An Orthodox Jewish doctor and a lesbian feminist patient? It didn't seem like a great idea to me back in 1996 when I first starting seeing Dr. A., a breast radiologist who specialized in lumpy breasts like mine.

The truth is, though I am culturally Jewish, I know little about Orthodoxy and assumed that because Dr. A. followed a strict religious practice, he would also be homophobic. My reservations about him only increased during my first visit to his office, when he beckoned a parade of white-coated colleagues into the exam room to look at the sonogram screen. "You are a very complicated case," he said, by way of explanation, as my already fragile sense of self began to crumple. In most situations, being told you're unique would be a compliment; here, what he said made me feel like a freak in a sideshow.

Unfortunately, I’d been used to having this kind of attention paid to my breasts. They were filled with solid lumps, cysts and scar tissue from previous surgeries to remove benign tumors. Since I was 16 these intruders had popped up in my breasts to the beat of a drummer not in my band. The turmoil within my breasts, combined with my family history--my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 42 and died of it four years later--called for vigilant monitoring.

On that first visit to Dr. A., I noticed a small framed photo on a shelf in the exam room. Six attractive young people, ranging in age from about ten to early twenties, posed at the beach. Making conversation, I asked who they were.

"They're my kids," Dr. A. answered. "I don't get to spend much time with them. I'm always working. It's amazing my wife hasn't divorced me." This could have provided a natural segue to a discussion about my "wife," but I didn't go there. While I’m out at work and to my family and friends and most of my doctors, I stayed in my shell that time.

When I left Dr. A.'s office that day, I didn't know if I'd ever return. But I did, again and again, because he turned out to be so down-to-earth and so relentless in his determination to gain the upper hand on the chaos within me.

Eventually, I brought Barbara, my partner, to an appointment that involved needle core biopsies of suspicious lumps, introducing her as "the person I live with." Dr. A. welcomed her into the exam room and explained my situation in more detail than either of us could absorb. On subsequent appointments--I saw him twice a year--he referred to her as my "roommate" or "friend."

I didn't correct him. These visits to Dr. A. were stressful enough; I didn't want to worry about whether he would drop me as a patient if he knew I was queer or treat me differently. The fact that he had the knowledge and skill to determine whether I had a life-threatening disease, gave him a power that made me feel very vulnerable. Eventually, though, I began referring to Barbara as my partner. He didn't seem to get it. But his obliviousness wasn't bothersome enough to make into an issue.

Still, lying on Dr. A's table, I have had plenty of time to contemplate whether it matters if he knows I'm a lesbian. To be honest, the urge to make sure Dr. A. knows ebbed over the years because I became secure with the relationship Barbara and I had built with him and I accepted certain things about him. Like when he would say I was on his top ten list of most difficult cases, I knew it was his way of expressing concern, not consternation.

Thanks to Dr. A’s vigilance, an early malignancy was discovered in my right breast this past January. I decided to have a double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction. At the time of diagnosis, I was one year older than my mother was when she died. Dr. A just might have saved my life.

A lesbian patient and an Orthodox Jewish doctor? It works just fine for me.

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Michele Forsten is a writer living in New York City. A version of this essay appeared in the June 2002 issue of Mamm magazine.

© Michele Forsten 2002