None of the Above

by I.W. Gregorio

“You don’t have a cervix.” “Huh?” He pointed to the diagram with a trembling finger, and I looked closer. No uterus. No cervix. I was never going to die of cervical cancer like my mom. And that’s when I started to cry.

The first couple of days after my diagnosis, my alarm clock would go off like it always did and I’d stumble to the bathroom half asleep. Then there’d be a moment—as I was brushing my hair or going to the bathroom, for instance—when I remembered that I was a hermaphrodite, or intersex, or whatever people chose to call me. The day after I realized I would never die of cervical cancer, though, I woke up knowing what I was. It had settled into my bones, heavy and uncertain.

“So, what’s the verdict?” “Excuse me?” “Am I crazy?” Dr. LaForte smiled. A real one this time, with a touch of mischief. “We’re all crazy, Kristin. There’s no such thing as normal. That said, I do think you may be depressed.”