“Mommy, when they cut your boobies off, will they give you new rainbow ones?”
I recalled my three year old’s words as I stared out the hospital window with labored breath. The pings and beeps of the machines monitoring my body sang their hideous chorus, and I wondered how long a person could stay sane in a place like this without any loved ones to distract them. Not very, I decided.
I glanced down at my broken body. No freakin’ rainbows to be seen.
In less than six months time, two unexpected and seriously unwelcome things had happened. My mom had died, leaving my sisters and me behind, shattered and confused. And as we struggled to make sense of a world without her in it, I received a shocking diagnosis. I was a seemingly healthy, 36 year old mother of three, with no family history of breast cancer, but there it was, detected by a baseline mammogram.
And man, was I pissed about it.
The heat that radiated from inside me spewed out in both tears and mumbled curses.
It was Mother’s Day, and for the first time, I couldn’t phone my momma to tell her how much I loved her.
I couldn’t hug and kiss my own babies back in Virginia. I wouldn’t be able to receive the scribbly, Scotch-tape wonders they had created for me. It had only been a few days since I’d seen them, but it felt like I had been deprived of their hugs for a lifetime.
It was a sad-sorry excuse for Mother’s Day, and I was all alone with my bad attitude and desecrated body. I felt… robbed.
Just four days prior, my breasts had been cut from my body, in a desperate hope of evicting the rudest squatter of all time. During the mastectomy, a rare complication occurred, resulting in a partially collapsed lung. You can imagine having major chest surgery and then adding the inability to breathe well. Pile a lot of grief on top of that, and it left me with the most broken version of myself I’d ever known. I’m telling you, she was seriously a Debbie-Downer.
In the months to follow, I would cradle a nest of my long locks in my hands, not recognizing the woman whose reflection looked back in the mirror. I would have an anaphylactic reaction to my first chemo treatment. I would spend my 10th wedding anniversary tethered to a bag of poison. I would learn that when the doctor at home originally biopsied my tumor, he accidentally dropped malignant tissue under my skin. This created a second tumor that grew into my dermis, worsening my overall prognosis. And because of this freak occurrence, I would have to receive 20 rounds of radiation. After finishing active treatment, I would begin hormone therapy for the foreseeable future which would wreck my body in a myriad of new ways with no reprieve in sight.
All of it Bad News Bears, I tell ya.
But if we rolled all of the aforementioned things into one big ball of steaming doo-doo, THAT day, that Mother’s Day at M.D. Anderson following my surgery was more miserable than all the rest combined.
I was truly heartsick. Drowning in grief for my life before losing Mom, my life before cancer. It was as if the pain I’d been running from had finally metastasized to my mind. So there I was, alone with God in my hospital room, trapped inside a body which had betrayed me.
I tried to rationalize my way out of the hole. I told myself how lucky I was to have caught the disease early. Lucky to have had over three decades with my mom (which is more than many get). Lucky to have a community who loved and supported me. Lucky (and privileged) to have the opportunity to receive the absolute best level of treatment.
Every one of those things was true, but not one of those truths could heal the wounds that had been inflicted to my soul.
And it was then I realized that God didn’t need my forced positivity. He wasn’t buying what I was selling because He already heard the cries of my heart before I uttered a word.
If ever there was a time to drop the pretenses, it was when I was alone in that hospital with nobody but Him. And I realized He understood my anger and despair. There was acknowledgement and comfort, and not one ounce of judgment.
I felt, physically felt, His promise that it was okay not to be okay.
As a society, and I fully include myself here, we play the “Well, at least…” game so dutifully.
“Well, at least it’s not stage 4.”
“Well, at least she didn’t suffer.”
“Well, at least your children are healthy.”
I believe comparison can provide much needed perspective and positive encouragement can be helpful, but I think it’s important to point out that those who are hurting don’t need someone to pluck them from the knee-deep mud because that inevitable, muddy terrain will still be waiting for them in the future. What they need is someone to hold their hands as they trudge through it, however slow and dirty that journey may be. Just because we KNOW things could always be much worse doesn’t make the right now feel any less difficult.
And not feeling our feelings is a dangerous game because buried pain festers in the soul. It weaves its way through our insides until our outsides force us to see what we’ve been trying to ignore. Regurgitated beatitudes of blessings when we are in grief are at best, forced, and at worst, deadly.
It is my firm belief that the heavy expectation of constant positivity and gratitude results in calloused hearts, addicted minds, and cancer-riddled bodies.
And that canNOT be what any Father wants for His children.
Would it be what you wanted for yours?
My faith is so important to me, but it has grown harder and harder to continue to publicly acknowledge that I’m a Christian. It has nothing to do with Christ but everything to do with what Christian Culture has become. My hesitancy comes from not wanting my deep love for Jesus to be lumped in with those who practice a religion that feels so far away from Him. I want no part in the exclusion and ugliness I so often see masqueraded under the guise of God’s name.
And I think one of the things that bothers me the most is the charade of it all. The charade that if you don’t immediately swallow your very valid emotions and turn it back to gratitude and praise, you aren’t a faithful follower.
“Satan has ahold of you if you can’t find the bright side.” I not only find that sentiment ridiculous, I find it damaging. And it is just one of the things I’m happy to have unlearned in recent years.
And once I stopped the charade, I started to heal. I am surviving my cancer journey because I am allowing myself to hold and sometimes share those feelings without much shame— (I’d like to say any, but old habits die hard).
And in that hospital room, I promised myself that all of the feelings I had swallowed in decades past would find their way to the surface and join in the sad song my soul needed to sing.
