BALLS

by Chris Edwards

  “Have you ever had paklava?” she asked him. “It’s the Armenian version of baklava. We make it with cinnamon. I’ll have to send you some, you’ll looove it.”

  Doc escorted us down a corridor to his office, which, compared to the waiting room, looked oddly out of place: stark white walls, gray wall-to-wall carpeting, and a contemporary gray leather couch, behind which hung a painting of white stucco buildings overlooking the Mediterranean.

  “That’s Cyprus,” he told us. “My homeland.”

  “And what, pray tell, is that?” I asked motioning toward the elephant in the room: a three-foot by five-foot painting of a naked woman with exceptionally large breasts lying on her side. It was on the floor propped up against the wall.

  “Oh, a patient made that for me to thank me for doing her boob job. I don’t know where to put it.”

  “How ’bout at home over your bed?” Dad suggested, laughing at his own joke.

  Doc laughed too, and then we all spent the next ten minutes listening to Mom’s unsolicited decorating advice. Finally Doc’s nurse stuck her head inside the door to find out what all the laughter was about, which we took as a subtle cue to get down to business.

  Unlike the other doctors I’d met with, Doc created a PowerPoint presentation to take us through the surgery. He began by speaking in general terms and then clicked to a slide that featured a grid like the one in the opening of the Brady Bunch. Only instead of Marcia, Greg, Peter, Jan, Bobby, Cindy, Mike, Carol, and Ann B. Davis as Alice, inside each square was a picture of a different penis. He asked us to determine which one was the fake—the one created by the procedure I was going to have. I could feel the tops of my ears turn red. Scrutinizing male genitalia with a parent on either side of you is awkward enough, let alone working with them as a team to pick the “imposter” out of a lineup.

  And none of us guessed right. Turns out it was a trick question. They were all anatomical originals. The point was to illustrate there is no “right way” a penis should look. I understood where Doc was coming from, but I still pointed to the most stereotypical image on the screen and said, “I get it, but that’s the one I want.”

  We spent another hour with Doc asking questions and discussing procedural details before nailing down a realistic timeframe for the first of what I learned would be six surgeries over two years. He asked me if I smoked, adding that if I did, I better quit because it inhibits the body’s ability to heal.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Good. Smoking is the worst thing you can do to your body and I refuse to operate on anyone who smokes.”

  Again I assured him I was, in fact, a nonsmoker and that I couldn’t stand even the smell of smoke. With that settled, I showed him my forearm. He echoed Dr. Laub’s concerns about the hair growth but thought we could shoot for surgery in July—just three months away. Mom squeezed my leg. I was grinning uncontrollably but still trying not to get my hopes up; my Armo hair had screwed me plenty of times before. Doc said I should continue to do both electrolysis and laser on my arm and just laser on my groin.

  Say what now?

  “Ah . . . Dr. Laub didn’t mention anything about needing to laser my groin . . .”

  “Do you want a hairy penis?”

  “No.”

  “Hairy balls?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, you better get going on it.”

  “But I thought you just used skin from my abdomen and forearm?”

  “Possibly the groin area too. I won’t know until I see how your tissue responds. But we will definitely be using your labia for the balls.”

  I didn’t know what was more horrifying: the thought of getting zapped with a laser “down there” or having a conversation about my labia in front of my parents. Doc assumed the former.

  “Look, Chris, it is up to you. I am sensing you are a perfectionist and that you have a very specific idea of what you want aesthetically. I am just letting you know what you will have to go through to get it.”

  “Okay, gotcha.”

  I was relieved we were finally putting an end to this conversation.

  “Besides,” he added, “lots of guys have hairy balls.”

  Mom turned to me, “You don’t want that. Get the laser.”

  Oh my god. Make it stop.

  Dad mercifully changed the subject.

  “So insurance doesn’t cover this type of surgery at all?”

  “No. Not usually. They consider it elective surgery—purely cosmetic and therefore unnecessary. But we lower our charges a bit and try to minimize your hospital stay to keep costs down—we have no control over what they charge. It’s cheaper to stay at a four-star hotel. Many patients who come from out of town stay at the Hampton Suites or Extended Stay America so they can have a kitchen and not have to pay for room service. Where are you staying?”

  “The Loews Vanderbilt Plaza,” I mumbled, embarrassed.

  “That’s a nice hotel. And very close to here.”

  “Oh, good,” Mom said. “We haven’t been yet. We came straight from the airport.”

  “Ok, well, do you know where you’re going?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Dad offered. “We don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

  We all got up, exchanged pleasantries, and shook hands with Doc. He escorted us back to the waiting area and told the receptionist he was going to walk us to our car and make sure we knew how to get to the hotel. The three of us froze. So much for our clean getaway.

  “No, no, no, that’s okay,” Dad said. “Really, we’re fine.”

  “I have to go see a patient at the hospital anyway. Come on, we’ll go out the shortcut.”

  As we left the building, Mom promised to send Doc homemade paklava, while Dad and I prepared to be humiliated by the shiny black monstrosity now parked at the front entrance.

