I approached the receptionist at my oncologists’ office with a sense of fear. At 56 years old, I had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer after my annual mammogram. Uncertainty loomed over me – would I survive? Had they caught it early enough?
“Greetings, I’m Gina, and I have an appointment,” I said to the unsmiling receptionist in my feminine voice. She glanced at me, taking in my short hair, men’s cargo shorts, T-shirt, and backward baseball hat. I knew that look all too well, being a gender-nonconforming lesbian in Texas. Her body language betrayed disapproval.
“Sir, fill this out,” she instructed, handing me a clipboard.
The receptionist beside her corrected her, “I think it’s a ma’am.” They both chuckled as I stood, feeling humiliated and violated mere inches away from them. I couldn’t say for sure if their laughter stemmed from nervousness or homophobia. Regardless, I felt marginalized and angry.
Being referred to as “sir” didn’t bother me too much; after all, my choice of clothing sometimes led to such assumptions. At times, it even felt empowering, reinforcing my androgynous identity. But this instance felt different. The receptionists’ words and laughter felt undeniably hostile, and being referred to as an “it” stung.
A cancer diagnosis is traumatic for anyone, bringing forth a cascade of emotions and fears. As a gender-nonconforming individual, navigating breast cancer brings its own unique challenges. In a state like Texas, openly hostile to people like me, it becomes even more difficult. The Texas state legislature alone has dozens of anti-LGBTQIA+ bills pending.
Breast cancer is a disease with a strong gender association. Less than 1% of the approximately 280,000 people diagnosed annually in the United States identify as men, according to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. The treatment and support offered for breast cancer also appeared heavily gendered, making me uncomfortable. Nonprofit foundations’ efforts to provide support often left me feeling suffocated by the overwhelming amount of pink associated with femininity, a color I wouldn’t typically embrace. Even having a disease so strongly tied to femininity made me feel more feminine and less like myself.
The healthcare system, like society as a whole, assumes that breast cancer patients are heterosexual married women whose breasts define their femininity. For those who fall outside this norm, like me, it’s easy to feel out of place. These slights may seem minor and unintentional, but during a time when my emotional strength was already depleted due to my depression and anxiety from the cancer diagnosis, they cut deep. I felt this acutely when healthcare workers brought up breast reconstruction after my partial mastectomy to remove the tumor. One doctor assured me that my tumor was small and my breasts could be saved. Another suggested implants and utilizing fat from my stomach to create larger, more perky breasts. While their intentions were likely good, it felt as though my wishes to have smaller breasts were disregarded.
When I opened up to one of my surgeons, expressing my identity as a gender-nonconforming lesbian and sharing my desire to downsize, it felt like she didn’t understand why I brought up my sexuality. I felt unheard and invisible. She then directed me to a breast database to find my “new boobs,” and as I searched, tears streamed down my face because I couldn’t find breasts as small as I desired.
I had suffered from breast dysphoria for decades, long before I had a name for the feeling of disconnection from my own body. As a teenager, I tried to hide my large breasts by wearing baggy shirts and hunching my shoulders. Later, when I realized I was a lesbian and embraced my gender-nonconforming identity, I wore a compression bra to flatten my chest under the men’s button-down shirts I preferred.
Receiving a breast cancer diagnosis intensified my dysphoria, making me want to rid my body of my breasts. These breasts, a source of immense emotional discomfort, suddenly posed a threat to my life. The idea that I might find relief from my dysphoria through a breast reduction during my cancer surgery brought me a sense of euphoria. I feared going through the surgery, reconstruction, and recovery only to miss out on the one positive outcome of this diagnosis – smaller breasts – simply because it wasn’t considered “normal.”
It’s not that my surgeon refused to make my breasts smaller. As a gender-nonconforming person, I’ve learned that society subtly polices us. It’s like when I ask for a very short, masculine fade haircut, and the hairdresser assures me she understands, yet I end up with a poofy, feminine hairstyle.
Society places great importance on women being pretty, and this notion is linked to feminine hair and curvaceous breasts. I worried that I would end up with larger breasts than desired, just as I often ended up with longer haircuts. Fortunately, I was able to convey my wishes to the surgeon, but the anxiety of feeling unheard was overwhelming.
Another challenge I faced was the assumption that a breast cancer patient’s support person would be a man, most likely her husband. Again and again, during various appointments and procedures, healthcare workers asked for the name of my support person. I would provide my girlfriend’s name, which inevitably led to the question, “What is her relationship to you?” When I clarified that she was my girlfriend, I found myself feeling like I was back in junior high. The healthcare workers would respond, “Okay, I’ll put friend.” This demoted my girlfriend’s role and value in my life, making me feel abnormal. It was exhausting, especially knowing that straight women didn’t face this issue. When I was married to a man, not once did anyone question his presence during appointments or procedures – they assumed he was my husband because that’s what is perceived as “normal.”
Beyond the healthcare system, the support networks established for breast cancer patients felt unwelcoming to me. Initially, I couldn’t find any queer spaces on social media specifically for people with breast cancer, so I joined general breast cancer Facebook groups and followed similar accounts on Instagram. I needed to hear from others who had gone through this and come out on the other side.
However, these spaces made me feel like an outsider. One group offered tips for regaining your sex drive after a cancer diagnosis, a common struggle due to depression and medication. Every tip revolved around heterosexual intercourse, as if individuals like me didn’t exist. Finally encountering a queer person also facing breast cancer proved to be a beacon of hope because she understood the unique challenges we face. We can undoubtedly do better.
Gender-sensitivity training should be provided to employees at oncology offices, teaching them that not everyone follows the typical breast cancer narrative, looks as expected, or has a heterosexual partner. Medical forms should be updated to include space for same-gender partners. Nonprofit organizations offering resources for breast cancer patients should recognize that not all patients align with hyper-feminine stereotypes and would prefer more inclusive options than bright pink merchandise. It is crucial that we create online support spaces that are queer-friendly and inclusive for individuals facing various illnesses, including breast cancer.
Over six months have passed since my diagnosis…
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
