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Interview chris johnson on: January 6th 2011 (06:03:05)

It was at my wedding ceremony that the best part of the day happened. At least, that's how I remember it.

That was probably the last time I saw my mom. I was in the hospital for the last few days, working on the hospital site. Mom died in that surgery, and I remember a few days after that with an open mind.

I'll never forget my mom's wedding party, which included a bunch of my closest friends. At the ceremony, she got up on stage to do a standing ovation, then proceeded to kiss me. In one hand I held my dad's gold wedding ring with the other, while the others held each other's rings in their hands.

In those years, I'd never had any real feelings for her. Her attitude towards me was just that -- she was angry. "Do you love me?" I'd ask.

She knew I couldn't answer, and so she put up her hands: "I love you!" and kissed me. I couldn't remember how long it lasted, but I never really got over the feeling.

In hindsight, I think I probably felt that she meant it -- she really did. But when I looked at her the next day, it was hard to grasp what had changed.

I was wearing the same ring as my dad had when I died; but she'd kept it, and since it had become her, she'd forgotten about it. The band was off; her finger had changed to a sharp, triangular object. And she wore some pretty revealing lingerie.

On the other hand, the ring that once was my mom's -- was the one I wear around my neck, on occasion.

The fact that I remember her wearing a ring that had been given to her by me -- doesn't really make sense to me.

To me, she would've died in my arms at that wedding if I didn't go through with it. After all, she never married because of our father. She wanted my dad to raise me. The day after that, I saw my dad's doctor at the hospital, and that's when things started to get interesting.

In the early hours of January 20th, I was wheeled away from the hospital's intensive care unit to another hospital near where I live. He took me into the operating room and left a big note, scribbling his own address on my wrist. He asked me what was wrong with me; I told him that I'm having a bad heart; he asked for my number and called me.

And that's when things began to get complicated.

I had t


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