though, in Derbyshire, the nurse wants me laying face-down on the bed - and sticks it more so into the fat of my big bum.
The nurses who do my injection are always kind to me. They make conversation - tell me about their home lives, and feign a convincing interest in mine. They take care when doing the injection, and apologise for any pain I might feel. I don’t tell them this, but I actually like when it hurts. Not in any sort of pervy ‘Hellooooo nurse!’ kinky sort of way - I just like to feel the substance going in, and doing it’s stuff. Transition is so often arduously slow - the effects of HRT being well worth it, but only ever in hindsight. The changes are painfully incremental, and so many of us are desperately trying to make up for lost time. If I had it my way, I’d probably triple my dose of oestrogen and die of liver failure. I’d die beautiful, sure. But I’d die - that’s the main thing.
My last nurse, Bernice, I felt I somewhat got to know. At least, as well as you can know a person you only see for 20 minutes every 3 months. Our relationship began with confusion - she asked me, despite my clearly feminine appearance, what kind of ‘trans’ I was.
“Are you man to woman, or woman to man?”
I remember being a bit baffled, really. Not just because it was visually obvious, but because Bernice had full access to my medical records opened up on her computer screen. Do they read them? I thought. Or do they just wing-it? Despite a rocky start, Bernice proved to be an icon. She started complimenting my outfits. Telling me about her holidays to Barbados. Asked me how my Christmas was, and then told me about how much food her crazy kids eat. It was nice; having that connection. Whether she cared about me or not, she certainly made me feel as if she did. As far as I’m concerned, that’s job done.
My new nurse in Derbyshire is named Sue. I’ve only seen her once, so far, but we’re at that awkward first stage. Getting to knoooow you. Like everyone here, she asks me where I’ve moved from. I tell her ‘London’ - and, like everyone here, she says: ‘I know London. Where abouts?’. I tell her I’m from Lewisham, originally. “I know Lewisham. I used to live in Forest Hill’. I wonder if she thinks I have assumptions about her. Thinks that I think she’s some Derbyshire hick who has never left her hometown and pretends to visit That London on Google Streetview? I don’t test her. She’s read my records - understands ‘which way’ I’m going, so she gets points for that alone.
As I lay on the bed, face down, she injects the Decapeptyl into my bum. I barely feel a thing, which means she’s experienced and extremely talented. It also means, though, that I don’t get the satisfaction of it. I’m in and out of her office in less than 15 minutes. I huff and puff up the steep hill that has become my enemy of late, and as I do, I wonder what Sue thinks of me. There have been a lot of nurses on the news lately, mostly older cis women, who have made their opinions on trans people more than clear. Some are rallying together, bringing lawsuits against the NHS for their trans-inclusive policies. They want trans women patients on the men’s ward. They want trans nurses and doctors, as rare as they are, to feel frightened, and small, and unworthy of their positions. They want the worst for us.
I know it’s a minority, and I try to keep it in mind whenever I feel the terror of getting ill. One day, I will be. Something will happen - a disease, or an accident, and I’ll need to be taken to the hospital - a place I avoid at all costs if I can. But you can only avoid it for so long. I’ll most likely be placed on a women’s ward at first, and then after my records have been checked, I’ll be taken to the men’s. I’ll be left alone on it for large periods of time, short staffing guaranteeing I’ll be left unprotected from whatever whackjob sex offenders they have running around. Perhaps these transphobic nurses will be on duty? Maybe they’ll refuse to treat me - on grounds of religious freedoms? I simply don’t know - and I don’t want to think about it.
The reason I’ve written this is so I can go back and read it when I need to. So I can remind myself that most nurses are good people - cis women and gay men who care about trans people. Who aren’t overcome with reactionary trans-hatred. Most are empathetic, sensitive, nuanced, educated professionals who don’t allow grievance politics to get in the way of the oath they took.
The reason I’ve written this, is to remind me that I’ve rarely met a nurse I didn’t like. They are, for the most part; Icons, Kweens, Divas, Mother.
Hey, by the way - my short film ‘Transsexual Psycho Bitch Murder Party’ premieres this Saturday night at 8pm (GMT), over on my Youtube channel. Here’s the link if you’d like to check it out. Thank you.
MEMOIRS OF AN EVIL, HORRIBLE TRANNY is written by Jen Ives.
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Mine were awful at my last GP. Didn’t know I was having panic attacks 😅