After nine months of regular treatments, I noticed the hair was growing in thinner and a bit sparser but hadn’t disappeared. I took some digital photos of my progress and emailed them to Dr. Laub. He instructed me to keep going and send him more photos in six months. Six months? I was hoping to have already recovered from my first surgery by then. I broke the news to Deborah at my next appointment. She gave me a big hug, reminded me that these things take time, and that it was better to be extra diligent with the hair removal now than to go forward with surgery and risk complications. I knew she was right but I was bummed and worried that even after six months, the hair still might not be gone. Then what? As if reading my mind, Deborah asked me if I’d ever heard of laser hair removal.
Laser was relatively new in the late ’90s and it was pricey. You had to buy a package because it would take three to ten sessions before you’d see a significant reduction in hair growth. It worked best on fair-skinned people with very dark hair. I had the dark hair but olive skin. Screwed again! Nonetheless, Deborah reached out to her friend Paula, who had just started performing laser treatments, and told her about my case. She said I should come by to meet with the doctor and he would determine whether or not I was a good candidate.
After confirming with Dr. Laub that this type of hair removal was a legit alternative, I headed to Winchester Electrology and Laser Center and introduced myself to Paula, who was one of the sweetest people on earth. I showed her my forearm and was relieved to hear laser had worked on clients with skin as dark as mine. We chatted for a bit and I immediately felt at ease—a feeling that vanished as soon as the doctor walked in. There was something about him that just seemed “off.” He was tall and slim and had very pale, clammy skin. His face looked almost rubbery, which after further examination I attributed to a complete lack of facial hair—no evidence of any beard growth whatsoever. Odd. I caught a glimpse of his forearm, which was also completely hairless, and began to wonder if he was his own best customer.
During my five-minute consultation, Dr. Sharpe told me he got his medical degree from Harvard, that despite my olive skin I’d definitely get a good result from the laser, and that I could also benefit from a little lipo on my love handles.
Thanks a lot.
He signed some paperwork, relayed some cryptic instructions to Paula, and then disappeared into his office.
“Do you want to have a treatment now?” Paula asked.
“Do you do it or does he?”
“I do.”
“Is he gonna be here every time I come in?”
She looked at me curiously. “No, he’s not usually here unless it’s for a new patient consult. He dictates the laser setting and I pretty much take it from there. Why?”
“He gives me the creeps. Has anyone else ever said that?”
“No . . . You’re the first.”
Hmmmm.
Creepy doctors aside, if anyone ever tells you laser hair removal doesn’t hurt, I hereby give you permission to punch them in the nose. You may also hear, “Oh, it’s not that bad. It just feels like a rubber band snapping on your skin.” That one deserves an atomic wedgie. I’d say the sensation is more like being stung by a giant bee. Over and over and over again. And if you think that hurts, try forking over a thousand dollars up front for ten treatments, only to see hair still sprouting. I couldn’t understand it. I was coming in every four weeks as directed. Paula even cranked up the setting a bit higher, to my dismay. Were my super Armo hair follicles impervious to laser? The hair had become thinner, but was nowhere near gone.
After further research, Paula found some colleagues who had a brand new type of laser that was said to be stronger and more effective on darker skin. Enter Faye and Margaret, my new best friends. Faye, the older and more experienced of the two, was a riot. Classic Irish: fiery red hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and freckles, with a loud Boston accent that could’ve landed her a walk-on role in The Town (I sway-ah!). Margaret had short dark hair, quiet, compassionate eyes, and skin like porcelain. I pegged her as the more professional and organized one—a good balance to her boisterous counterpart.
Faye examined my forearm and told me that her new laser should work better on the hairs because of some advanced light wave technology thing I didn’t understand. And because it emitted a cooling gel after each pulse, she also said it would hurt less. (Not!) But she was right about the first part: This laser did yield better results.
Four or five treatments later, I got home from work and plopped down on the couch with a bowl of cereal and my remote. I flipped on the news just in time to catch the breaking top story about a wealthy, Harvard-educated dermatologist who was arrested for murdering his ex-wife in her home right in front of their daughter. I almost choked on a Mini-Wheat when I saw the familiar rubbery face of the man on screen: Just as I thought No, it couldn’t be, the name “Dr. Richard Sharpe” appeared beneath his image. The story quickly evolved as multiple photos of Dr. Sharpe dressed as a woman surfaced and became the focus of all subsequent news reports. The media thrived on it. He was no longer a murderer. He was a “cross-dressing murderer” or a “transsexual murderer.” Nobody really cared about distinguishing the difference between the two because the net takeaway was the same: just like in the movies, man who wants to be a woman equals whack job.
And despite all I’d done to change perceptions, I couldn’t help but fear people would apply that same logic to me.
UNDER PRESSURE
Spring 1999
You know ad agency life is a bit fucked up when you need a psychologist on staff. Arnold hired “Dr. Susan” to help upper management in creative and account service “get along.” All of us underlings found this amusing. We would see her coming in and out of our bosses’ offices and give each other the raised eyebrow. Then one day while I was typing up copy, Dr. Susan appeared in my office. I was completely caught off guard and pretty sure she could tell. To break the ice, she asked me what I was working on.
