Adventures in Filling Out Gender Identity Questions on a SUNY Form

I don’t consider myself super old (56 years of age) and sometimes my kids say I’m old-fashioned when I play my 1970s music on the Amazon Echo (Chicago’s Saturday in the Park) and some might call me a “fuddy duddy,” though I don’t wear a comical hat, and I know that times have changed, but still: who can understand the rationale behind the gender identity question on a State University of New York at Oswego Registration Form – the form I encountered when registering my son for school this year.

I wish not to offend, but the form does – by its very nature – raise questions.

The world I grew up in was simpler in many ways. Cars did not have computers in them; if you wanted to contact someone, you picked up the phone; we didn’t tattoo everything. It’s just how it was. Living in those times, it never dawned on me – or I’m sure anyone of that age – that something as simple as gender could become so fantastically complex.

Back then, the entire matter of gender was quite straight-forward. You were either Male, or you were Female. Even worse, if you were born male, you stayed that way, and if you were born female: the same. It was a digital system, with only two states, and as far as I could tell, it was just taken for granted, like the Winter snow or the sun coming up in the East every morning.

Mankind has evidently progressed, and we have broken such shackles of biology. I refer you to the SUNY registration form. We still have Male and Female on it (in a nod to the old order), but then we have other options, options you didn’t think could exist – or at least I didn’t. I am referring to everything after the boring “Male” and “Female” categories.

Gender Question on a SUNY form

We have Transgender Male/Transman/FTM category. Ok, I get Transgender Male but really have to date myself in admitting that I have no idea what Transman is or FTM. Luckily, I have Google, and find the following definition on Wikipedia:

A trans man (sometimes trans-man ore transman) is a transgender person who was assigned female at birth but whose gender identity is that of a man. The label of transgender man is not always interchangeable with that of transsexual man, although the two labels are often used in this way.

I’m glad that’s clear. Then we have to delve into FTM, which seems to refer to the same thing but is a bit more elusive as to its shade of meaning, as I discover on the internet. It’s short I guess for Female-to-Male; at least we don’t have to bobble lots of new gender syllables around in our mouth: we can just abbreviate it all with FTM.

From the above, we can extrapolate what the Transgender Female/Transwoman/MTF refers to. At this point we can feel good that we are starting to understand this new world of gender identity.

We’re getting someplace!

Going down the list, though, we hit a snag. There is the most interesting category of Non-binary gender with a please specify after it. Ok, I’ve been able to conceptually follow our new gender categories up to this point but am suddenly thrown; what in God’s good Earth is a Non-binary gender? My mind races: perhaps this category is in preparation for an alien invasion, so when the spaceship door lowers to the Earth and the aliens hobble down like ET, we suddenly realize that they are a Non-binary gender race. That’s what I’m thinking.

I’m wrong, as I find out when I ask my teenagers. One knows and explains it to me, but these esoteric concepts are beyond my little 1960s-reared brain, and I have to once again consult Google. You may not know what Non-binary gender is, so in this little blog I’m here to enlighten you. It is:

Genderqueer (GQ), also termed non-binary (NB), is a catch-all category for genderidentities that are not exclusively masculine or feminine‍—‌identities which are thus outside of the gender binary and cisnormativity. … having no gender (being agender, nongendered, genderless, genderfree or neutrois);

If I drank, it would be time for something hard.

You see, I am trying to understand it. Ok, so now we seem to have genders that are not male or female. Neither. My mind is spinning, and I’m thinking of asking a really stupid question: if it’s not male or female or some permutation of that, then what could it possibly be? I mean, if I surgically have my right arm cut off and re-attached to my butt, can I then claim to be a new gender – one that is wholly unrelated to the traditional and boring Male and Female categories? Or is my mind too small, my outlook to pedestrian, to truly understand this brave, new world?

So many questions. So little understanding. Such is the existence of an old fuddy-duddy.

You would think we would be done, but no: we have another category, and this is perhaps the best:

Additional category (please specify):

As I said, I grew up in the 1960s and was a teen in the 1970s, and we monolithically checked off Male or Female, completely oblivious to the gender possibilities that could be had, if only we expanded our mind and thought outside the box – the “box” being our square thoughts about the traditional categories of gender.

