Fidgeting in my seat, I waited nervously in one of the most crowded waiting rooms I had ever been in. Suddenly, I felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped down my back; my legal name was being called over the dozens of waiting room sniffles. My instinct was to remain glued to my seat, not to let anyone know that I was the person attached to that name. I might have done just that, if not for the reason for my visit: a prescription for testosterone. I was greeted by a nurse, who, while aware of the reason for my visit, seemed oblivious to the fact that a transgender patient may not want their legal name called across a crowded waiting room.
“Don’t worry,” she reassured me on the walk back to the examination room, “we see lots of patients with gender dysphoria here.”
“Uh, that’s nice,” I responded, trying to hide my discomfort with how casually she broached a vulnerable subject.
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