I don't "do" Mother's Day. Hallmark gets not one penny out of me for one of their most popular marketing tools. In the past, when I worked retail, I always volunteered to work Mother's Day, to give the other kids a chance to do whatever it is they do on that flowers-and-guilt day.

For those of you that don't already know, I am an orphan. Both my parents died when I was in my teens. In fact, today is one of those rare Mother's Days that I actually reflect on. Today is the 15th anniversary of the day my mother succumbed to lung cancer. Seeing as she died when I was 14, she has now been out of my life longer than she was in it. I feel a little sadness at that, though not as much as you might expect.

May 14th, 1991 began the way it normally did. I had ceased going to school, due to the burdens of the hospital shifts. We had been there late the night before, so I was sleeping late. The phone woke me around 10am. It was my cousin Joan calling from the hospital. She was doing the day shift. "Come now."

I couldn't find Dad when I went downstairs, but he had left a note. "Going for groceries, then stopping at John's". I called John's house. Spoke to his wife. Told her not to even let Dad get out of the car, but to come back to the house right away. He made it home within 20 minutes of my call. I was dressed and ready to go. Dad had to stop and pee first. I yelled at him that he could pee when she was dead. Hurry up.

When we got to the hospital, we had just missed her. "You had to fucking pee, didn't you?" My mother was gone. Where she had lain there was a horrifying skeletal mess, with open eyes and mouth wide like something out of Munsch. Her face was covered in a light black fuzz from the massive amounts of morphine that had been pumping through her veins for the last four months. I turned and walked out of the room. Waited for Dad in the hall.

When he came out, his eyes were dry. As were mine. We were just relieved it was over. Dad didn't cry till after the funeral. I didn't cry for two years. But that day, there were more important things to do than cry. Mainly, we needed to go shopping. We picked up my best friend, a tiny girl I had known since infancy. She had a very special job to do that day. She would be the dress fitter for my mother. You see, my mother died weighing just 47 pounds. My friend was small, about the same height as Mom, and weighed no more than 75. She would have to do.

May 14th, 1991. The day my mother died. Happy Mother's Day.

But things are looking up. This May 14th is my first Bug-aversary. It's the first anniversary of the day I adopted my sweet, happy, dopey little chihuahua. He's a close to motherhood as I'm ever going to be. So I have taken back the date.

Happy Bug-Day, little dude. I love you.