  “Whoa, look at that thing. Someone famous must be here for a facelift,” Doc joked.

  “Nope, that would be us,” I admitted as the driver ran around and opened the door, smiling. “They gave us a free upgrade. We’re humiliated.”

  Doc laughed and, as we all climbed into the back of the limousine, asked the driver if he knew how to get to the Loews from here. The driver looked at him like he was high; you could see the hotel from the parking lot.

  “Thanks, Doc. See you in July,” I yelled out the tinted window. He waved and watched us slowly drive off. The conversation in the back of the limo went something like this:

  Mom: I LOVE him, Shtiny!

  Me: Me too.

  Mom: He’s like a long-lost cousin. I’ll have to send him some paklava.

  Dad: [Headshake combined with eye roll.]

  Me: Did you like him, Dad?

  Dad: Yes. Very much. He seems very competent and compassionate.

  Mom: Did you see his hands? He has surgeon’s hands—very delicate.

  Me: And hairless. He barely had any hair on his arms either. Lucky bastard.

  Mom: He didn’t have one wrinkle on his face. Do you think he had work done?

  Me and Dad (in unison): No.

  Mom: How old do you think he is?

  Me: I don’t know . . . thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?

  Dad: He’s gotta be older than that. He has two kids.

  Me: 40?

  Mom: His wife is from Vermont, you know. We should bring her a Red Sox hat.

  Things were looking up. We had a doctor we loved and a surgery date to shoot for. This was really going to happen! We celebrated by having drinks and listening to some live music at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, a tourist staple in the honky-tonk section of downtown Nashville where Patsy Cline and Hank Williams Jr. once played. As I sat there sipping my Miller Lite, watching my dad watching my mom get hit on by a dancing, drunk man in his seventies, It struck me again how truly lucky I was.

  And then I remembered about having to laser my groin.

  ••

  “Oh, honey, I’ve seen it all.”

  That was Faye’s respons
e when I sheepishly told her about the additional area I’d need to have lasered.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve had gay guys come in all the time wanting their cock and balls done. I even did a guy’s anus once.”

  Dear God.

  While I waited for the numbing cream to take effect, Faye stepped out to assist Margaret with a treatment in the other room. She came back a half hour later singing a song by the Eagles and getting most of the lyrics wrong. I laughed and she suggested I not make fun of her singing when she was the one with the laser in her hand, then cackled to herself and started up the machine. I was lying on the bed with its back raised slightly. It was like lounging in a chaise by the pool. Only instead of being caressed by a relaxing summer breeze, I was being repeatedly electrocuted in the most sensitive of areas, each zap causing me to squeeze the armrests tighter and curse in ways I never knew possible. At one point, Margaret came running in to see what was going on and after getting an eyeful, promptly excused herself and closed the door behind her.

  Faye kept asking if I wanted to stop and take a break but I instructed her, amid a flurry of f-bombs, to just get it over with. After roughly twelve agonizing minutes, it was. I had nearly torn off one of the armrests and was completely drenched in sweat. Faye asked if I wanted to wait a few minutes before doing my arm. Shit. I’d forgotten all about that. As I mentally prepared for round two of her torture session, I reminded myself that all this pain and suffering was going to pay off in the long run.

  And it did. But due to unforeseen complications that my hairless urethra couldn’t prevent, Doc’s estimate of six surgeries over the course of two years was a bit off.

  From 2002 to 2007, I had surgery twenty-two times.

  If you break it down, that’s roughly one procedure every three months. Some required multiple-night stays in the hospital and a few weeks’ recovery in Nashville. Others I was able to knock out over a long weekend. Those “weekend wonders” were performed in Doc’s office with me wide-awake, acting as his assistant. Once I was numb from the Novocain and the continual sight of my own blood, I had no problem handing him instruments, applying pressure with gauze, or holding my would-be shaft at a certain angle while he stitched, cut, or cauterized. These newfound medical skills were saving thousands of dollars in hospital bills.

  In the end, my five-year quest for male genitalia would cost more than $100,000, not including travel. I was beyond fortunate my parents had the means to pay for my surgery. Lord knows I sure didn’t. Nor do most people in my situation today. Again, this is why I’m one of only a small group of transgender men in this country who have chosen to “go all the way” when it comes to bottom surgery. As I’ve mentioned, the “deluxe model” doesn’t come cheaply or easily. It’s an expensive, painful, and time-consuming proposition with the potential for myriad complications and no guarantees when it comes to aesthetics or sensation. It’s pretty freaking scary and oftentimes I felt like I was in what would have been Dante’s tenth circle of hell. But I’d do it all over again if I had to. That feeling of finally being complete—of being who you really are—trumps everything.5

  That said, many people who are transgender choose not to undergo surgery, even if they can afford it. There could be a number of reasons: pain, risk, fear, uncertain results, lack of support, or just being happy with their body the way it is and not feeling the need. Which brings me to an important point: You should never ask someone who is transgender if they have had or plan to have surgery. First, it’s none of your business. Second, it’s offensive because by asking that question you are implying that the person is not the gender they feel they are unless they alter their genitals. The fact is gender identity is not defined by what’s inside your pants; it’s defined by what’s inside your brain. It’s also something nobody questions or even thinks about unless it doesn’t match the body they were born with. This is why people who are not transgender have so much trouble understanding what it’s like to be in our shoes, and often why they are compelled to ask so many questions.

