It had been a few years since I’d thought about homophobia in medicine. 

The last time I’d thought about it was when I left my old GP after she refused to take my health seriously, prioritising my non-existent future with a man before my health. So, I moved to a clinic that specifically catered for queer people. My old GP was one of many healthcare providers who ignored these important intersecting aspects of my identity over the years, so when I switched over to the new clinic everything changed. Not only did they listen to me, but I felt a new sense of safety knowing that if I needed care or a referral it would be sent to someone who respected all aspects of my life and identity and the part they played in my care.

Recently, as part of the preparations for a hysterectomy I was sent to a new doctor for a second opinion. I have endometriosis but also PMDD. PMDD is a condition that means my monthly hormonal changes cause severe mental health crises often to the extent of being suicidal for a week each month.  

Going to this new doctor terrified me mainly because the referral had been sent by my gynaecologist, not my GP. I didn’t have a clue what he was like, if he’d belittle my experiences, and whether he’d be accepting. He was at a religious hospital, which added to my uncertainty. My mum came with me - I was doing ECT at the time, so I needed the help to put my medical history together. She'd been there for all of it from when I was sixteen, begging for a hysterectomy because I just needed relief. As well as all the misdiagnoses, the gaslighting and foul mistreatment. 

I'd now lived another lifetime, I’d tried every other treatment available, so even though I was still ‘young’ in the eyes of the medical system, I needed the help. So many doctors over the years had decided to compromise my mental health stating they’d decided not to do the hysterectomy because I was so young they felt I couldn’t make an informed decision due to my bipolar. They assumed that I hadn’t considered a future where I met a guy and wanted to have kids. They already knew that I was gay and that I’d decided that if I were to have children they would not be biological due to the multiple genetic conditions I had.

On the way to the appointment Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Holding Out For A Hero’ came on the radio. It made us both laugh. I was still scared though. I told Mum that I couldn’t bear the idea of a straight, old, white, cis-gendered guy telling me what I could or couldn’t do with my body. When we got there we waited only long enough for me to look around the waiting room – it was warm and inviting, but somehow also benign. Entering his office, it was nice enough. I looked around to see if there was any sort of little rainbow flag at all but there was nothing. Fair enough, I thought. Maybe it clashes with his aesthetic? But there was nothing that made me feel safe. 

We talked and he seemed nice, but we were struggling to tell him my history without saying I was gay. My mum and I danced around it until we reached an awkward impasse, which I habitually covered with a joke. He asked me that dreaded question about if I met someone and changed my mind. I said she’d most likely have a uterus of her own, but if not we’d be unable to use mine anyway as it has already been ablated. He laughed along with us and I felt like I could finally exhale. The rest of the appointment went well and he wrote a letter with his recommendation that I have the surgery. On the way home my mum joked that a straight (no guarantees), old, white, cis-gendered (again, no guarantees) man had just ‘been my hero’.

I realised the true impact of spaces identifying themselves as being queer-friendly a few months later. I was at a different hospital for a barium swallow. I'd done it one year earlier before having a POEM, my main concern beforehand had been that I wouldn’t have one of my episodes during the test (of course this happened and I instead had an episode in the car park afterwards). But I hadn’t thought about how my sexuality could come into play until I saw a crucifix in the corridor. I was raised Catholic, and all of my father’s side was raised the same, so I know that one can be Christian and not be homophobic. A little further toward radiology I suddenly found myself surrounded by rainbow posters telling me I was safe here. Their forms showed further understanding by asking about, and therefore acknowledging, the difference between gender and sex. I was only there to eat pasta covered in barium, but I felt an unexpected sense of ease at the fact that they asked those questions.

I'd never realised how important things like those posters are. They are not enough alone and need to be followed up by actions, such as asking someone about sex and gender, pronoun pins, and making it safe enough for someone to be out. But now, for many people, seeing a doctor, or having a test or admission is still unsafe. I had blocked out the posters in my mind, taking it for granted - I am privileged enough to live close to a [queer] specific clinic, but that’s not the case for many. I hope that one day we won’t need something like posters or flags to say this place is safe, and that the posters aren’t just for show. But in the meantime having some sort of visual sign of recognition and safety is a great start.

About the author

Ferris Knight is a queer and disabled writer, producer and advocate from Melbourne, Australia represented by Champion Health Agency. Ferris mainly writes about their lived experiences with mental and physical health conditions, as well as queer politics, poetry and fiction. They have also worked with organisations such as Arts Access Victoria, The Dax Centre and Women with Disabilities Victoria. In 2019 they produced their first Melbourne Fringe Festival show LEtGO of Stigma, walking 80 metres across Lego to talk about living with hidden pain and the resilience of those with mental illnesses. In 2020 they were a part of the anthology Closet Cases: Queers on What We Wear from Et Alia Press, writing about sexual harassment.