16.1 "....angel of the centrefold...."

The consultant who prescribed the drug Spironolactone for my condition had warned me of side effects but other than the intended benefits, nothing appeared to be happening. The dose, four hundred milligrams per day seemed massive compared with daily doses of other drugs I had been taking so my adrenal gands must have been like The Incredible Hulk's to be overproducing so much Aldosterone. Thing went well for a while then suddenly, sometime in March, as Teri was drying me after a shower we discovered my nipples were incredibly sensitive. I don’t know if any of you will remember from childhood, mothers of young children are always very vigorous with towels. The way Teri attacked my sensitive bits made me realise that women really do believe men never grow up.

"Yahrrouch ow ooh ahh ahhh, be gentle with me." I protested. Teri maintained she was rubbing no harder than usual. It felt as if she was lying. We examined my chest and for the first time noticed the hair was much finer than it used to be. Then there were the nipples. They looked as though I had been shot in the back twice and the bullets were pressing against them. It did not seem very important, after all there was little chance I would be spending much time in the changing room at the gym in future.

Over the next few weeks however a pair of boobs developed rapidly. From having pecs, with flat, male nipples tucked under the bulge of muscle and looking down, my chest had developed two slightly hammocked, fleshy protrusions with raised areolas and pink, upturned nipples. I am not exaggerating, and even though I do say it myself, they were impressively pert for a fifty year old. The boobs had certain a girlish charm but we decided they had to go. At that time appointments with the endocrinology clinic were three monthly and my next visit soon came round. The consultant was not available and I saw a female junior doctor who asked about erections, (not something I had thought about a great deal since my stroke) and spoke of the testosterone blocking effects of Spironolactone. Well that department was still fully operational though not called upon to perform as often as it had been. Boobs were not a welcome addition to my body decoration and the feminisation process made a myth of that tattoo but the doctor and I decided to see how things went. There did not seem to be many alternatives however so on the way home Teri suggested she should perhaps start showing me how to put on make - up.

Next appointment, the hospital was in chaos (greater chaos than usual) and I had a short and very unhelpful visit with a junior doctor who had the ego of an opera singer and the brain of an opera hat. "Don’t be ridiculous" he said, "men don’t get breasts. I recalled something similar being said about the prospects of recovery.

"Spironolactone is an excellent drug and you must not stop taking it. The side effects are not seriouys" he commanded.

I think he was hoping for a flash. Well no way. I might have been turning into a girlie but I was no slapper and was only going to get them out for five grand and a guaranteed centrefold feature.

Another three months passed and my journey from Wonderboy to Wonderbra was three parts done. I had cleavage. Honestly I did! There were about three hairs left on a chest that not so long ago any medallion man would have died for and trousers that had been a good fit were loose around the waist and tight on the hips. (And I’m telling you girls, I only had to look at a cheesecake to gain a couple of pounds. You know how it is.)

The consultant was once more unavailable and I was asked to see another Doctor. Expecting the same one as previously I psyched myself up for a row.

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16.2 ".... Slippin' and a slidin', all along the waterfall...."

Junior Doctors are not given good facilities and even a consultant’s room in the hospital would not have been considered big enough to be a stationery cupboard in the world of commerce so I elected to leave my wheelchair in the corridor and Long John Silver my way into the office. The door of the consulting room opened and a beautiful Indian girl greeted me, blue-black hair bobbed in a modern style, dark brown eyes as lustrous as chalcedony and coffee coloured skin contrasting stunningly with the crisp white of a regulation coat ( I hope young men are taking notes here, this approach is guaranteed to get you a lot further with an educated woman than "by ’eck she wur a cracker") Sweeping violins played romantic melodies conjuring visions of ripples washing moonlit shores and the Taj Mahal tinted pink by a tropical sunset. OK, I’m exaggerating but I’d never met a fanciable doctor before. The girl introduced herself as Kalpana, the brand name of a piece of Ethernet switching equipment used in data networks. Not exactly romantic, but a good conversation point.

