Transgender Covid Scare

In the hospital, 
remaining present held little appeal.

Remaining present held
retching over the side of a hospital bed, 
covering the floor in putrid liquid while my
call light beeped,
beeped,
beeped.
Remaining present held
a choking that broke
the blood vessels in my left eye,
turning it into a battlefield of
red white and blue.
Remaining present held one Hallmark movie
where the Beautiful Straight Cis White
Man
fell in love with the 
Beautiful Straight Cis White
Woman
and I was not allowed to be either of them,
my trans body bound to an IV and
a piece of paper taped to the wall
with the wrong name.

In the hospital, I lost control over my
bowels sleep walk drink cough vomit and
my gender.
Everyone who walked into the room had to 
assert their interpretation.
Oh, hello, you're Jane, right?
Ah, L, yes?
Hello James!

(When I complained about this in a non-queer
group chat, I was reminded that the 
nurses were very busy and
tried their very best.)

There was the constant wrestle, the
back and forth of feeling the need to
defend as gender was given and taken
over and over. I was in the
hospital with an empty, nonfunctional
body that couldn't eat or breathe and I
wasn't even allowed to keep my identity.

After that was done, it was question time. 
So you're on hormones, yes? 
(Because that's relevant to liver levels?)
Where are you in your transformation?
(What were the results of the second Covid test?)
I have a son, and he's seven, but he's 
been showing signs of being transgender
since he was two and I want to give him
the freedom to express himself but—
(Is this the only type of human contact I
deserve now? I haven't had a hug in four
days. This is the first time I've been
spoken to for more than five minutes in a row
since I got here, and I'm being asked
for signs from when I was two to justify my 
transness so this mother-nurse can feel
okay in her parenting decisions.)

I didn't know where to put all of this.
There wasn't any room to complain
at first, because I couldn't eat or sleep
and I thought I was going to die.
But I couldn't stop thinking about ALOK's
Femme in Public:
Promise me you will not bury me a man.
Promise me you will not bury me a man.
(Or don't.
I'm used to it.)

If I had Covid-19,
and the two drugs I was informed of
did not work and I
died, were they going to bury me a
woman?
Would the labor of reinterpreting this
body, binding, begging for hormones, and
finally being able to begin, be wasted?
After years of
sob sessions, of puberty, 
of depressing attempts at femininity,
were they going to rip away my name
claw apart redistributed fat
and chew off my oversized clit
to call me a fucking flower and
let me rot?

I was too sick to get up on my own.
I couldn't remove the paper on the wall
by myself.
I didn't take it down when I left.

I never know how to tell Cis that it's taking
all the air from this small trans body.