It wasn't the worst week of my life.
When I revealed this, as I did, (sometimes triumphantly, sometimes conspiratorially, or occasionally with what I hoped was courage in my voice, a buoyancy that belied my current predicament) I got different responses.
Some friends commentated that of course it wasn't, because of what I went through with my mother.
Others made kind comments about my attitude.
My therapist said something positive about me - I'm not sure what it was, I should have written it down - probably something about my upbeat attitude. I hypothesis that we never remember the good things we hear about ourselves, only the bad.
But I digress.
It wasn't the worst week of my life. I'm not sure why, or if it should have been. Finding out I had breast cancer a mere six weeks after my 40th birthday was awful news. Scary news. Information that made me angry and sad. But it was not crushing information. It did not make me curl up in a ball underneath the covers of my very comfortable bed. And believe me, I have done that very thing and I say this without shame. Sometimes you need to curl up in a ball.
I didn't, though.
I got up, I put on makeup, I laughed at jokes and I made a lot of them. I went to a party that weekend and I enjoyed myself, fully. I don't know why. I'm not telling you this as an example of my (ugh) fighting spirit or can-do attitude. I abhor both those concepts. I'm not writing this to compare and contrast with anyone else's experience. I am typing these words because they are the truth, and for some reason this particular truth sticks out in my mind, every time I think about this mad, mad world I have found myself in.
It wasn't the worst week of my life.
Sometimes, that's enough to hang onto.
