I Went in For Gender Affirming Top Surgery and Left With Breast Cancer | by Ash Davidson

I Went in For Gender Affirming Top Surgery and Left With Breast Cancer 

by Ash Davidson

After arriving at the surgery center at 5:00am on a Wednesday morning in October, I was lying on the the operating table, surrounded by my surgical team, full of excitement and anticipation. I was moments away from heading off to a peaceful sleep while my surgeon removed the breasts that I carried for 40 years. The same chest that brought me shame and dysphoria for as long as I can remember.

I am not familiar with a time where I was ever quite comfortable in my body. Even as young as two years old, my mom struggled to get me to wear dresses. Even when she could get me into one, I insisted on wearing sneakers, no cute girly shoes for me. Even dressed up in my Sunday best, I would find a way to play with the boys and muddy up any sign of femininity that my mom tried her best to assign to me.

Later, as I got older, my mom gave in and generally let me wear what I wanted and act how I wanted. She did force me to get my ears pierced. But even then, as soon as I was out of her sight, those earrings were thrown into my pocket. But it was clear from a young age that I was more comfortable looking like what society generally considers more masculine, especially for a girl. And I don’t blame my mom. She’s been the biggest supporter in my life. She just didn’t know exactly what to do with me. But she has loved me unconditionally and given me unwavering support for my entire life.

I was an 80’s/90’s kid. So, there wasn’t much in the way of queer representation when I was growing up, especially in southern Indiana. But there was no social media and there wasn’t much to speak of in terms of mainstream media telling queer stories. As a result, I always knew I was different but it took me awhile to try to pinpoint it. It made it harder to understand because thankfully, I faced very little backlash, criticism or bigotry. I always had a lot of friends. I was always extremely confident, and moved through life with relative ease. I was a generally happy kid, did well in school, and was a successful athlete. My parents were supportive, even if they didn’t really get me.

As I got into high school and then college, the best guess I had was “Hey, I’m a lesbian!” Cool. In college it was much easier to lean into that. I was in upstate New York, closer to a big city at a school populated by people from that big city and it seemed like there were at least a good handful of queer people. I was able to explore my own sexuality and came into my own in some ways. But still, something felt off. I was in the best physical shape of my life. I was playing Division 1 college soccer and competing for the starting goal keeper position. I partied hard but I also trained hard. But even at peak physical shape, I wasn’t comfortable in my body. A body that a lot of people might be envious of. But it was always my chest that never felt right to me.

As I got older and into my late 20’s and 30’s, that feeling never went away. When you hate a part of your body, especially one that you really can’t hide, it follows you everywhere. There were entire categories of shirts, jackets, sweaters, sweatshirts, that I just wouldn’t wear. Because they wouldn’t let me hide as much as I wanted to. Every shower, every time I got dressed, every time I tried to work out, I was reminded of these things on my body that I hated.

The thing about hating a part of yourself and not really recognizing it, or dissociating from it, or trying to ignore it means that your hate will come out in other ways. I spent most of my adult life, passively and intentionally abusing myself. I didn’t do any self harm in the way most of us think about it. But too much partying, too much drinking, gaining weight, were all my chosen forms of self harm. By the time I got to my mid 30’s I was extremely out of shape, drinking far too much, and while I could still walk around with an air of confidence, I needed to change. This thing that I couldn’t fully define had been hanging over me for over 30 years and it was slowly eroding my sense of self and my confidence.

I grasped at the things you think you should do. Eat healthier, work out, lose weight. I did those things. Slowly but surely. But it still didn’t help. In 2019, I moved to Austin. More on Austin another time, but the move there would result in the most tumultuous few years I’ve ever experienced. In fact, I’m writing right now as an outlet to deal with the whiplash created by the last couple of years.

Austin is important though because it was here, through a series of events and relationships that helped me come to a much more clear understanding of what felt wrong for so long. It was in Austin when the light bulb went off… I’m transgender! Again, more on that another time. Gender is not quite that simple for me. But for the sake of getting to the point, as soon as I understood my gender more, it was obvious. I was 100% getting top surgery!

