Making lemonade

It sucks when your mother, the one who's battling Stage 4 lung cancer, tells you to get off your pitty pot and work on finding happiness.
What do you say?
"Sorry, mom. You're out of your fucking mind. I'm miserable. I want to be miserable because life sucks and doesn't hand me everything I want. I am nearly 40 years old, my 10-year marriage was a sham for the final 5 years, the ensuing divorce has been a blessing and a curse, I find love again only to watch it disappear. I' ve got a job I love, but in a business I despise. I've got a kid with serious fucking problems. A kid who hates me and everything I stand for even though he doesn't really believe it. What? I've got to medicate him too? And my two other boys are good kids caught in the middle of a situation that makes Iraq look like a fucking Sunday at Disneyland. I'm fat and am back at the point in my life where I was after my divorce -- feeling completely alone, lost, unloveable, wandering through life and about two seconds from snapping and going postal on someone."
Somehow, I just don't think that would fly.
So, I've decided to make lemonade. That's right. Life's handed me a giant fucking lemon. Bigger than that goddamned peach in the Roald Dahl book. So I've got to make lemonade.
And it starts by putting one foot in front of the other and walking. And doing. And sitting. And writing. And venting. And talking. And crying.
I don't know how I'm going to come out of this. But I will. I will wake up every day and just go. I will make a list of things I need to do before going to sleep and wake up and hit the ground running. I will not beat myself up when I do not finish everything on the list. I will cross them off as they're done and move on to the next item.
And hopefully, one day, I will look up and realize I've made something of my, what I feel today, is a pretty fucking miserable life.

Gotta go drink some lemonade