WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS...

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade—this maxim is a little too optimistic for my taste. Let’s be honest, sometimes life hands you lemons the size of Volkswagens, and instead of thinking about sugar and water, you stand in the middle of the produce aisle, ugly-crying in front of a citrus pyramid.

My cancer diagnosis has me riding an emotional rollercoaster with no safety bar. One minute I’m affixing a ‘You got this!’ fake tattoo on my wrist (2:00 a.m. impulse buy), and the next, I’m Googling ‘how to prepare for chemo’ while eating unhealthy amounts of rice pudding straight from an industrial size container. My misery loves rice pudding.

The other day, I went to the grocery store to just get out of the house and clear my mind. Big mistake. I stared at a pile of lemons— bright, cheerful, gorgeous, mocking lemons—when it hit me like a sack of potatoes: I’m terrified. Afraid of chemo, the unknown toll, of losing my long hair that I’ve loved for so many years (though it makes me look much older). And desperately afraid of leaving my family. There I was, in the middle of this fluorescent-lit battlefield, whispering, ‘Stupid lemons!’ What else could I say? There’s no Pinterest-worthy life hack for turning cancer into a sweet, sunshiny libation; I’ve googled it. Even my dear Amish friends told me about a lemon cure involving a daily glass of a whole pulverized lemon, a dash of honey and a permanent sourpuss. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.)

A beautiful young woman glided past me with a cart full of kale and smiled like she had answers. I wanted to stop her and say, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but have you ever turned a lemon into a chemo survival plan? No? Didn’t think so.’ Instead, I smiled back, because I’m a polite train wreck.

The sad truth is, life’s lemons don’t come with instructions.

There’s no manual for navigating a cancer diagnosis or the angst that comes with it. So, what should I do with this Everest of life’s lemons?

Well, for starters, I let myself cry in the produce aisle if I need to. I let myself feel scared, angry and overwhelmed, because denying it won’t make it go away.

Then, once I’ve had my moment (or until I’m asked to leave the store), I grab those lemons, stick them in my cart, and figure out what the heck I’m going to do with so many stupid lemons. Maybe I’ll make lemonade… Maybe I’ll Martha-Stewart them into a lemon meringue pie. Or maybe I’ll chuck them into the trash and order a pizza.

I guess I’m learning to drink it all in, one lemon at a time. Some days that means crying, other days laughing at the absurdity. And on the best days, believing something sweet might still come from the sour.

So, here’s to lemons, tears and a little harmo-lemony. If you see me crying in the produce aisle, grab a cart and join me. Life’s better with company and some tang.