On Friday I had my not-quite-six-month HRT followup with my doctor. Things went perfectly well. We met; we chatted; she said my face was “filling in nicely’; we discussed dosages, side effects, and pharmacies; I had a blood draw. Very routine stuff.
And then, out of nowhere, she asked me if I wanted a letter.
For a moment I didn’t even get what she meant. Then it occurred to me: she meant the letter — The Letter, the one you hear about early in your transition, the one that tells a judge, or a surgeon, or a cop, that you have had “appropriate clinical treatment for gender transition” under the care of a licensed doctor and are therefore not just a crazy person or a crook trying to hide from a warrant. It’s one of the documents that are vital to the progression of transition. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask her for it. But she offered it all the same.
It’s a good thing, too. If I’m going to legally change my name in the next few month before transitioning at work, I’m going to need that letter (as well as one from my therapist, which I already have a version of). Realizing this, I quickly said “yes.”
So now I have The Letter. It’s one more little achievement on the long road of this transition, currently proudly displayed on the whiteboard above my computer desk. I’ve got a longer reflection in me somewhere about how far I’ve come and what six months of HRT has been like, but I’m saving that for another post. For now, I’m just enjoying this moment.