On Medical Dignity for Nonbinary Patients

Earlier this month, I landed in Urgent Care after four weeks of battling what I can only call a "supercold". The infection had settled in my lungs, and I couldn't fully exhale without coughing violently. My albuterol inhaler was of no help. So I did what needed to be done and got myself to the doctor.  Historically, as a fat nonbinary femme, I've found doctor's offices anxiety producing at best, and shaming at worst.  Fortunately, aside from being called by my deadname over and over, the Urgent Care folks treated me like a human being.  A nebulizing treatment restored my ability to breathe, but the relief that my ordeal was over faded when they got the results back from the chest x-ray.

I will never forget the doctor's words.  "The good news is that you don't have pneumonia.  We did see on the x-ray that your heart is just a little bit enlarged. We encourage you to follow up with your primary care doctor." I froze.  I hadn't been to a doctor in years, due to factors mentioned in the first paragraph of this post. This was a wake up call that I needed to see someone.  I needed a functioning body to do my Work in the world, and the memory of my father dropping dead last summer was still all too fresh.  I got home from the clinic and arranged to see the same doctor who has been taking care of my wife, a transwoman, with competence, care, and compassion.

This medical group has definitely joined the 21st century. As I filled out my New Patient forms online, I noticed that there were more than just the two tickyboxes designating Male and Female.  There was also a large blank space on the form that said, "Is there anything else we need to know about your gender?" What a breath of fresh air! I gratefully typed "I am a mxgender nonbinary femme. My pronouns are zie/zir." The next space below asked what name I preferred to be called. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn't have to endure hearing my deadname at this clinic *EVER*.

I have since had two appointments at that clinic, with a doctor who specializes in trans and nonbinary health.  In both visits, she treated me as an expert on my own body, never once shaming me. My usual defensiveness on the examining table melted away. Minutes before my diagnosis of hypertension, she told me as she put on the blood pressure cuff, "There is no good or bad reading. It's just a number that will help me take care of you." Thanks to her, I am on the road to healing my heart.

I count myself to be very lucky to have medical insurance through my wife's employer, and to live in the city of San Francisco, where I have the opportunity to access competent, caring, and compassionate medical care in a clinic that sees me for exactly who I am, with no judgments. Many of my trans and nonbinary siblings are dying from lack of care and from being dismissed by doctors who can't and won't understand what they are going through.  I pray and fight for the day when all of my siblings have access to the care I now enjoy.