A few weeks ago I had an appointment with my ophthamologist to discuss the possibility of having an operation---my third---to correct a lazy muscle in my right eye. Since the last operation had been some 23 years ago I sort of hoped that opthalmology had improved to the extent that a better job could now be done and maybe, just maybe, before I pass on to the next world, I might be able to have a photograph of myself where I don’t look drunk. The ophthamologist listened to my plaintive story and scribbled the names of two doctors for me to consider approaching. I, in turn, had to discover if either of the two would be covered by my insurance.
One was. I duly googled her without putting the M.D. after her name and what came up so amazed me that I sat staring at the screen for some time before feeling impelled to share my amazement with someone, namely my brother. Yes! It was all true. He recognized the name immediately as has everyone else of a certain age who was resident in the U.S. in the 70s, unlike myself. Yes! This doctor had had a sex change operation. She had been a he. And not only that, but a famous “he,” a star tennis champion. Oy ve. However, let me say immediately that she is also a brilliant opthamologist, a well respected eye surgeon who had been the Director of several opthamology departments and is the non plus ultra in this particular area of expertise. What the hell should I do?
Well, reader, I went to see her.
The day hadn’t started well. My housekeeper had shown up late and then stated somewhat coldly, when I asked her not to knot the blind pulls in the living room, that perhaps she couldn’t work for me anymore because I didn’t like her work. I managed to ease that over and went on my merry way only to get on the bus and discover that I had lost one Metro card and was left with a second with no money on it. Gleaning enough change from my purse to pay my fare, and wondering what else could go wrong, I finally made my way down Madison Avenue and got to my appointment. After an initial consultation with the smiliest, happiest, friendliest assistant one could imagine, I sat reading a magazine in the waiting area when I suddenly heard my name called and found myself looking directly into the crotch of an incredibly tall PERSON of no discernable gender. The good doctor seemed to be wearing man’s pants and a white coat, as doctors often do: male doctors. She had hands the size of dinner plates and a voice that I can only say reminded me of Dustin Hoffman in “Tootsie,” or maybe it was closer to Robin Williams in “Mrs. Doubtfire”. I’m not going to discuss the face and hair because, well, we’re all getting on in years and some of us will always be a bit better looking than others no matter which sex we are. But the total lack of femininity was not what bothered me. What did bother me as I tried to hang on to my fast vanishing sanity was that there was absolutely no glimmer, not a hint, not a spark, not a nano-dot of humour or personality. It was as if the removal of her manhood had taken with it her ability to interact with humankind. And that bothered me. I spoke, she listened. I jested, she was like a stone wall (no pun intended. Well, maybe just a little….) When I got tired of my monologue, and suffering with the light due to those dreaded eye drops, I waited for the prognosis. “This is operable,” she said before handing me on to her Operations Coordinator. And that, as they say, was that.
When I recounted all of this to my dear friend over dinner that evening, she said to me that it was “soooooo Seinfeld!” And, indeed, it was, if by ‘Seinfeld’ we mean that New York kind of day when the weird and wonderful are interspersed with things going wrong that turn out right. So even if the good doctor doesn’t have a sense of humour, I hope I do. And I’m hoping to go ahead with the op and hopefully have the last laugh.
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