“An ad for MonsterTrak,” I replied. “It’s a division of Monster.com, only for entry-level jobs and internships. This ad is supposed to run in Glamour magazine. The headline is ‘We’ll help get your foot in the door—but not in those shoes, girlfriend!’”
She laughed. “That’s a good one. I like that.”
I smiled. What is she doing here?
“Well, I won’t keep you, Chris. I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself. Your father told me what your mom was going through and I just wanted to check on you and see how you were doing. Chemotherapy can take quite a toll on everyone.”
Three years earlier, we found out Mom had leukemia. My sisters and I didn’t grasp the severity of the situation at first because when my parents told us, they played it down so we wouldn’t worry. They said “it was the best kind of leukemia to have” and that it was totally treatable with a drug that Mom needed to take in cycles. Well, the doctors were able to treat it for a while, but now she was at the point where she needed a stem cell transplant. We were devastated. In preparation, Mom had to go through some serious chemo and Jill and I were taking turns accompanying her to Dana Farber. “I’m fine,” she’d insist. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll call you when I need to be picked up.” She was always strong for us so I tried to be strong for her. But Dr. Susan was right. The stress took a toll on me. Not one day went by when I didn’t worry about Mom dying. Add work pressure and my transition hurdles and it’s no wonder I’d lost ten pounds and hadn’t even noticed.
“It’s been hard,” I said.
“Why don’t I stop by and chat with you for a bit.” She opened up her date book and penciled me in.
My partner, Mike, showed up in my doorway just as she was leaving. “Are they afraid you’re gonna go postal and shoot up the place?”
“Ha. Ha.”
Mentally speaking, I had been doing well with my transition, so my visits to Bet were now prescribed “as needed.” I hadn’t had a therapy session with her in about a year and a half, so I was out of pra
ctice and dreaded delving deep into my psyche again. But Dr. Susan had a totally different style. She was more like a coach than a therapist. There were no stare-down matches or answering questions with more questions. She’d size up a situation, look at it from all angles, and then help me decide on the best path. After some initial hesitation, I looked forward to our visits and no longer cared if anyone saw her coming in or out of my office. They should be so lucky to have her free counsel. Dr. Susan became a valued member of Team Edwards—always there whenever I needed medical guidance or advice with career, relationships, and family.
And she couldn’t have showed up at a better time. Because surgically speaking, mine was running out and panic was setting in. I’d received a call from Dr. Laub’s coordinator, who dropped a major bomb on me.
“I have some bad news,” she said flatly. “Dr. Laub is retiring.”
My heart sank. “Wh-when?”
“Next year . . . but he’s not taking on any new patients.”
“Well, I’m not a new patient. He’s already met with me.”
“But he hasn’t started your surgery yet so technically you’re a new patient.”
Her matter-of-fact delivery was infuriating.
“Well, I’d like to make an appointment and talk to him myself.”
We argued back and forth until she finally gave in and scheduled me another one of her “half-hour specials” for the following month. I hung up the phone victorious but distraught. If Dr. Laub didn’t do my surgery, I had nowhere else to turn. I called my mom in tears and recounted the conversation I’d just had. She was furious.
“That bitch!”
“I know, Mom. But she can’t help it that he’s retiring.”
“She can help her attitude! She didn’t even ask him. We’ll go back and meet with Dr. Laub. He won’t say no to you.”
After a family strategy session, we decided that Dad would accompany me instead. He had orchestrated many successful business deals and was a master at the art of problem-solving and negotiation. He’d be the best person to have in the room should Dr. Laub say no, and we needed to mediate an alternate solution to my predicament. I think Dad was also hoping to appeal to him father to father.
We arrived at the clinic in Palo Alto, and within minutes were seated in Dr. Laub’s office. He immediately focused on my arm and noting all the electrolysis scabs, asked if I’d had a treatment recently. “You have no idea,” I said. He told me I should wait a month for the hair to grow and then send him another picture so he could make an accurate assessment. Dad and I looked at each other.
“Does this mean you’ll do my surgery?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, your coordinator told us you’re retiring and that you weren’t taking on any new gender patients.”
“Well, you’re not new. We already had a deal.” He smiled, with a twinkle in his eye as though conspiring against “the establishment.”
Dad stood up to shake his hand, thanking him profusely. I went around his desk and gave him a hug.
“Let’s not keep the doctor any longer, Chris,” Dad said, opening the office door and practically shoving me through it. As we darted past reception, the coordinator spotted us.
“Done so soon?”
“Yes, Dr. Laub wants me to send him a picture of my arm in a month and then set up a surgery date.”
She looked pissed.
“I’ll call you in a month,” I shouted as Dad ushered me out the front door.
We were both giddy as we got into the car.
“Sorry to rush you out,” Dad said, “but the first rule of business: When you get the answer you want, don’t give ’em time to change their mind.”
But time would prove to be my enemy once again. One month turned into three months and three months turned into six. After four years of electrolysis and laser treatments, enough of my stubborn Armo hair kept coming back to prevent me from setting a surgery date. I had originally planned to be done with bottom surgery by the year 2000, and here we were in 2002 and I hadn’t even started. With Dr. Laub’s retirement now closer to reality, my penis was slipping further and further away from it.
