Habits

My dad grew up in the first half of the Twentieth Century. He was a pack-a-day smoker and his nicotine of choice was unfiltered Camels. Late in his life, cigarettes had fallen from grace and doctors began warning him that what had once been considered harmless was now a nasty habit that would kill him.

Three different times, my dad had heart attacks and doctors said, “See. Told ya so,” only to discover through subsequent testing, that my dad hadn’t actually suffered a heart attack. His doctors were perplexed but that didn’t stop my mom from going on the warpath against those demon cigarettes.

I don’t know if my dad told my mom he’d quit smoking but there were no longer any cigarettes, lighters, or ashtrays to be found in the house. My brother and I were, however, well aware of a perpetually replenished pack of Camels and dad’s trusty Bic lighter in a coffee can labeled “Nails” on our garage workbench. My mother probably also knew of the secret stash but accepted the compromise.

Even if mom never rummaged through the garage, she probably noticed the twice-daily smoke signals emanating from behind our wooden fence. My dad would stand out there, observing the cotton field behind our house and pondering God-knows-what while he indulged in his addiction.

I never thought less of my dad for his ritual; I just viewed it as a good way of keeping the peace while still indulging in his life-long need. My parents apparently had other work-arounds for conflict because I never once witnessed them fighting during my entire life.

When he was sixty-five, my dad died from sleep apnea — something which was rarely diagnosed back then. My aunt, who had been a nurse all her life, recognized the symptoms and brought it to our attention. Perhaps, if she’d been his doctor all those years, he’d have lived long enough to meet his grandkids.

In case you’re wondering, smoking has absolutely nothing to do with obstructive sleep apnea. I’ve suffered from (and been treated for) sleep apnea for over forty years but I can guarantee its not from smoking. My smoking habit lasted for a single week during sixth grade until my mom caught me and made me smoke the whole pack of Winstons while she watched.

After a half-hour of throwing up and experiencing a dizziness I wouldn’t repeat until years later — when I discovered overindulgence in alcohol — I promptly gave up on nicotine. That didn’t stop me from inheriting my dad’s sleep apnea.

Although I’m not a smoker, I’m amazed at how vehemently, our culture has belittled everyone who still smokes, while totally ignoring the vast segment of our population that’s addicted to other drugs of various potency — including that Dopamine rush which we get from bitching about other people’s shortcomings.

The whole smoke signal scenario came rushing back to me as I was driving through my daughter’s neighborhood last week and spied a woman enjoying a cigarette aside the alley behind her tall wooden fence. Who was she hiding her habit from?

The familiarity of that site made me laugh out loud, and admittedly, my initial thought was how naïve and short-sighted she was. But then, I realized my dad was a really good person and that woman might even be a saint who just happens to have a nicotine addiction.

Why the Hell am I so quick to judge people by their faults and ignore (while attempting to hide) my own shortcomings? Maybe I’m addicted to Dopamine, and should just get back on social media to indulge my addiction. How’s your habit working out?

A meeting of great minds who think alike