Remember the scene in TransAmerica when Felicity Huffman (playing a prospective MTF) is speaking with a psychiatrist to get clearance for gender reassignment surgery? The doctor asks her how she feels about her penis. “Oh, I hate it. It disgusts me,” she says.

And then the psychiatrist asks: “How does your family feel about it? Your friends?”

“Oh, they don’t like it either,” she answers.

That really hit home, because that’s how I felt about my breasts.

Just my breasts, mind you. I like other people’s breasts just fine. Probably more than I should. But when you’re born a butch dyke, then in the fifth grade you get “burdened” doesn’t seem like a strong enough word. Neither does “saddled.” Let’s try “festooned” by DDs. They can really rock your world.

And it happened overnight. One day I’m playing Cowboys and Indians with the boys next door and pitching for my school’s softball team, and the next day, bam! My “chesticles” (Dad’s nickname for them) arrived.

I tried to ignore them, like they were some kind of unfortunate birth defect. But nobody else played along. Tony, one of the boys next door – who had once chipped my front tooth in a game of Tackle the Man With the Ball – suddenly wanted to pay me .50 cents for a kiss.

Creepy.

And forget about softball. Every time I went charging down the base path to beat out a throw to first, my traitorous teammates would make comments about “bowling balls” or “melons.” It was rough. I dropped out of sports and became a hermit.

This was when dinosaurs roamed the earth. A doctor wouldn’t think of removing a breast unless it was falling off with cancer. Also, I never worked where insurance would cover it. So I pushed on through life, like Atlas, with the weight of the world strapped to my chest.

Until last year. By then my back pain was getting so debilitating that I finally went to my doctor and said: “They have to come off. I don’t care what it costs. Recommend a surgeon.” That is how I met Dr. H.

Saint H. is how I think of him now. He took measurements (mine were the second biggest he had ever measured), some Polaroids, smiled and said, “Let’s send this in and see if your insurance will cover it.”

“It’s no good,” I told him. “My primary physician said they won’t cover it.”

“Let’s try,” he said. “It’s always a crap shoot with these insurance companies. But it’s worth a shot.”

And he was right. Within the year, they were gone. At least eight pounds of them, anyway.

Why am I telling you all this personal stuff? Think of this as a public service announcement. It’s the end of summer. This time last year (heck, this time for the last 30 years), I would be suffering with the near-terminal heat rash I always got under my breasts. This year, I don’t have an “under my breasts.” (I also don’t have back pain, neck pain or knee pain.)

I know some of you dykes out there are where I was last year. You’ve been hauling around these enormous ego-smashing jugs all your life, thinking about surgery, but always putting it off because you weren’t sure how to go about it. So maybe this will help.

First, get information. The Internet is great for this. There are bulletin boards just for breast reduction. My favorite site is www.transster.com. It is a site for FTM trans-people, but it has procedure details, surgeons, post-op photos and advice from previous patients.

Second, find a good surgeon. Someone you trust. I trusted Dr. H. because I trust my primary doctor, and she recommended him. Also, a Web search on him turned up only good stuff. The bulletin boards will tell you about quacks to watch out for.

Third, look into what your insurance covers, or consider getting insurance if you don’t have it. Dr. H. told me he charges more than five grand for the job (and he’s reasonable; many charge more), so unless you’re rich, you’ll want insurance to help out. The insurance companies have to be convinced that surgery’s a necessity – for you to function at your job or to live, like if you have a family history of breast cancer. Personally, I think my insurance ponied up because I had gone in before with back pain and knee problems. (Either that or it was the Polaroid.)

Am I recommending this procedure? That’s not a call I can make. It is surgery, and there are always risks. But the only regret I have is waiting so long to do it. For me, it’s been a second chance at life – but on my terms now, not ruled or restricted by some part of my anatomy.