(to see a photo album of pictures I took during this trip, please click: usatrippix.htm)

On Saturday, July 24, 1999 around 11:30AM I left Calgary to drive down to Portland, Oregon for a consultation with Dr. Toby Meltzer, a well-reputed plastic surgeon who specializes in gender reassignment. The plan was to stay overnight that night at my dad's place in rural southern BC, and then drive on to Portland on Sunday. After my consultation on Monday morning I would drive to my stepmother's place in a small town in western Montana, spend the night, go out for lunch with my Dad and stepmother, and then return home (my birth mother died in 1991 from cancer).

During the six-hour drive to my Dad's I cried several times as I thought of two things I wanted to do when I got there, but wasn't sure I would have the courage to bring up. So often our time with loved ones races by and we don't get to say the things we went there to say. I got to my Dad's place around dinner time. It was his first time to see me in the flesh as Teri. He had been very supportive verbally, so I thought things would go well, and they did. The only thing I noticed was that he wasn't looking at me when we spoke. This got better over time, though.

I decided to swallow my fear and just blurt out my two issues. The first thing was that I wanted to tell him that if anything happened to me because of how I was living my life (e.g. a fatal bashing), he should not blame himself; it's not his fault how I turned out. Although I was in tears trying to get this out, he reacted very well, saying that he wouldn't blame himself because it was no one's fault, it was just something I was probably born with. I had felt a special urgency in dealing with this as at the last minute I got a little panicky about driving through rural northern Idaho (home of several skinhead and white supremacist groups) and the US in general, imagining someone would read me and take a shot at me from a pickup truck.

Dad had cooked up a roast in a crock pot with some potatoes and carrots, and we sat down to eat. By that time I had regained my composure and we chatted normally. At the end I started to well up again as I told him I had a special request (my second issue). I said I really needed a good long hug and he said, "of course" and held me longer and tighter than I can ever remember. I confessed to him how scared I was and he reassured me that everything would be OK because I had handled everything so well so far. (Lots of tears as I recall this moment). He had also said earlier that I "carried it off well".

Later he gave me this old and broken carving set. It was something I had absolutely no use for, but I gratefully accepted. Every time I see him he wants to give me something, usually useless, as his way of saying he cares. I always take it in the same spirit, resulting in an ever-larger collection of junk in my workshop downstairs.

The next morning I left early, around 6:30AM local time (7:30 Alberta time). I had prepared myself for a real fight at the border, as it seems the officers at the rural border crossings out west here have so few cars they hassle the ones they do get endlessly. I had my new passport, about ten other pieces of ID in my new name, letters from my doctor and psychologist, a letter from Dr. Meltzer's office, a recent pay slip to prove I had a job in Canada and was not coming to work, and even a copy of the deed to my house as proof that I was well-rooted in Canada and would be returning there. As it turned out, all he asked me was where I was going, why, and whether I was Canadian. I was very relieved, but somehow almost disappointed that I hadn't been able to trot out all my documentary ammo.

I had a little bit of trouble making a couple of connections due to poor signage, but no real problems until 135 miles or so from Portland (just past Arlington, for those familiar with Oregonian geography). The car started clacking the way it does when you first start it up after an oil change and the oil hasn't had time to work its way throughout the engine yet. I pulled over right away at a scenic outlook spot and turned the engine off. I looked under the car and there was oil dripping off everywhere. I popped the hood and checked the oil and it was way down, so I took my ring off, put it on the back bumper, and put the two litres of oil I had in the trunk into the engine. That brought it up just above full. I had had the oil changed just before I left and had no idea whether it had lost the two litters over the 700 miles I had driven so far or over the last mile in one huge spurt, so I didn't know what to do and just stood there looking kind of helpless. At that moment a Sheriff's Department car cruised through the parking lot and I flagged it down. The officer was a short, stocky young guy with a blonde moustache and sunglasses. He called me ma'am (a good sign) and was helpful in offering information about how far it was to the nearest gas station, though he had no idea whether it would be better to drive or call for a tow truck. The latter would have taken a long time, since it was 50 miles to the nearest gas station with a truck and mechanic, and miles just to a gas station, so I decided to try driving the 25 miles and then check it. I headed out slowly and carefully, watching the engine light all the time.

