Two times the cancer, one hell of a queer journey
Peter's experiences demonstrate the challenges of navigating a “gendered cancer” as a gay man & the importance of queer resilience.
I was 26 when I first heard the word “cancer”. Testicular. Out of the blue. I’d always assumed cancer was something that happened to “other” people—older, unlucky, unhealthy. I was none of those. I was young, fit, full of swagger, and just starting to find my stride as a proud gay man.
My queerness and cancer didn’t collide immediately. They orbited each other awkwardly at first—until the moment I realized they were walking hand-in-hand into every exam room, scan, and surgery with me. When you’re a queer man navigating a hyper-masculine cancer like testicular, you’re forced to confront some loaded assumptions about your body, your identity, and what people think a “real man” is supposed to look like, feel like, act like—even when he’s sick.
My first experience was manageable— a high-speed rollercoaster of trauma, yes—but with clear protocols and a team that never questioned my worth. Surgery, chemotherapy, more surgery. But my second diagnosis at 29? That’s when the façade cracked. That’s when it got real.
About to turn 30, I was looking at cancer again. At first I approached it with confidence, “I’ve done this before, so I’ve got this!” Plus, I caught my new diagnosis at stage 1A! I thought it was a cake walk. But the fear hit different after the surgery was over. I wasn’t just wondering if I’d survive—I was wondering who I’d be if I did. Would dating still be possible with surgical scars and hormone shifts? Would gay men want someone with no testicles? I’m castrated. Would I even be “me” after all this?
You don’t forget the moment your identity feels like a burden in the exam room. The silence after saying “partner,” then clarifying “he.” The raised eyebrow. The casual misstep—calling him my “friend,” or worse, ignoring him altogether. That erosion of dignity is slow, quiet, and cumulative. You learn to scan the room before you even open your mouth.
But I’ve also had moments of deep, soul-affirming visibility. It took time and embracing agency in myself.
There was a surgeon once who asked what I needed to feel whole again—not just “well.” And there were the friends, gay and straight alike, who showed up with food, rides, flowers and karaoke shows. The perfect balance of irreverent humour and deep listening.
“I’ve learned that being visibly queer while navigating cancer is its own kind of advocacy—even when you didn’t sign up for it. It’s in the way you hold your partner’s hand in the waiting room, correct the pronouns, or share your story publicly. You’re teaching the system how to see you, and in doing so, you carve a path for the next person who walks in afraid.”
What I wish I had, back then, was a roadmap. A queer-specific guide that said: here’s how hormone therapy might affect your libido, your moods, your sense of self. Here’s how to date post-treatment. Here’s where you can go when you’re scared to Google “gay testicular cancer survivor” and find nothing that sounds like you. I wish there had been a network like Queering Cancer where I could read stories like this and feel just a little less alone.
So, for the young queer or trans person reading this after a recent diagnosis: You are not alone. Your body is not broken. Your queerness is not a liability—it’s a superpower. You already know how to navigate discomfort, how to challenge systems that weren’t built for you. That resilience? It’s going to serve you now more than ever.
Find your people—online, offline, anywhere they exist. Ask the awkward questions. Demand inclusive care. And when you’re ready, show up for someone else who needs to hear your story too.
I’m still here. I’m still me. Some days softer, some days louder. But every scar, every comeback, and every messy, beautiful chapter has made me more whole—not less.
Find out more about Peter Laneas and his advocacy work on Instagram.
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