Transparent Love

CHAPTER 1

The thing I thought about true love was that it was simple and clear. No ifs, no buts, no reservations. So I missed the subtleties for a long while.

I love my wife. I love my daughter. The loves are different things, though the same in many ways. With my wife it was something we created together. We met as college athletes, and our shared enjoyment of using our bodies soon came to be much more than physical. She was the one person in the world for me.

With my daughter it was different. It was instant and transparently obvious. They were now the two people in the world for which I would do anything. I did not have to try. I can take no credit for it -- it just happened. I would do anything to protect them.

Sometimes my daughter would ask me for something as if I needed to prove my love, and I said "I would give my eyes for you!" And then sometimes told her I would not allow it, because it would not be good for her. It is not love to give a child everything she wants.

The difference in the loves was this: I would without hesitation have given my life for my wife. But I would have given both our lives for our daughter. My wife would have done the same.

You don't generally get such options. My wife died and there was nothing I could do about it. There are some things medicine cannot yet fix. As a surgeon, I have never felt more powerless.

I had noticed the same with loving my mother. You don't stop loving someone when they die. It's just that you can no longer tell them. I still love my wife. Not loved, love.

Maybe I was trying to make my daughter be both the people I loved. She was very similar to her mother: athletic, but in different ways. We still went running together, as we had once done all three. And I liked seeing her in the same sort of clothes as her mother.

In hindsight I was expecting too much of her, and should have been more sensitive to the ways she was different. That's why it was such a shock when she finally told me the problem.

"Dad, I want to be a man."

She had to say it again, but I still didn't understand.

"I've had psychological counselling and all the tests. I've started on hormones and in about six months I will have my breasts removed. Eventually I should get full transgender surgery."

It was a bad dream.

"But you're such a lovely girl, and you've always been so happy!"

The words "cognitive dissonance" came into my head. When your brain tries to cope with contradictory information.

In front of me was a pretty girl in her favourite dress, telling me she wanted to be a man.

"That's it, Dad. I've been a lovely girl but I haven't been happy. I only fully realised at university, so tried to make the best of it as a lesbian, but it wasn't about sex, it was about being myself. I was just going to tell Mum when she started to be ill. I just had to be her cute little daughter then."

"We had had the same outfits and people said we were sisters before she got ill. And after she died, I was half her, of course. and you desperately wanted to see me as her, so I've carried on."

"Wait here, and I'll show you something.

She came back in a tracksuit and no makeup, with her hair back.

"I've got big tits, of course, so everyone knows I'm a woman. But just look at my face as if it was a man's. I stopped shaping my eyebrows a while ago. My lips aren't that big without lipstick, and I haven't got an oval face. It's not square, but it's not especially feminine. Go on, look."

Of course, she was still the daughter I loved, so the cognitive dissonance was telling me she was still a pretty girl, who ought to do something about her eyelashes. She could tell.

"Actually, Mum wasn't as pretty as you thought. She was just damned good at makeup, and she taught me. But look at my fingers."

"My ring finger is longer than my index finger, just like yours. You certainly know that comes from testosterone balance in the womb."

"Ah well," I began to argue, "that's popular idea, but I am not sure the research supports all the claims made for it."

"You haven't read the research, have you, Dad? Well, I have. There's a couple of serious ones showing a strong correlation with female athletic success, especially in running. I was damn good until I got the weight on my chest, and Mum was as well."

"In fact, I think she was a bit like me at least. I'm sure she was bisexual, from the way we admired other women when we were out. It was actually the best part of shopping trips, seeing how hot some other women were."

"I don't know if she realised it, or it was subconscious, but she overcompensated because she loved you so much and tried to become the girly feminine thing you wanted, and she taught me to be the same."

She was crying.

"I'm sorry, Dad, but I can't do it any longer! I'm not her, I'm me and I should live my life, not be a substitute. I know it's hard for you! I love, you I truly do, and I don't want to hurt you, but now I've started I've been able to come off anti-depressants, and I've given up weed. Just the hope has kept me sane!"

