We are a family of people who approach dogs on the street and ask their owners if we can pet them, what their name is, how old they are -- and we all especially love golden retrievers, since our own beloved Zoe was a golden. I can see you slowly walking down a sidewalk in Manhattan, cigarette hanging out of your hand as you walk a bit behind us to smoke in solitude. You spot a golden, smile big. Walk over. Make eye contact with the owner, say hello. And then what you came for -- a big pet for an overly excited pup.
When you come back to us -- we are probably in a store, at this point -- you report the dog's name and age. "Reggie. 8 years old." Reggie was the name of the golden you fell head so over heels for that Mom finally surprised you with a 6 week old Zoe one Christmas morning.
Do you remember, for years after Zoe died, Mom had this horrible habit of going up to people with goldens on the street, petting the dog, asking how old, and then saying something along the lines of "oh, no, they never live long enough" or "they are so great until they die." We'd sort of cough or clear our throats and try to steer Mom or the conversation elsewhere. Mom! We'd say afterwards. You can't go up to people on the street and tell them their dog is going to die! But she never heard us. It took years for her to stop doing this, to stop being the very well dressed, attractive and totally together woman who would walk up to strangers on the street and unintentionally issue warnings of impending death.
Walking down the street now, I see someone with a cigarette hanging out of their hand, and I have to push the words back into my mouth, I have to hold them there, where they want to fly off of my tongue. I just watched my Dad die of lung cancer, you know, you really shouldn't do that. I especially want to say it to the young ones, the ones who still have time, the ones who are unaware of their own mortality, as I was so very not long ago. The ones who think the rules don't apply to them. And of course I don't, and of course I know it wouldn't make a difference to them if I did, but the urge to say something is almost overpowering these days.
And I think back to you, sitting on the deck, in the kitchen at the stove with the fan on overhead, in the parking lot of a restaurant after dinner, walking slightly slower than us down a city street. Smoking, always smoking. And I know that nothing I said, nothing anyone else said would have changed anything. You were who you were, and that I loved all of that person. And that person was stubborn and did what he wanted to do. I know there were times you tried to quit smoking. Recently I found an electronic cigarette in the house. I asked if you had tried to use it to quit. I don't want to talk about it, you said (for some reason, you could make fun of me endlessly for my frequent use of this refrain, but there was no laughing when you used it). Okay, I said. Just tell me if you tried it. Yes, you said, it didn't work. End of conversation.
That was about how all conversations about your smoking went. There weren't many of them, as we all knew they were destined to be fruitless. When I was about 9 or 10, I would sometimes find your packs of hidden cigarettes, empty them into the trash, and replace them with rolled up pieces of paper that said "you're going to die." How unbelievably cruel this seems to me now, but they indoctrinate kids pretty heavily on the anti-smoking, and I thought I was helping. Uncle John was visiting one time when I did this, and he explained to me that addiction was a complicated and tough thing and that I should try to be a bit more understanding. And so I was. I know there were other efforts you'd made to quit, secret and ultimately failed efforts. I never mentioned them. I know a thing or two about secrets myself.
But now, thinking back to those times, how easy it is to render an image of you with a cigarette in your hand. And the words are there, I have to push them back into my mouth, I have to hold them there, where they want to fly off of my tongue. I just watched you die of lung cancer, you know, I wish you hadn't done that.
When you come back to us -- we are probably in a store, at this point -- you report the dog's name and age. "Reggie. 8 years old." Reggie was the name of the golden you fell head so over heels for that Mom finally surprised you with a 6 week old Zoe one Christmas morning.
Do you remember, for years after Zoe died, Mom had this horrible habit of going up to people with goldens on the street, petting the dog, asking how old, and then saying something along the lines of "oh, no, they never live long enough" or "they are so great until they die." We'd sort of cough or clear our throats and try to steer Mom or the conversation elsewhere. Mom! We'd say afterwards. You can't go up to people on the street and tell them their dog is going to die! But she never heard us. It took years for her to stop doing this, to stop being the very well dressed, attractive and totally together woman who would walk up to strangers on the street and unintentionally issue warnings of impending death.
Walking down the street now, I see someone with a cigarette hanging out of their hand, and I have to push the words back into my mouth, I have to hold them there, where they want to fly off of my tongue. I just watched my Dad die of lung cancer, you know, you really shouldn't do that. I especially want to say it to the young ones, the ones who still have time, the ones who are unaware of their own mortality, as I was so very not long ago. The ones who think the rules don't apply to them. And of course I don't, and of course I know it wouldn't make a difference to them if I did, but the urge to say something is almost overpowering these days.
And I think back to you, sitting on the deck, in the kitchen at the stove with the fan on overhead, in the parking lot of a restaurant after dinner, walking slightly slower than us down a city street. Smoking, always smoking. And I know that nothing I said, nothing anyone else said would have changed anything. You were who you were, and that I loved all of that person. And that person was stubborn and did what he wanted to do. I know there were times you tried to quit smoking. Recently I found an electronic cigarette in the house. I asked if you had tried to use it to quit. I don't want to talk about it, you said (for some reason, you could make fun of me endlessly for my frequent use of this refrain, but there was no laughing when you used it). Okay, I said. Just tell me if you tried it. Yes, you said, it didn't work. End of conversation.
That was about how all conversations about your smoking went. There weren't many of them, as we all knew they were destined to be fruitless. When I was about 9 or 10, I would sometimes find your packs of hidden cigarettes, empty them into the trash, and replace them with rolled up pieces of paper that said "you're going to die." How unbelievably cruel this seems to me now, but they indoctrinate kids pretty heavily on the anti-smoking, and I thought I was helping. Uncle John was visiting one time when I did this, and he explained to me that addiction was a complicated and tough thing and that I should try to be a bit more understanding. And so I was. I know there were other efforts you'd made to quit, secret and ultimately failed efforts. I never mentioned them. I know a thing or two about secrets myself.
But now, thinking back to those times, how easy it is to render an image of you with a cigarette in your hand. And the words are there, I have to push them back into my mouth, I have to hold them there, where they want to fly off of my tongue. I just watched you die of lung cancer, you know, I wish you hadn't done that.
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