I remember being twelve coming home with a bike that didn't belong to me.

My mother asked "Where'd you get that bike." and I replied "I found it abandoned in the park".

What we were really saying was "You will return that bike" and "No I'm not!"

Twelve was a brutal age for me. I was bitter, uncooperative, thick headed and rash.

My mother on the other hand was the complete opposite. She was gentle, caring, and understanding. A great mother.

I appreciated her a lot more up until the time I was eleven and her and my dad sat us down and told us that my mother had something called ovarian cancer, and that, even though she planned to fight it as hard as she could, their was a chance that she may die from it.

I was eleven years old when they told this to me. I'm thrity now and am not mature enough to handle such news. I was eleven then. Up until that time I was at my mothers side my entire life. She was like how religious people see God. She was always there. When I started pre-school and was scared, she waited the entire day right outside. I could see her through the window if I ever felt seperation anxiety.

So when my parents told me this, I did the only thing I could do and that was lash out. I was angry at my mother for having cancer.

As I've said before in my diary, I began smoking at eleven. The year my mother found out she had cancer, she also learned that her eleven year old son smokes regularly.

My mother had her work cut out on me. Not only did she have to go through the terrible chemo, she had to come home and raise the most immature kid that has ever been created.

My brother was a different story. He was supportive and together from the get-go. After "the talk" my brother made his bed and cleaned his room every day. He learned to cook his own meals, and even started to position himself as a parental figure over me.

problem was, I didn't want my brother doing that. I wanted my mom.

My mother gave me as much attention as she could. When I was around twelve she accepted the fact that cancer would kill her, and she needed to give me as much guidance as she could in the little time she had to put me on the right path. Her biggest fear was to die knowing that I would not be OK with out her. My brother was strong. I was not, I needed my mother for a much longer time than he did, and she knew that. That scared her more than the dying part.

When I was around thirteen I found some older, heavy metal kids to hang out with. They introduced me to alcohol and pot. I made damn sure when I came home at night that they sniffed out what I was up to.

My mother in her thick French accent would ask what I was doing, and why I smelled like booze and pot. I'd telll her to leave me alone. She was too kind to ever raise her voice to me, even though time was running out on her contribution to my life. She'd just hold my hand and wouldn't let go as I tugged. She'd try not to cry. I'd send telepathic messages to her saying if she didn't want me to get in trouble then DON'T FUCKING DIE!

At fourteen I was heavy into all sorts of mood altering drugs. Mostly Xanax, pot, and alcohol. The combination, in case you ever want to try it, makes it hard to care about much of anything. Even your dying mother.

April 6th, 1988 I was high on all three when I stood in an ugly, white room at Hartford Hospital and watched my mother pass away as she watched me try to hold myself up from falling down.

There were seventeen people there including my brother, my father, her mother, life long friends and so on. And with all those people by her side, she didn't take her eyes off me the entire time. She looked horrified at me. I couldn't stand looking back at her. Even as I starred at the floor I felt like she was burning me with her eyes. She was so scarred at how much I obviously needed her for so many more years, and there was nothing she could do. I wasn't strong enough to be without her.

She raised her hand towards me and it took me about three minutes to take hold. The moment I did I was completely sober, and crying like the baby I always felt like. A newborn baby that needed his mother for everything.

I was on the floor holding my mother's hand as a commotion started and she passed away.

Through the years I always thought of how strong my mother was. Nothing ever phased her. But it took me being so weak to actually terrify her.

So without saying, and lord knows how many times I wished, that if a time machine did exist, my mother could lay in peace instead of haunting my every thought.

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