I stayed in that hospital room for a while. And in a hotel in Houston even longer. The doctors were apprehensive about me flying so soon after an injury to my lung.
On the morning when we were finally cleared to leave, I felt anxiety like I had never experienced before. I was terrified of my lung collapsing again during the flight. As I was wheeled around the airport, bloody drains hanging from my sides, I silently prayed with every passing minute, “Please God, let me be okay. I don’t feel okay. Let me be okay.”
My sister handled my bags and steadied me as I made my way to my seat. The plane was large, the walk down the aisle, a marathon. As I groaned and awkwardly lowered myself to my chair, I tried to hide the red tubes dangling from underneath my shirt.
I explained to the woman seated beside me that I had just had surgery and apologized for being so slow. She replied, “I could tell. I’m actually a breast surgeon at MD Anderson. It feels so serendipitous to be sitting beside you this morning.”
Serendipitous, indeed. My God.
She was an answer in an airplane seat.
I breathed in and thanked Him for the answered prayer, knowing that even if something happened, I would be okay.
I don’t think God gave me cancer, but I do think He knew that through this journey, I would be able to cultivate a different kind of relationship with Him. One that’s truer and more honest and beautifully raw in a way it wasn’t before. And for that, I actually am so very grateful. My hope is, by sharing my heart, it might help someone else let go of that shame and find a new kind of closeness with Him, too.
Yes, I think positivity is important. Yes, I hope telling my story will save others. Yes, I want to make my mom’s early exit from this world mean something by honoring her in the best way I know how. And yes, I am deeply grateful for my life being saved.
But in the moments when I don’t care about the purpose, and I just need to grieve what’s been lost, without fear of seeming ungrateful, I know God will be right there with me… a gentle presence by my side.
I have another surgery in a few weeks. I’ll be back in a hospital room, and while my body has done a lot of healing and is being slowly reconstructed, I still won’t wake up to rainbow boobies. And I expect I won’t be filled with constant gratitude “just to be alive” like many have said I should. I will curse and cry when it comes, and I won’t berate myself for feeling it all.
Because my God knows my heart, and He’s going to show up for me anyway.
20 thoughts on “Rainbow Boobies and Airline Angels”
Summer, I have chills, tears & absolute love & admiration for you. Your Mom is surely smiling down on you! She’s giving you strength that you never knew you could have. I love you ❤️
I surely hope she is… thank you so much for reading and for all of your thoughtful words. I just love you! <3
Thanks so much for this tonight. My second chemo is in the morning. I am so glad to know you and thankful that you are helping me through this with your words. My hair is almost completely gone and it’s okay. So many things have become okay. God has this and I refuse to tell Him how to handle it. I will do my best with His guidance. Thanks again. I’m praying for you too!
Betty, I am thinking of you today. I am so sorry that you are deep in the trenches of this horrible illness. And I know exactly what you mean about how things you never dreamed of suddenly HAVE to be okay. I will continue to pray for you, sweet friend.
Awww ❣. Love you so much!! Same thing I’ve learned through my recovery journey. I just never could have said it that well!!
I doubt that, but it always feel good to know someone else can relate. You are a warrior to come through that absolute hell and be thriving on the other side. So thankful you continue to fight for your health. Love you always.
You are a true WARRIOR!! This is awesome, I love you!
Love you, my forever friend.
Love and prayers are being lifted for you today and in the days that follow. You words have so much more meaning for all of us or are going through an illness or who have fully recovered. I was a blessing for me to read your raw and realistic words. Thank you for sharing. You are amazing and so loved.
Thank you, sweet Chris, for all of your encouragement and kindness. I appreciate you reading and responding. I miss seeing your beautiful face! Hope you are well.
Dear Summer, your words are so REAL, so raw, so vulnerable, and soooo touching. Please continue to write and share. You have a gift to share and God is working through you and your journey to inspire others in ways you couldn’t imagine before all of this. Stay strong! I encourage you to write, speak, continue to share. You are beautiful. You are strong! You are A Very Special Child of God! You are amazing! May God continue to bless you with strength and courage and most of all healing, for the rest of this journey.
You are so sweet, Eileen. Thank you so much for every one of those kind words. I really appreciate you reading and responding. Sending you lots of light and love. <3
Summer, your writing is beautiful, full of wisdom and vulnerability. I have struggled with the culture of “toxic positivity” in Christian circles, also. “What they need is someone to hold their hands as they trudge through it…” SOOOOO true. Thank you for sharing your journey and what you’ve learned along the way. I, too, believe God uses the struggles we face in this broken world to draw us in to deeper relationship with Him and then to bring comfort and compassion to others who are hurting. Prayers for your continued healing!
Thank you so much, Jamie, for all of your kind words and for taking the time to read. And most of all, thank you for the prayers. I hope you are wonderfully well <3
Don’t ever stop writing….
I love you, Summer!
This is beautiful. The vulnerability and authenticity is empowering. I love sometimes our “soul needs to sing a sad song.” How healing to honor ourselves in this way, to create space to feel and experience the vastness of our emotions. May you continue to hold space for all of the versions of you and may you continue to shine light and wisdom on the darkest of moments. 💫
Summer much love and Prayers to you an your most Beautiful family. God will get you NEW again
Thank you for being vulnerable and sharing every moment of your story…. You are an inspiration and I am blessed reading these words! Prayers for continued healing and loving thoughts your way!!! ♥️♥️♥️
Summer, we love you and thank you for being a special person. God has blessed you and in return you bless everyone you come in contact with.
Thank you so much for your kind words. Love you both, dearly. ❤️