It’s been five days since the day I should have stabbed myself in the leg. Five days since my latest dose of T was due.
And I still haven’t gotten any.
All this fun is because of something as simple as a manufacturer’s shortage. The pharmacy can’t get a hold of it, so neither can I. And I get that I can’t just substitute another product without checking with the endo to see how best to go about it, but in the mean time I’m going without. And I’m obsessing.
I’m watching every little thing about me, trying to see if some of the changes are slipping away already. Am I more emotional, or is that just the stress? How’s my apatite? Was that blood in the toilet? Will I really have to deal with that again so soon, or am I being paranoid? How long before it all slips away like a dream?
I know some things are permanent. The facial hair, the voice; these will be with me forever, and I’m grateful. But I’m afraid of going back to a brain that doesn’t work as well as it should, that keeps me in a hormone-imbalanced fog. I’m afraid of going back to that back pain, knowing what it means, and what will I do about public washrooms then?
And I’m afraid that this is a luxury. I love this modern world of ours, with its conveniences and progress, even its problems. But how long can it last? I can’t help that cynical streak that warns me that this could all disappear tomorrow, dropping us into some dark dystopia. It’s why I keep one foot in the analogue world; the printed word can’t be deleted.
I hope I’m wrong. I hope this digital age finds some way to endure, and that we find a way to do better with the resources we have. I hope the modern world delivers on its promises this time. But for now, I’m waiting on an elixir in a tiny vial, and the clock is ticking.