So, using the powers of deduction, I figure that not only can we change our gender or have no gender at all, but we can apparently make up a new genders! Gender can be an art form, where the very creative ones among us can express the meaning of life by manipulating their own biology into a new and (hopefully) beautiful form of gender art, never before seen.

Wow and wow again!

In conclusion, we have to admit that biology is cruel; it’s a prison to which we are born. Pity the billions of people through all the ages who had to live as they were born, who could never let loose and just be creative with what they wanted to be and then actually become that new being. But now we can, thanks to the progressive thinking of our age!

Alas, we are boring in our household, and we checked Male for our male son (born male, still male) who is going to attend a SUNY college. And as to myself, I will check the same on all the forms related to me. Male. I guess that’s what I am, as boring as that can be, but I’m ok with it. It never occurred to me to think otherwise, and I can’t imagine why I would.

A Cancer Murder Mystery – Part II

The Plot Thickens.

In my last post, we had thought that maybe the maid was the killer – the maid rhetorically being the lymph node in my right side that lit up on a PET scan; it lit ever so dimly, but it lit nonetheless. Since we had no other suspects in the endless quest to find out why a cancer marker has been going up for the last two years, we 1) did a biopsy of the lymph node, which was inconclusive and 2) ripped the thing out – along with three other lymph nodes – in a minor operation last Monday, and now we have the results.

The lymph node is not cancerous.

That’s fantastic, but begs the question: why has the tumor marker gone up for the last two years, and why has the PET scan – and a full body scan at that – not found anything but that stinkin’ little lymph node on my right side, which threw me into an operation just to find out what it might be – or might not be.

The whole investigation has to be re-opened now, as the suspect did not confess and there was no evidence to charge him with the crime, so onward we go with more tests to get to the bottom of this – if there is a bottom. More tests mean a colonoscopy and endoscopy to delve more deeply – though if there was cancer, it should have shown on the PET scan; still. The whole tumor marker going up thing could be from something stupid not related to cancer at all, so at the end of the day the whole episode could be anti-climatic – a big let-down: no cancer, something dumb like diverticulitis, and a good cancer scare gone to waste!

The only amusing thing about the whole experience is seeing my doctors be completely befuddled by the whole thing; it’s driving them crazy, like kids who have a 1,000 piece puzzle nearly finished but can’t find the last piece, and the whole house is torn apart in its quest. They are all amazed that I am still alive and would like to keep me that way, if only they could figure out this tumor marker thing.

I may seem jaded, but I am thankful for my doctors and modern medicine. But I’d also like to just get on with my life, so if the upcoming tests find nothing, I will probably just say, “Oh well,” and move on. I have a good friend who thinks all doctors just want your money and, though I don’t really believe this across the board, I might be persuaded at this point. I figure there’s no end of the tests they can do and no end to the number of co-pays I can pay, but at some point we run out of suspects and so the entire investigation will have to be suspended.

Oh well.

It’s all just another day in the cancer world!

Frank the Rooster Redux

“Why should I feel like a prisoner in my own home?” my wife said the other day regarding our rooster, named Frank.

That is a good question. How can a bird that hardly comes up to my knee cause such angst when going outside? I don’t know, but at some point my wife and I said “Yes” to a rooster, so now we take our place alongside those many parents who live with regrets.

The other day I am going to the mailbox, and it’s a beautiful day. I sort through my mail at the box quickly and, daydreaming amid the soft breezes of spring, walk back to the house. So simple, so idyllic, when in my peripheral vision I notice I am being followed. Stalked. By Frank, with those black beady eyes upon me, his pray.

We live in the very rural town in Central New York on ten acres, with three beautiful maple trees in our front yard and mighty evergreen trees lining our property. The nearest neighbor is so far away, we can hardly detect his wifi and he ours. Still, with Frank, we can put a big “X” over the above: it is as if we live in the inner city, in the rough and tumble world of gangs and switchblades and drug killings right outside our door all because of a bird with an over-sized ego. Thank you, Frank.