I was crying too.

I had dismissed her being moody and did not know she had been on medication. Occasionally there had been a whiff of cannabis, but that was just young people. As a doctor, there were symptoms I would probably not have ignored in someone else.

We hugged and I kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes. I could feel her breasts against me, and hated the thought of them going. They were much larger than her mother's. How cruel to have such beautiful things destroyed!

I never told her, but the very worst thing was the thought that my beautiful wife had been living a lie.

I couldn't condemn my own daughter for not wanting to do the same.

CHAPTER 2

I reckoned I would continue to love my child just the same, even if she was a he. I tried not to think of my daughter being dead like her mother and a stranger being in her place, but it was happening.

Haircut, no make-up, no dresses. It was a shock, but I got used to it. No, not quite.

Facial hair, subtle shifts in personality. In running shorts her legs were now unshaved. She was also happier, and only now I could see the contrast with the unhappiness I had been unable to see through my rose-tinted spectacles.

It turned out she had an alternative Facebook page where her real friends hung out and called her Jim. The girly one had only been for our benefit and some of the posts were just put on by friends for us. A supposed boyfriend was just a sockpuppet account, by a girlfriend, by which I mean a lesbian lover.

It was an effort, but I mostly managed to say "Jim" and "he".

"My big breasts were the first clue," Jim told me one day. "At first I thought I hated them because they interfered with sport. It was a huge handicap. They're not from Mum or her family, of course. They're like your Mum's. And in fact, I look more like you than Mum. You only kidded yourself that I looked so much like her."

It was really only when her breasts were due to go that I accepted the change in my mind. My son Jim was now having corrective surgery. Not a sex change -- a correction.

As I was in the trade, I asked around what could be done to be the best for him. It turned out there were some new techniques being developed, and we got agreement to try them. Jim was cautious but excited.

His uterus was removed to prevent future problems.

Genital reconstruction was not just one operation, but several, especially with the effort to give a better, more natural result. Jim was the first patient for a couple of techniques so there were risks, but he agreed to take them.

The surgeries appeared to be a success and he healed up well, but it was many weeks before we were able to see if there was a chance of him being successful functionally as well as aesthetically. The initial results were promising.

Jim had a functioning penis and testicles.

My cock and balls.

It was not a simple transplant but merging of his organs with my donated ones. The connection to the bladder, of course, and fantastic effort with the nerves and glandular ducts. I basically provided the shell and the bulk of the penis, while Jim's sensations were extended by moving tissue and nerve fibres into it. Skene's glands provided something like prostate fluid. It was not initially known whether this would increase.

His labia were developed into a scrotum, while my testicles replaced the usual aesthetic implants, and a blood supply was added. They could not move up and down with temperature, but main purpose was to provide male hormones rather than sperm. The arrangement was that sperms would just leak out in the urine. My ejaculatory apparatus could not be removed without major damage to me, and was unlikely to function if it was moved.

The biggest barrier was not the techniques but the ethics committee. The team was not trying to give the capability to impregnate a woman, though the committee kept on about hypotheticals where it was. "Even in that case, how was it different from a sperm donor, which lesbian couples often used?" argued the chaplain.

I had to restrain myself when they thought I as a well-informed adult should not be allowed to donate my testicles, just in case I wanted to have sexual relations and a child later. My sperms were put in storage, to placate them.

When my wife was so ill, transplants were considered and it had been discovered that I was a relatively good match in tissue type. We were not particularly related; it was just a random chance. Since Jim was half me anyway, there was a close enough match for me to be a very good donor, with the appropriate drug treatment, of course. The surgeon had carried out penis and scrotum transplants from cadavers for a few men, and was excited to have a live donor.

It was uncertain whether the testicles would take, but eventually they did.

The surgery was not just cutting and dicing. A key factor was Jim's own tissue grown on frameworks in a lab in advance, essentially to provide little bits of plumbing of the right sort, to be joined in. It was the healing of the parts together which contributed to the success.

