The Intersection of Queerness and Womanhood in Surgical Residency

By Dr. Sarah Klapman

I’m getting married this August. I didn’t grow up planning my wedding, so I find it’s less about fairy tales and more about spreadsheets. In fairness, that could also be because I’m a second-year general surgery resident. There’s something therapeutic about embracing the lace of it all – about expecting the medical world to take you seriously whether you’re talking ball gowns or bowels. It can be freeing to be overtly feminine in surgery.

And that would be the whole story – except when people ask “who’s the lucky guy?”, there’s a pause where I decide whether this is another opportunity to come out or an awkward moment best avoided. The woman I’m marrying is a knock-out, and I’m so proud to be hers, but sometimes it’s 5:30 am and I’m trying to pre-round and just because The Ring is swinging on a chain around my neck doesn’t mean there’s time to explain why I’ll never have a husband.

We were taught about the hidden curriculum in medical school: no one needed a PowerPoint to know that women – and pretty much everyone who isn’t a straight white cisgender able-bodied male – has a harder time in medicine. Assessing the intersectionality of those identities, however, was beyond the scope of our lectures. And by the time I started residency, it was clear that “soft skills” and feminist critiques of medical culture were no longer a priority.

In the 2019 American Medical Association Colleges data, women comprised only 22% of General Surgeons, my field of study. Other surgical specialties were even more male-dominated. While there are no studies quantifying the number of queer surgeons, a 2021 study in JAMA found that queer female medical students were more likely to pursue surgical careers than their straight counterparts. As the number of women going into medicine continues to increase, it stands to reason that a disproportionate number of queer women will end up in surgical residency.

My experience as a queer female surgical resident has been predominantly positive. But I also move through residency – and the world – in subtly different ways from my female co-residents. The main difference for me is in patient relationships. Because of my queerness, I know what it’s like to feel isolated and othered, and I see those feelings in my patients. Women surgeons are asked to do emotional labour our male counterparts would never consider, and we have to learn to say no. But being Queer helps me love all parts of myself – my empathy and patience sometimes get in the way of those 5:30 am rounds, but I love them anyway. When patients respond with deep gratitude to even brief moments of human connection, how can I help but wonder if surgery is getting its priorities wrong?

Medicine is a powerful social institution with a vested interest in standing still. Our predecessors fought their way in. Now queerness – with its focus on criticality and radical self-acceptance – is an essential tool in our arsenal for change, in residency and beyond.

About the Author

Sarah Klapman (she/her) is a second-year General Surgery resident at Queen’s University in Ontario, Canada. Before entering medicine, she trained as an opera singer and did a master’s in music neuroscience. She is excited to bring these experiences to her work in surgery.