I glanced out my window the other night. I was struck by this oul fellah struggling along on his cane to the requisite 25 feet from our building. Snow was coming down fast, the plows had been around three times already.
He balanced himself carefully on the stick and lit up. Rules are no smoking in the building or within 25 feet of it. The rule is taken seriously. Even when you're dying of lung cancer.
As he is.
As a recovered nicotine addict (2 packs a day when it was allowed everywhere even on planes and post partum in the maternity wing - yeah, I know, appalling breathing smoke on our newborns, you would be dumbfounded if you saw a photo of back then, I do have one somewhere) I sympathize with him. We attribute my late brother's death to tobacco, he had quit for years and then went back for about 10 years which, I believe, nailed him to the cross of cancer.
All 6 of us siblings were smokers and quit along the way. My own withdrawal (no medical support back then, 38 years ago) was so terrible I knew I could never smoke again as I would never quit again.
This poor fellah tried to quit. I just know he did. All smokers do whether they say so or not. And now, in his late sixties he's dying one of the worst kind of deaths. Fighting for breath, plugging in tanks, yearning for the one thing that would bring him a comfort he defines.
Yeah. I'm so sad for him.
PS I can't post this on local social media as many would know him.
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