The ethics and the tissue growth meant that it took more than a year longer than the routine gender transformation, but Jim agreed both to the wait and the risk of failure.

By comparison my surgery was going to be simple. I had no thoughts of being transgender -- I was happy to be sexless. However, it was easiest to for the surgeon to give me a female urinary system, as he would in a standard transgender operation where no vagina was required. My scrotum would become labia, and I would urinate pretty much as a woman. My sensitive parts would be lost, of course.

But there was something else they wished to try.

The testicles and ovaries are very similar. In fact, they develop from the same starting organ in the foetus. They are of similar size, the ovaries being smaller and require the same blood supply. As a surgeon, I was intrigued by the suggestion. Not for myself, but for the science and possible benefits for future patients. And for the challenge of the new procedure.

Could my testicles simply be replaced by Jim's ovaries?

Connection to the blood supply was easy. There are two cavities in the body from which testicles descend into the scrotum, because the sperm need to be at a lower temperature. (And each can retract or be pushed up into this cavity.) Ovaries do not need this, so they were placed inside.

If successful, this might mean that some transgender women could have a natural self-sustaining source of hormones.

As the ovary produces testosterone first and this is then converted into the oestrogen, it was possible that in my male body it might mainly act as a source of testosterone, and I would regain my maleness. This would be OK for me, but a disaster for a transgender woman, so was important to check.

My initial surgery healed well and quickly. But the focus was on Jim.

By three months he was making enough testosterone to dispense with medication. (Testosterone treatment actually causes the testicles to shrink.)

He was delighted to urinate like a man with a larger penis than could be managed with pure conversion of a woman's tissue. It was nicely erectile. He did not ejaculate quite like a man, but there was fluid and what was essentially a female orgasm. My specialist colleagues thought he was better off.

It was wonderful to see him so happy, especially when he could exercise again, and put on a bit of muscle in a masculine way. By six months it seemed that rejection had been avoided, and the tissue was essentially all his own.

He was having sex with his girlfriend Lily and both were very happy.

I was happy as well. I had not so much lost a daughter but gained a son. In hindsight I realised he had been much more like this than I had supposed. However, we were both glad that his mum had enjoyed him as the daughter she wanted and loved.

CHAPTER 3

It seemed that the ovaries were doing their job. The team was pleased to detect a noticeable roughly monthly variation in progesterone, and effects I could detect. I rather liked this. No actual periods, of course, but changes in mood. In a sense I understood my son better as some of my feelings moved away from male ones. I knew that the sex hormones act on the brain. It is not just social conditioning. I had not desired it, but I embraced my femininity as he embraced his masculinity.

Jim taught me to apply makeup, and when not at work I liked to wear clothes like my wife did. Jim's girlfriend Lily took me to the hairdresser, and we had a regular appointment together.

Jim had a bit of surgery to masculinize his face and voice, but I had no changes. I just enjoyed the state that came naturally with my new endocrine system. The research team wanted as little intervention as possible, so I just rode out some of the less comfortable effects. I lost muscle and there was fat distribution. The team asked me not to exercise too much, and to build up the extra fat that women have, which is actually essential to their health.

When I seemed to be stable, the tissue team asked permission to test something which might help future transgender men. Some of the breast tissue which had been taken from Jim was placed in me, using much the same procedure as is done for breast reconstruction, using material from elsewhere in a woman's body. It worked about as well, and I had good size breasts. Not as big as my daughter's had been, but enough for me to feel the weight in a bra, and need a sports bra to reduce the wobble when I went jogging. This was also useful proof of the improved technique for keeping tissue alive and viable away from the body for long periods.

At work gender is immaterial, and I was addressed as doctor. I didn't wear dresses, makeup or jewellery at work, though I did have a tinted female hairstyle when not in a cap. I used the women's toilets, of course.

My breasts made their own statement, of course. I found I had to change my stance a bit to allow for them in surgery, and was sympathetic to a colleague who had very big ones. She laughed about it. As a surgeon, I was less strong, but seemed to be a little bit more deft, though maybe that was just practice and wishful thinking.

