My Truman Show

My Truman Show

November 2020

Bad mammogram. One of the scariest phrases I know. My maternal grandmother, who I look like so much it’s uncanny, had breast cancer. I have always assumed that because we are so alike genetically, it is a foregone conclusion that I will get it one day.
I’d had a follow up appointment after work for a more thorough mammogram and ultrasound following one that had shown something suspicious. It had been a long, long day at work and I was exhausted from fighting chronic pain in my neck and shoulder as well as constantly battling headaches that would not leave me following my fifth concussion a couple of years prior. Daily life was kicking my ass.
I pulled in the driveway and saw my son’s head pop up in the window and then quickly disappear. That had been happening frequently over the past few weeks. Usually he was oblivious to me coming and going but that had changed. I figured he was listening for me to get home because, well, being a teenage boy home alone might mean that he was, um, busy with private activities. I chuckled, made a mental note not to pick up any socks that might be lying around, and went inside.
As I stepped in the front door I looked up and saw my son descending the staircase. I did a double take because for some reason, my fifteen year old boy had GINORMOUS boobs. I mean, like, bigger than DD, which was shocking on his five foot tall 100 pound frame. Interrobang.
I didn’t say anything for a minute while I tried to figure out if I was dreaming or if this was real. I briefly wondered if I had sustained a stroke and was seeing things that weren’t really there. Then I heard myself saying “I hate to break it to you honey but those gigantic knockers are way too big for your frame. If you had boobs they’d be an A cup or B at most.” He laughed and said “I love that you come home to this and the first thing you say has to do with realistic boob size!” He went back upstairs rocking the self-fashioned bra that he had made out of an old tank top and walking with a wiggle in his hips that I had never seen before.
I stood in the front hall and looked up at the ceiling, wondering if someone had installed cameras and was filming this as a practical joke that my son might be in on. Seriously?! I come home from a follow up to a bad mammogram to find my teenage boy rocking a giant rack?! There was no way this was actually happening.
As I walked up the stairs to the living room I realized it couldn’t be a joke, because I hadn’t told anyone about the bad mammogram or the follow up appointments. Completely puzzled, I walked into the living room and asked “So, what’s with the giant rack? Why do you suddenly have enormous breasts?”
He replied “Because gender!”
“What does that mean, because gender?” I prodded, as the headache I had been fighting won the battle. “I don’t understand what that means.”
I felt rage start to bubble in my gut. I tried unsuccessfully to keep it from rising into my chest and then held my breath in an attempt to keep it from exploding into my already aching head. I failed. My child had come out as nonbinary a few months prior, but had explained it as a feeling of not being either male or female, and I was still getting used to using they/them pronouns. Right, pronouns. I don’t have a son anymore, I have a child. Guilt washed over me as I recalled the recent irritation I had been feeling about this whole nonbinary they/them thing. At least my child felt safe and comfortable enough with me to come out, although no one else in the family or friends circle was allowed to know yet. I should be grateful for that.
“Because gender!” they exclaimed again, laughing and jutting out their chest.
I sat down on the couch beside my child and pretended to focus on my laptop. Like most nights I had a ton of homework to catch up on before school in the morning. I asked again, “So can you tell me what’s really up with the giant boobs?”
“Well, a page I follow said to try out different things to see if any of them give you gender euphoria. These boobs are giving me gender euphoria! I have been wearing them when you’re not home and sleeping with them on”
Interrobang. Gender euphoria? You have got to be kidding me. My kiddo had come home from the first week of grade ten talking excitedly about having met a trans kid, so when they came out as nonbinary I saw it as bandwagoning. I was feeling ill at ease all the time and I couldn’t figure out why. It never occurred to me that I might be a transphobe. I had always been accepting of LGBTQ people, I even helped with the GSA when I worked at the high school. I considered myself an ally.
I was feeling immense guilt about the fear in my heart and chastising myself for the emotions that I couldn’t seem to keep at bay.
“Can you please take those boobs out so I can hug you goodnight?” I snapped.
Their face fell and their bubbly mood vanished. They went upstairs and came down in boy PJs and I hugged them tight, knowing I was trying to hold on to something that was very much in flux. I felt terrible about their euphoric mood vanishing, especially because the anxiety that had been ever present in my child had been growing stronger and darker as the teen years progressed and I hadn’t seen my child that happy in what seemed like forever. A sense of impending doom had resided in my gut since this child of mine had been born with a life threatening medical condition. They had been through so much that I knew there was no way there wouldn’t be serious mental health consequences and their mental health had been in steady decline for years .
How could I have not seen this? The thing that was gnawing at me the most was the shock I had felt when they first came out. I had never had an inkling that my child might be gender diverse. They had been a rough and tumble little imp, as typical an ADHD boy as you would ever expect to see in a classroom. Hilarious and funny and brilliant, with emotions that had a depth and complexity I had rarely seen in another human being.
As I got ready for bed, I realized that if I reacted badly when my child shared important things with me, they would hide their important things from me. I vowed to do better next time and tried to swallow the fear and frustration that were all too familiar to me when it came to raising this child. Cold jolts of fear ran through my veins as I thought of all the horrible “jokes” people had made to me over the years about trans women and I wondered how I could possibly protect them from hatred and violence if this was the beginning of a journey that would lead to them wanting to wear women’s clothing. I really, really hoped that I would never see my child wearing anything feminine again, but somehow I knew that was not in the cards.