  While many members of the transgender community consider the surgery topic off limits, I was very open about it. I didn’t care if people knew I was having surgery. It was actually less stressful for me knowing I didn’t have to hide it, especially at work. What was I going to do? Make up twenty-two different stories about why I would be out of the office for weeks at a time? It was a relief being able to be honest. I’d simply say, “I’m having surgery,” and people would just say, “Ohhhhh,” and kind of nod. When I’d come back from medical leave, everyone would ask me how it went—more out of genuine concern than anything else—and wait for me to offer up whatever information I was willing to share.

  Of course my close friends and family were privy to all the gory details—partly because I’m an over-sharer and partly because they were curious and wanted to know. I tried to explain the basic procedure in terms they’d understand, which was challenging because I was having difficulty understanding it myself. Doc took me through it at least three times, but I still couldn’t process all the technical details—kind of like when I’m lost and someone is giving me directions that start to get complicated. I’ll nod along, but if it takes more than three steps to get me back on track, I just stop listening.

  So the simplest way I could describe the first stage of my phallo-plasty surgery was that the doctor would use abdominal tissue and a skin graft from my hip to create a vertical tube resembling a suitcase handle. One end would be attached below the bellybutton and the other at the pubic bone. After three months I’d go back for the second stage of the procedure, in which the top part of the “handle” below the belly button would be detached so that it hung down, and voila! The shaft.

  This sparked major discussion among my female friends who, upon finding out I’d have some control over the dimensions of my penis, felt compelled to weigh in. Aside from one assertion that “it’s not the size of the wave but the motion of the ocean,” most of the female input I received was that size did matter but length was not as important as girth.

  “You definitely don’t want the nickname ‘needle dick,’” I was told.

  “Go for the beer can!”

  These comments led to an in-depth discussion with my doctor about penis size. I had read somewhere that the average penis was 3 to 3.5 inches long when flaccid and 5 to 5.5 inches when erect. Since my penis would remain the same length in both situations, I needed to take a one-size-fits-all approach. Doc said he would make the shaft six inches long to start and that he could make it up to two inches longer or shorter at a later stage. He said he couldn’t make any promises on the girth as it would depend on my abdominal tissue and skin graft but assured me I would definitely not be called “needle dick.” He added that most guys come in wanting huge penises and then end up coming back in to have them made smaller because it’s too much to carry around all day—especially for patients who are vertically challenged (i.e., short) like me. Since my penis would be spending most of its time inside my pants, I was leaning more toward being average size than porn star size. Little did I know, Doc had other plans . . .

  ••

  Everything was dark. I could hear voices but couldn’t make out words. The one with the Greek accent that was extremely chipper I knew belonged to my doctor. That’s right, I’m in the hospital. I tried to open my eyes but again, the sandbags were back. That must be the anesthesia kicking in. Then I heard laughter and two voices I recognized as my parents.

  “What’s so funny?” I mumbled, straining to open my eyes.

  “Heeeey, Chris. You’re awake,” Doc said cheerfully.

  “Hi, Shtine,” I heard Mom say and then felt a light kiss on my forehead.

  “Are they taking me in now?” I asked, catching a blurry glimpse of the three of them standing over me like Mount Rushmore before my eyes drooped closed again.

  “You’re all done,” Dad said warmly. I felt his hand pat my leg.

  “You were in there six hours,” Mom added.r />
  “I gave you eight inches!” Doc announced.

  I recall muttering something about not needing a kickstand, which got everyone laughing, and then felt a draft below my waist from what I presumed were blankets being lifted off of me.

  “Jesus Christ!” I heard my dad say. “That thing is bigger than mine!”

  ••

  By day three I was finally getting some quality sleep. The reason? I was no longer forced to wear auto-inflating support hose that tightened around my legs like a blood pressure cuff every twenty minutes. Even better, I had moved out of the hospital and into the Loews Vanderbilt Hotel. The general manager gave us a special medical discount rate on a two-bedroom suite because we were going to be there for a few weeks and would be spending a lot of money on room service. The upscale accommodations my parents sprang for definitely helped ease the pain, but nothing helped my convalescence more than having my mom there to take care of me. For the first few days, I could barely sit up or get out of bed on my own. She made sure I was taking all the right meds at the right times, changing my dressings, and monitoring the fluid level in my drain tubes. She filled in concerned family members, friends, and coworkers on how I was doing when I couldn’t, and played cards and watched movies with me all day despite the way I smelled. She even walked the eight blocks to Arby’s in the July Nashville heat to answer my craving for a junior roast beef. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. It was a long two weeks for both of us. We were starving for other human interaction. Fortunately, I had a doctor who made house calls.

  “Most of my patients stay at the Extended Stay America for fifty-two dollars a night,” Doc said, eyeballing the dining room table positioned directly under the vaulted windows.