Unlike Jim, there was no need to change my first name. I wasn't trying to tell the world anything, I was the same person, but somewhat happier with my new hormones, breasts and pretty clothes when off duty.

CHAPTER 4

One of the team who had worked on my breasts was Dominic.

"I'm really proud of your tits," he said. "Would you mind if I had a look at them and carried out a more detailed examination? Possibly run some non-invasive tests to check the balance between tissue types in the growth."

"Fine," I said. "My calendar's online."

Next day, Jim was round with his girlfriend, Lily, who was very pretty and girly in the way she dressed. I liked the way he treated her, and was proud of my son.

My phone pinged, so I looked at it, and was puzzled.

"Is that Dominic," asked Jim.

"Yes, he was supposed to make an appointment to examine me but it's in the evening, and not at the hospital."

"I know," said Jim, and Lily giggled.

"It's dinner first to discuss some matters and the breast examination afterwards here."

I think I had my mouth open.

"It's a date, Dad."

"He wants to fondle your tits!" chortled Lily.

"And who wouldn't?" said Jim. "I think you've got a particularly nice pair. He just wants try them out socially, not clinically!"

"Seriously, Dad," he continued. "You and me are pioneers for transgender people. You'd do a great service if you could just play along. They may look nice, but not feel right for him or you. He actually fancies you, so he's in the right frame of mind to see how realistic you are."

"Don't talk shop or about your family, and don't get het up like a man arguing a point. You're talking more softly now, so just do that. Be modest and let him get in the mood."

"Don't just strip off when you get here," added Lily. "Let him kiss you and have a general feel. There's no man bits now, so he may get going. That would be ideal for him to make a fair test. Just a first date. Not going all the way. Just a bit of boob appreciation."

"I'm straight, you know," she added. "Always have been. I've had a good few boyfriends, so I know what I'm talking about. As soon as I met Jim, I could see the man inside, but I never dreamed he could be made so perfect. You don't know how grateful I am. You're a wonderful parent!"

She was crying a bit, and Jim comforted her. Of course, I agreed to go.

As the most experienced woman, Lily took charge.

We went out and she chose some underwear for me. Pretty bras and panties. Three sets and several packets of panties, fancier than the practical ones I had. I protested that surely one would do, and she just snorted and said "Trust me." A pair of shoes with low heels were apparently essential, as was a handbag. I was advised not to look at the price.

The day was when I had the afternoon off, so I was taken to a salon to have my hair done, my nails painted and my legs shaved, and given a facial.

"Don't ask the price," said Lily, "just hand over the card, and I'll add a tip."

I already had a dress she thought suitable, so the only thing needed for the evening was for me to shave again, and have my makeup repaired.

They went with me in the taxi to the restaurant, to see I didn't chicken out.

"By the way," said Jim. "For the purposes of this exercise, please let him call you Vicky, for Victoria instead of Vic or Victor. Just be nice to him like a girl on a first date. Treat it like cosplay, if you like. Anything so that it's not clinical."

"And remember no shop talk!" he added.

Dominic was sitting at a table, but got up and kissed me on the cheek.

"Hello, Vicky. Glad you could make it." He held a chair for me.

"We know too much about each other's work, so that's off the menu today. Apart from that, all I know is that you like running. Did you know I like golf?"

I didn't. In fact, there was so much we didn't know about each other, from taste in music onwards.

We had soup and main course. It was just a pleasant dinner, and I liked the man as well as the colleague. I wasn't turned on, but it was nice. The wine probably helped.

"I don't want any dessert," he said, "but help yourself. Then I thought we could have coffee at your place, if that's all right?"

This was it. I felt OK, so said yes.

In the taxi he kissed me on the cheek and held my hand, which felt nicer than I expected.

Back home we came in and took off our shoes. I put my handbag away.

"Vicky," he said, "may I kiss you?"

"Yes," I said with a tiny thrill of anticipation. No-one had kissed me on the mouth for years.