Frank, by the way, doesn’t have it so bad. He has a mighty river of testosterone flowing though is bird blood and, to complement that nicely, he has his harem of five chickens – soon to be eleven – and he can take the pick. Not too bad. Now we can understand his maleness: he has to be all male – all in – if he is to continue living the good life, and if taking down a human is what is necessary, he’s up to it.

I can understand. But still.

Dear Frank. There are many barnyard animals that are remembered fondly: Wilber the pig, Mr. Ed, Francis the talking mule – to name a few. But you are not one of them. You’re more like a high-strung bully with no reason to exist except to mate. Find a greater purpose in life; take up something constructive like pottery or creative writing, and relax for once, resting by your coop and listening to the pleasant tweets and chirps of Spring. For if you don’t, I may have to connect with the testosterone in my blood, and you may find yourself in the soup.

The end.

A Cancer Murder Mystery

I am about to tell you about a cancer murder mystery. It doesn’t involve a dead body laying across a carpet in an old English Victorian living room once the lights go on, but a possible tumor playing hide and seek someplace in my body.

It all started in February of this year. My routine CT scan came back normal – the fifth in a row – but still: the doctor was concerned. Ever since 2015 a tumor marker, CEA (Carcinoembryonic antigen), has been going up. Normal for most people is 2.5, but mine was 8, then in the high 20’s and is now 60. It should be mentioned that CEA is not the best tumor marker, but we are concerned: it is going in wrong direction and that for some time.

The question is: why. Scans were good so we took it to the next level: a full body PET scan. PET scans are the real thing; they see cancer on the microscopic level, so it is possible to light up like a Christmas tree. Luckily I didn’t. Everything looked great except – and here the drum rolls – except that something lit up under my right armpit and down a bit, in an inch. A lymph node. It lit up. Not a lot; only 5 luminosity, where as a real aggressive tumor would light up at about 15. If it is cancer at all, this is lazy, indolent cancer – just like the cancer I had two years ago.

So we do a biopsy. Of course a biopsy is where they stick a needle into you (and the tumor is an inch inside me), but it wasn’t that bad – really. Becoming a pin cushion is part of being a cancer patient. Comes with the territory.

Anyway.

Results came back today: inconclusive.

What? Inconclusive? Where does that leave us?

Now, there’s another suspect in the room, and more evidence. My son had mono a month ago, so I got tested for that. Mono can cause lumps in lymph nodes but then again, my lump cannot be felt, unlike with mono. Still, we test for that, and it is negative.

More suspects: we had cat scratch fever in our house, and two members of my family had this, both with enlarged lymph nodes. I get tested for that. Negative.

There is additional evidence also. Last November I developed low iron and was anemic. I’ve never been anemic in my life, but now I was. I took some iron and that helped. But the question is: why was I anemic? Could there be some bleeding in my GI tract caused by a tumor, but then again the PET scan was negative, as was the CT scan.

More evidence: I’ve been brutally fatigued in the last month. Where does this fit in?

Even more evidence: I have low vitamin D. Could that cause such brutal fatigue, or maybe that in conjunction with something else?

Whodoneit?

Or is it like Bob Marley, who had cancer of the big toe? My full body PET scan was actually from “eyes to thighs,” so cancer of the big toe could be the suspect that carried out the deed. Unlikely, but possible.

Then there’s the lymph node on my right side, glowing ever so dimly.

Then again, a colonoscopy and endoscopy might give more detail, perhaps finding something the other tests didn’t pick up.

Or perhaps it’s all nothing. CEA is not the best tumor marker in the world, as we have already said, but then again keeps rising.

Options are to surgically remove the lymph node to see what the heck it is, do another biopsy (but the first one didn’t show anything, so a second probably would not either) or do something else (not sure what). The powers that be want to get the knife out and figure out what’s really going on. We shall see.

It’s a continuing saga, one that us cancer patients have to go through from time to time. And here’s the kicker: I found out surgery might be in my future on the exact day that I had a huge surgery exactly ten years ago, when they pulled my stomach up behind my heart – where it now sits. I told my wife that God has a sense of humor. He has to.

Then again, like a murder mystery, the perpetrator could be someone who is wholly unsuspecting – like the maid – but in this case the corollary could be cancer of the big toe. Don’t laugh. Bob Marley died of this, though he didn’t get treatment, being the wholesome, natural-type guy that he was. I’m not like that. With me it would be: off with my big toe, if the big toe was doing the deed. That lousy big toe. We’ll see. We can hope it’s that easy. After all, this is the cancer world!