When I got to the first gas station I checked the oil and it was not down perceptibly, but I squeezed in between two Oregon State Police motorcycle officers who were lingering in the doorway and went into the retail area, where I bought all five US quarts of 10W 30 oil they had, just in case. There was another slightly worrying situation, though. I had to go to the restroom and they had separate men's and ladies rooms, each multi-person. Up to that time I had always managed to use unisex washrooms (often handicap ones) or single person ladies' rooms. Anyway, I ducked in and fortunately it was empty. I hurriedly finished up and just as I was standing up a lady came in with a kid. I waited until I heard the stall next to me close and then proceeded purposefully over to the sink for a quick hand wash. I realized she had just put the kid in the stall and was standing outside it, so I wasn't about to linger. Just as I went out the door, one of the motorcycle cops came out of the men's room door four feet away, but fortunately things passed without incident. I later had to use multi-purpose ladies rooms several times, something I really don't want to risk right now, but there was never any problem--they were all empty.

At the next station another 25 miles on I checked the oil again and it was still fine. I went in to by more oil, again just in case, and was a little shaken by a sign that read "We reserve the right to refuse service to ANYONE" [emphasis in original]. It was an old, rustic-looking couple that ran the place, but they were polite. There was a younger (35-ish) hillbilly-looking guy lingering by the counter and he struck up a friendly conversation. He said, "How tall are you? You must be six feet." I confessed I was (actually I'm almost 6'4"), and he commented that I must have been good at basketball. I said I wasn't very coordinated, but I did have a WNBA T-shirt so I could fake it. From his tone and the rest of our brief conversation it was obvious he was flirting! It had taken me a moment to realize what was going on, not being used to such attention, but after I had escaped I felt relieved, then flattered and pleased that I had passed that well even up close and using my new voice, and finally a little worried that that might be the type I attract!

I continued on to Portland without problems and got there around dinner time. I checked in to the Days Inn City Center on Clay & 6th and unpacked. Then I realized I didn't have the ring I had taken off when I put the oil in. I ran downstairs, and it was still sitting on the bumper after 135 miles!

After that I went out for something to eat, since I hadn't eaten all day (I often don't eat when I'm driving long distances in order to stay alert). The desk clerk had recommended a place called Il Pizzaiola on Park Avenue a couple of blocks away. It turned out to be a good choice. The location is in Portland's "Cultural Zone", just outside Portland State University on the edge of a park. I sat at an outside table in the warm twilight and watched a father and son play catch while waiting for and then eating a pizza with pepperoni, sausage and prosciutto. It was still early and nice, so I walked back down to the hotel with two leftover pieces in a box, then continued towards the river to check out Crown Plaza, where Dr. Meltzer's office is, and Governor Tom McCall Park along the river. I had a great old time just walking along in a foreign country seemingly attracting virtually no attention whatever (I am constantly amazed at this due to my height).

On my way back up to the hotel I stopped at a Bank of America banking machine on Salmon St. to get some cash to pay Dr. Meltzer the next day. On my way to the machine, a 30-ish guy stopped me to ask for directions to the nearest convenience store! I told him he had had the bad luck to choose someone who had spent all of two hours in Portland!

On Monday morning I got up early and was ready well ahead of time. I decided to wear something that looked good but was also comfortable for the long drive from there to my stepmother's in Montana, since I wouldn't have anywhere to change for the road. I decided on a cream body suit and blue jeans. This outfit really shows off my figure to great advantage. I loaded up the car, checked the oil and then checked out so that everything was ready for a quick getaway after the consultation. Dr. Meltzer's office was just a short walk away, and I was there by 9:30AM, a full hour ahead of time.

The receptionist had me fill out two forms which asked for much of the same information. Then I was ushered into a small examination room, and after a time a nurse came in and asked many of the same questions a third time. I was pleasantly surprised to find out she thought I had already had breast implants! I explained that I use silicone post mastectomy breast prostheses, which must be pretty good since the body suit I was wearing is very clingy and shows every contour very clearly.