After we had run through the background to my case, done the blood pressure thing and reviewed the results of my last blood sample she asked was there anything I wanted to discuss.

"Well there was something I wanted to get off my chest," I said and told her about the physical changes.

"How are your erections," she asked.

"Its a fascinating name, Kalpana," I said, "did you know it is the brand name of a piece of equipment used in computer networks."

It did not work and I had to sit and discuss with this beautiful woman who was young enough to be my daughter the fundamentals of my libido or lack of it. After the doctor had talked about the testosterone blocking effects of Spironolactone (again) and the reasons why my body was changing I understood a few things that had been worrying me and knew more about the testosterone blocking effects of Sprionolactone than I did about Computer technology. Understanding these things worried me even more.

"Basically, you’re telling me that I’m being turned into a woman just in time for the menopause," I said. "I skip my bimbo years and come straight in as a bad-tempered old crone."

"It will not go any further," she assured me, "but don’t you have lovely long, thick eyelashes? Anyway, look on the bright side, you have bypassed the hassle of periods and PMS."

Eventually we managed to get away from discussing my erectile dysfunction, rather attractive breasts and career prospects as the first male Playboy Centrefold and started to decide what we should do about remedying the situation. Having entered the room determined to get a few changes made I switched on Turbocharm. (female readers will tut, raise their eyebrows and say "thinks he’s god gift doesn’t he?" but lets face it, I was only doing what any woman with halfway decent looks and an engaging personality would do to get what she wanted from a man. One rule for them eh boys?

OK, I’m a bastard but like I have said before "this is the real world". To me the obvious answer seemed a reduction in the dose of Spironolactone and it was surprising when Kalpana was doubtful.

Eventually we agreed to a change in medication, the new drug would not have such a drastic effect on my gender definition. Unfortunately it did not have any effect on my Aldosterone problem either and I began to regress to pre - stroke poor health. Another bit of tinkering by the consultant three months later did not help but some of the argument he put up against my suggestions gave me a clue that the problems were in administration rather than at the medical level.

*

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16.4 "....and take it to the limit one more time...."

It took several months of zero progress to get the medication sorted out and return my physical condition to a point at which I could start pushing against the limits of ability again. During that period there was plenty of time to think about my problems and learn as much as I possibly could about the consequences of a stoke and the brain damage that occurs from it. (People brainwashed by the politically correct attitudes are often horrified by the way I use terms like Brain Damage, Cripple, Disabled. It is really so silly, just as those who tell us we should not call ourselves British because it has racist undertones actually provoke racial unrest, those who try to forbid use of terms like "brain damage" perpetuate the nodding, dribbling, jerky - limbed "spaz" of schoolyard mythology. If it cannot be said that I have brain damage how will people who do not know me ever change their attitude about brain damage?

All my family have joked about my condition, we’ll never really know if it earned me any respect or consideration (not that I wanted it to) but it has helped people to feel comfortable about talking to me.

Having plenty of time to consider the information available it was not difficult even with very limited medical knowledge to arrive at a better understanding of what was happening in my body. This raised some questions about some of the standard treatments. I still have great respect for the physiotherapists who treated me (and for their supervisor Giles, who was not an attractive woman. I do not have a one track mind..) but it became obvious some of the standard methods were way out of date. There are some very dodgy websites offering medical advice so be wary when doing your own research, but Karolinska, where I had worked, the Chicago Medical School and other sites run by reliable organisations can be trusted. Don’t simply act on your own judgements after all even though Doctors are far from perfect their decisions are informed by years of experience. Having said that I must remind you that only one person in the world knows what it feels like to be inside your body, make sure your concerns are listened to. Do not just rely on Doctors. Talk to the nurses you will surely come into contact with. They do not have the authority to make decisions but through dealing with people’s day to day problems do usually have more hands - on experience and will be able to tell you the right questions to ask. I was able to phone Kathy from time to time and get advice, other times I just phoned to tell her she is a wonderful person (even nurses like flattery.) Appreciation is so important to all of us. Keep in touch with the people who help you, tell them about your progress, share your good news with them. It really does mean a lot.

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