Ten Years of Cancer

Time passes so quickly, and it’s gone before you know it.

Ten years ago, in the midst of a very busy life, I was having weird symptoms. It all started when I would hiccup after eating– not all the time, but sometimes. Then every once in a while I would have to swallow twice, and this started happening more and more. Then for a day I was very quietly burping (no one knew), but that also went away. Symptoms got worse and more frequent. I remember sitting at a breakfast of scrambled eggs one day and saying, “Ok, God, if it happens again, it’s all just not in my head.” I ate a spoonful of eggs and it happened again: I had to swallow twice.

I started to get concerned.

Me in 2007 before cancer and holding yet another baby (Timmy, I presume!)

Mind you, I had no time to get concerned. Stopping and analyzing my body was not something I had time to do. We were popping out baby after baby in those days, and I had a good but a very stressful and demanding job, and I had just finished a Master’s Degree program at Rochester Institute of Technology. So I really didn’t have time to analyze my bellybutton, but having failed the scrambled egg test, perhaps I should start.

I made an appointment with my doctor.

Then the symptom of all symptoms happened. I remember the exact time and day it occurred. Our Church provided a nice breakfast at a get-together on a Saturday morning in March, 2007. There was only one problem: I wasn’t hungry. Not at all. I had noticed once before that I ate a grilled cheese sandwich one evening and skipped breakfast the next day but at lunch, I still wasn’t hungry. Odd, I thought, but it also went away. This time, on this Saturday morning, it was different, and I knew it. For the next seven days, I didn’t eat – hardly anything at all – but I was full as if from Thanksgiving dinner. Something was very wrong.

This was a very interesting time, walking around thinking, “I think I have cancer.” I had looked on the internet and diagnosed myself. I know that is probably not recommended, but still: even without the internet, something within me told me it was cancer. I just knew. Cancer for me was a weird concept. No one in our family had cancer at an early age and when my work had recently offered cancer insurance, I turned it down. At 46 I didn’t expect to get cancer. Not I. It was a crazy idea.

I saw my doctor. He asked me questions and felt my chest. When he pressed on one spot, it hurt. “Maybe it’s an ulcer,” he said to that and my other symptoms, trying to find some answer to it all. “But an ulcer wouldn’t hurt,” I said, and I secretly knew: it was cancer. That’s why it hurt.

“Well, lets get an upper GI just to make sure everything’s ok,” he said. I agreed: let’s do it.

We did it, and I remember coming back to my office at work by 11 am. I got a call from the doctor himself at 11:20 am. I knew that was a bad sign, and it was. They had found a mass. We began the cancer whirlwind and in many ways it hasn’t stopped.

That was exactly 10 years ago to the day. I saw my doctor again recently, and let’s say I’m an outlier. “You’ve done amazingly well,” he said. I have; the fact is that 80 percent of patients diagnosed with esophageal cancer are dead within three years, and there is around a five or ten percent chance of making it to five years. I’ve made it to ten. It’s remarkable.

I often tell people the only reason I’m around is because people prayed for me, and I think it’s true. I had a great support system too, and went through many worse treatments. I had to. With a wife and eight children – all little – it really wasn’t all about me. So we did an operation, with massive chemo and radiation afterward for good measure, and one day they said I was done. I could start living life again, albeit a different one.

It was a long way back, but we made it to some semblance of a normal life. I eventually got a job, though a part-time one: still, it was a job. My kids grew up, and scan after scan came back clear, until one didn’t – the last one, it turned out, at the five year mark exactly. God must have a sense of humor. Still, I was cancer free for many years, which in itself was remarkable. Chemo was again called for – seven months of it – and an operation, then another spot and some high-tech chemo, and we’re back to living life again.

Ten years: who would have thought! I’ll take it, though, and hope for more if God gives grace. That I’ve gotten this many years at all is a miracle. Laying in my hospital bed ten years ago, I wouldn’t have believed it, nor would my doctor’s have either. I think God is involved in all this somehow. That’s all I can figure. Would you have any other explanation?