I waited endlessly and was on the verge of falling asleep when Dr. Meltzer came in around 12:10PM. He seemed very cheery, friendly and confident. We began with a little chit-chat. He remembered meeting my friend Julie at an Esprit conference, and was impressed that I drove 15 hours to see him (16, but who's counting). He then listened respectfully to my questions and answered openly. Most of my questions were simple, but the main one was how his procedure and Dr. Menard's differed, since the basic method they use is the same. He said that he believed his complication rate was lower (only one fistula* in over 800 surgeries and no transfusions) and he also claimed that the way he made the clitoris was better because he uses the glans of the penis and never detaches the nerves, while Dr. Menard's procedure does, at least according to him (I'll check this out with Menard when I see him in September). He also explained why he prefers to do breast implants the way he does (a sub-aureolar incision rather than sub-axillary, i.e. they are inserted through a cut along the bottom of the nipple instead of under the armpit). Basically his argument boiled down to the placement of the scar and his belief that going under the armpit makes it hard to get the breasts sufficiently close together and low enough.

Then he told me to get undressed and put on a gown, and left for about ten minutes.

When he came back he examined my genital area and breasts and explained the area requiring electrolysis prior to surgery. He found no obvious complicating factors and said I was his favorite kind of patient: thin and in good health.

We wrapped things up and he referred me to his assistant to discuss prices and scheduling. She was very friendly and explained they were already booking into early 2001, but that there were so many cancellations and reschedulings that I would probably get bumped up several times and end up getting a summer 2000 date if I booked in October, which is when I plan to make my final choice. The tab for the GRS, breast implants and a trachea shave would be about US$20,000, or C$30,000. This is about twice what Menard would charge for a similar package of surgeries.

On the way out I noticed there was one fairly obvious TS talking to the secretary. Unfortunately the others I had seen in the waiting room briefly when I left the examination room to go to the restroom during my long wait were gone. I would have liked to talk to some of them. There had been one in the waiting room when I was waiting after first arriving, but she didn't seem very friendly. She was quite passable, though not pretty or well-dressed. (Her voice was pretty good, but about the third time I heard her talking to her brother I suspected, and then I noticed she had the remnants of a scar from the trachea shave.

I got back to my car about 2:20PM, more than two hours after my original noon target for a departure time. On the way out of Portland I made a detour to see the Eastmoreland Hospital, where Dr. Meltzer operates. It is set in a mixed neighborhood of tidy working-class detached houses and light industry, and is much smaller than what I had expected. Somehow I had envisaged a huge, impersonal multi-storey building. In fact, it is one storey and more like a clinic.

Just before hitting the road I stopped for gas and then a bite to eat at Taco Bell, so it was 3:30PM by the time I was on #205 en route to #84 west and the trip to my stepmother's in western Montana.

I stopped in Biggs to get gas. the young lady at the pump directed me to the ladies room when I asked for a washroom, which was a good sign (the two restrooms were quite a distance apart). I checked the oil and it was down, but still above the add mark, so I started it up and was surprised to see the engine light come on. I quickly turned it off and then tried again. Same thing. I decided to put the quart of oil in early and see if that would help. Nope, the light still came on. I checked in the glove compartment for the owner's manual, and it said the light came on for low oil pressure or overheating. I had been driving at 120kph (70 mph) through hilly terrain in 30 degree Celsius (85+F) weather, so I thought it might be too hot and I would just leave it to cook down. After fifteen minutes or so I tried again and the light still came on.

After several minutes of this, I was just pulling out my cell phone to call my Dad (he was a race car driver when he was young, so he knows cars) when a 50-ish guy who had been watching from the second floor balcony of the small motel next door came down and offered his help. I was a little startled, and even more so when he continued to be friendly once he got a very close look at me and heard my voice. It turns out he was from a town about 15 miles from my stepmother's place. He was clearly convinced I was a damsel in distress, as he was a lot more friendly than one would expect under such circumstances, if you know what I mean. He checked a few things and it all seemed OK, so I tried it again and it was OK. I said thank you and good bye to my highway Romeo, pulled out onto the highway and was off again, this time at a slower speed.

At supper time I realized it would be the middle of the night when I got to my stepmother's, so I stopped to get gas and eat in Kennewick, just outside Portland. I used the ladies room again in the gas station, and noticed a biker-type giving me a friendly leer as I left (there must be something about the signals I give off that attracts these types--why no doctors or professors?). Anyway, I went over to Taco Bell and had a big dinner and then hit the road again.

I almost got lost again in Spokane when I misinterpreted the sign for the turn-off for #2 from #395 and headed into the boondocks, but I soon got things righted and was on my way.

I stopped in Sandpoint to check the oil and again a guy called out to see if I needed help when he saw me with my hood raised. Seems like this brings out the protective instincts in men.