So, back to the operating table. I’m laying there, bright lights above me. The surgical team quick and succinct in their directives around me. 10, 9, 8…

I woke up a couple hours later in recovery. Groggy, but elated. Surgery had gone perfectly. Although they did tell my mom it took a little longer than they had planned (a clue that didn’t mean anything at the time but would mean everything 10 days later). I was wrapped in a compression garment and swollen so I couldn’t see my results yet. But already, a weight, both literally and figuratively had been lifted.

Within a day or two of surgery, I was up, walking, posting on Instagram, documenting my top surgery journey and blissfully ignorant. I was counting down the days to my first post-op appointment where I would see my chest for the first time. On day six, they took the compression garment off and there it was! I was still bruised and swollen but I didn’t care. I was standing in a patient room at my surgeon’s office, in front of other people, bare chested and I looked amazing. I was proud. I was relieved. It was the first time in my life that I looked at my naked torso in the mirror and liked what I saw.

I had waited so long to feel like I existed in a body that I wasn’t ashamed of. After that appointment, I hit a few road bumps. Recovery from surgery isn’t linear, even if you’re happy with the results. I had spent months leading up to surgery working with a coach and lifting as much as possible. I had a goal to lose weight and sculpt my pecs so that after surgery, I didn’t just have a flat chest, but a muscular one. But the down side of surgery recovery is that as much as I wanted to get back on my feet as quickly as possible, it was going to be a couple more months before I could really get back in the gym. This had a depressive effect on me. All the walks in the world just didn’t cut it. I was so excited to get out in the world with my new chest, yet stuck at home. All I wanted to do was wear a single t-shirt in public. No sports bra (or two sports bras), then an undershirt, then a specific shirt that still fit but covered my chest up as much as possible. Just throw on a t-shirt and go. Having patience isn’t exactly something I excel at.

The day after my post-op appointment, I got a call that my surgeon wanted to do a phone call on the following Monday. I thought little of this as I hadn’t seen her at my post-op appointment and just assumed she wanted to check in on me. By this time, my mom, who had helped me for a few days after surgery had been sent home by me. So, I was managing the rest of my recovery on my own. By choice.

Monday rolled around and I eagerly hopped on a phone call with my surgeon. My excitement quickly faded as she told me that during surgery, they found a tumor. They sent it to pathology and it was indeed cancerous. Good news! They caught it early, it was very small, and they removed it with good margins. That was the worst good news I’ve ever received. I immediately went numb, dissociated, and barely remember much of what she told me on that call. I know I cried. And I know I went into a state of disbelief, confusion, and fear. In hindsight, I’ve been operating from a state of fear since that day.

In that moment, everything stopped, everything changed. No longer was my story about gender transition and trans joy. It was all about cancer. Breast cancer, especially is so geared towards women (with good reason), but as someone very early in my own transition, it brought on that familiar feeling of shame. My body had betrayed me again. Worse than ever before. While it’s true that the tumor was gone, I would have an uphill battle ahead of me. One that would bring me to my breaking point. One that I’m still working through today.

It’s been almost nine months since I had surgery. I intend to write more about the past nine months. But for now, I’ll leave it at this. My gender identity is still in flux. Between cancer and exploring gender, I’ve been on two separate, yet confluent paths. Today, as it stands, I don’t truly feel fully male or fully female. I feel mostly like myself. Which is often disorienting because defining who I am, among the turmoil of cancer, gender, work, broken relationships, and failing mental health, is nearly impossible. I’m sharing my experience because hearing other people’s stories has been immensely helpful to me. It’s helped me to feel less isolated when I feel like I’m the only person in the world. It’s also helped me see that others are going through worse. It’s given me perspective and gratitude. So, I hope my story can do the same for someone else.

@transashtoning