July 2024

It’s hard to hate my father. It’s harder still to love him.

When my younger sister shared with me the news that my dad was offered the opportunity to serve as Director of our local medical school, my first reaction was one of pride. I recalled the times I spent in his private office mentoring residents. Like my grandfather before him, who was also a surgeon and a teacher, my dad loves to teach, so it’s not surprising that teaching loves him back.

Once a week, it happens to be on Mondays, I gather the supplies:

1. Alcohol wipes
2. 1 mL syringe
3. 18- and 22-gauge needles
4. Vial of testosterone
5. Mini sharps container
6. 16-year-old child

My diagnosis launched me into a world where everything felt foreign, even my own reflection in the mirror. But little did I know that that reflection would ultimately help me discover myself.

At first, self-discovery was the last thing on my mind. At age 39, I was facing Stage 4 endometrial and ovarian cancer, and, with it, my own mortality. As I focused on making it through each day of chemo, while struggling to heal from the surgery that had plunged me into instant menopause, I was more concerned about making it to the bathroom than about who I saw in the mirror once I got there.

With tears in my eyes, I burst out of the classroom, seeking refuge from my teacher’s and classmates’ endless verbal battering of me. We were mired in a debate about whether the canon of religious music should be omitted from public school choral groups’ repertoires to “appease” students who felt uncomfortable with such music. The discussion was framed with a particular implication—that because of a squeaky and unreasonable minority, the majority of students were deprived of critical singing opportunities.