I finally arrived at my stepmother's around 3:30AM. I was so tired I had been fighting to stay awake, but I knew my late arrival was not a problem. She has insomnia and seldom retires before 4AM anyway, and I had called periodically with updates on my progress so they would know when to expect me.

My stepmother greeted me warmly and we all chatted for a bit before going to bed (my Dad was there; she lives separately because she's American and hence covered by Medicare and not Canadian health care, and she's in such poor health she has to be just a few blocks away from a hospital). I was a little disturbed by the layout of the house. It was originally very tiny and so they added a room onto what had been the bedroom, but never bothered to put up a door or curtains, so that when they laid back they couldn't see me in the day bed I was sleeping in in what had been the original bedroom, but if they sat up they could. That bothered me because I did not have my hairpiece yet at that point so I had to take my hair off at night (the wig would just fall off during the night anyway if I tried to wear it). I was very self-conscious about being seen as my old self even briefly, but with a bit of careful synchronization of movements it worked out.

The next morning we rose about 10AM. We chatted a bit and my stepmother commented to my Dad that he had a beautiful daughter. Later we went out to do a few errands and a tour of the town. We stopped at a florist's so she could arrange flowers for the wedding of one of her granddaughters. She was in there a long time and when she came out, she had a card and gift for me. The card had a printed message on it that said, "May a beautiful blue whale brighten your day and fill it with joy in every way!" and inside she had added, "To Teri. Because we love you. Barb & Dad, 1999". The gift was a small glass whale. I was very touched and immediately dubbed it Willy, after the whale in the movie "Free Willy", someone else who was set free after a long captivity. I also joked that I should put it on the fridge so that I would not overeat! When I got home I put it on my chest of drawers in my bedroom.

After a cruise around town we stopped at the most popular restaurant in town. The waiter was a very charming 50-ish fellow and when he seated us he said, "I knew you must be non-smokers because smoking sure didn't stunt her growth!". He was very nice and there were no stares from the other diners that I noticed. The food was simple but good. During lunch we chatted a bit. My stepmother confessed that she had been a bit nervous about meeting this me, but that she felt much more relaxed when she actually saw me. She had actually known two other post-op TSs and one pre-op, so she had no problem with the concept. She had been concerned about the implementation, but she said once she saw how I really looked and how I carried myself, she was very relieved and relaxed about it all. She said she had once seen three women come out of a corner restaurant in a small town and one of them was a very obvious transsexual from appearances, walk, etc. She said I was nothing like that. The whole lunch expedition made me feel very welcome, as it signaled to me that they were not afraid or ashamed to be seen with me in public, even in a town so small that everyone knows what everyone else is doing.

After lunch we went back to my stepmother's place and we chatted a bit more. When it was time to leave, the second really big signal of acceptance came from my Dad, who volunteered a hug without any hint of body language from me that it was expected. He had never done that before without me asking him (more tears here as I recall and write about this moment, which I will never forget). I left around 3:30PM.

On the way home I stopped at a nearby dam to rubberneck for a few minutes, then drove back to the border. Contrary to my previous experiences with Canada Customs and Immigration, the young guy just asked where I lived, how long I had been in the States and how much stuff I was bringing back. After that it was clear sailing until I got to Sparwood, BC, a small town in the southeast which has what it boasts is the world's largest truck, which had a 350-ton payload and was used in a local strip mining operation until its custom-made parts made it too expensive to run and it was replaced with standard 200-ton machines. I posed for some pictures (at last, something to make me look petite!) using my tripod and hit the road again.

On the way home I decided to stop for dinner in Fort MacLeod. I went to a Chinese restaurant whose billboards I had seen on the highway, the New Hong Kong Restaurant. The food was good and the service friendly. I had been a bit concerned about this, since Fort MacLeod is in southern Alberta's Bible Belt, but I had no hassles at all.

I finally got home at 11:30PM. I was exhausted, but also exhilarated. I had successfully crossed the border, dealt with cops and service people in small towns, found out what I needed to know about a GRS surgeon, been flirted with, and found great acceptance and warmth from my Dad and stepmother. What more could a gal ask for in four days!

(if you ploughed through all this and want to see the photos now, please click: usatrippix.htm )

Return to Teri's home page: http://members.shaw.ca/tallteri