Mom tried to make me feel better by telling me maybe this was a sign I wasn’t meant to have surgery yet. That maybe there was some surgical breakthrough coming that would be worth the wait. I clung to this hope and tried to stay positive. But the truth was I no longer had control over the timetable of my transition; I had no idea when I’d finally feel complete.
Then something Dr. Susan had said about regaining control popped into my brain: Knowledge is power. Always get as much information as you can.
The phone rang three times before Dr. Laub’s coordinator picked up. I swallowed my pride and with desperation in my voice, explained my situation and asked for her advice. In a sympathetic tone uncharacteristic of any of our prior conversations, she told me I couldn’t pin my hopes on Dr. Laub. He was retiring because he had brain cancer.
I was stunned. Speechless. How could God let this happen to such a brilliant, compassionate man? The world needed him. I needed him. It was then that I realized the reason this woman had been so protective of Dr. Laub’s schedule was because she was concerned for his health. I felt a new sense of understanding and appreciation for her. Knowing his condition, I probably would’ve acted the same way toward any patient that was trying to keep him working.
I began to process what this meant for Dr. Laub, his practice, and the future of gender reassignment surgery and asked if there was anyone at Stanford who could carry on his legacy. She mentioned a few doctors whose expertise was male-to-female, but because female-to-male procedures were still far from perfected, she didn’t feel there was anyone there I could see at this time.
My heart sank . . . until I heard an enthusiastic “Wait a minute!” on the other end of the line.
WHAT’S UP, DOC?
April 11, 2002
Turns out a young hotshot plastic surgeon who’d trained under Dr. Laub had left Stanford to join a private practice in Nashville. He’d been instrumental in advancing phalloplasty surgery both on an aesthetic and micro-vascular level and came highly recommended for his skill, attitude, and bedside manner. The fact that he was also Greek scored big points with my mom. “Ooh, Shtiny, I’ve got a good feeling about him,” she said. “He’s practically Armenian—it’s meant to be!”
I was even more excited: Two weeks earlier I had zero options. Now I had an appointment with Dr. Michael Stephanides, a talented, experienced surgeon who was only one time zone away instead of three. And with Mom’s immune system back to full capacity and her blood test results leukemia-free, she was able to fly with Dad and me to meet the man in person.
We were all in good spirits as we walked through the Nashville International Airport, taking in the country music paraphernalia and historic memorabilia decorating the walls. Then we got to baggage claim and discovered my suitcase was the only one that had arrived. To help keep my dad from losing it, I took care of filing the report with the lost baggage department and returned to my parents with two complimentary Dopp kits and the airline’s promise that their missing luggage would be delivered to the hotel the next morning.
The unexpected delay had eaten up the time we would have had to check in and freshen up before my appointment, so we now needed to go straight to the doctor’s office. This would have been fine had it not been for our next surprise: a stretch limo parked at the curb with our name on it.
“Jesus Christ,” Dad huffed.
“Oh, Ed, lighten up,” Mom shushed.
I gave the driver a smile and a wave and he came rushing over, eager to help take care of us. We were clearly not in Boston anymore.
“Is this all the luggage you have?” he asked, taking the handle of my suitcase, knowing full well three vacationing adults couldn’t possibly get by on what fit inside. I nodded and after noting the sour look on my dad’s face, he quickly changed gears.
“Now I know y�
�all ordered a sedan, but seeing there was three of you, we thought you’d be more comfortable in thissssss,” he said dramatically, adding a Vanna White arm flourish to emphasize the absurd length of the vehicle. Disappointed by our lackluster response, he quickly followed up with, “No extra charge.” To make him feel better, Mom immediately began gushing over the extravagance of the limo as she climbed into the backseat. It worked. Soon he was smiling again.
Our lack of enthusiasm wasn’t because we were ungrateful for the upgrade. It’s just that we’re not flashy people to begin with, so the last thing we wanted to do was pull into my doctor’s office looking like rich assholes and, by extension, get charged out the wazoo for my surgery. Fortunately, the medical building had a rear entrance and we asked the driver to drop us there, only further disappointing him.
Walking into Orcutt Plastic Surgery Specialists felt more like walking onto the set of the TV series Designing Women. The waiting room was pure “Southern elegance” with its overstuffed upholstered furniture, chintz pillows, and accent tables in light washed wood and glass. But the warmth emanating from the room came largely from the nurses and staff. It may have been the Southern drawl, but everyone seemed so friendly. And when Dr. Stephanides came out to greet us and introduced himself simply as “Mike,” I liked him immediately. It felt disrespectful to call him by his first name though, so I just started calling him “Doc.”
If Doc’s accent didn’t betray his Greek heritage, his dark eyes and olive complexion were pretty good clues. He was around 5’10”, fit from playing regular tennis, and despite his pepper-colored hair being flecked with quite a bit of salt, his flawless skin and mischievous grin made him seem ageless. His English was formal; he used very few contractions. He also spoke very quickly—when he got the chance. It was hard to get a word in with my mom going on about the similarities between Greek and Armenian food.
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