habit ranged from enjoying cigars with buddies on the golf
course during his teens and twenties, to acquiring a variety of
smoking pipes and stuffing them with aromatic tobacco that
filled our home during the ’50s and ’60s. Eventually, he had to
sneak a few puffs from his filter-less cigarettes whenever he
could—outside, in the garage, or while walking the dog—
thinking that he was hiding, or at least trying to hide, his habit
from us.
For the last ten years of my father’s life, he couldn’t walk or
breathe easily because he had smoked for so many years, and
he just couldn’t quit. We talked about his habit endlessly.
Doctors repeatedly warned him of the devastation the tobacco
smoke was having on his lungs. He continually promised us he
would quit smoking. He just didn’t—or couldn’t.
Then one Sunday night in April, my mother called each of
her three children, all of us born in Cleveland, Ohio, and now
residents of sunny California. Mom asked us to come home on
the next plane. She delivered the sad news that our father had
suffered a very serious heart attack—and he was in a coma.
Over a twenty-four hour period, each of us arrived in
Cleveland by order of our birth—my sister first, then my
brother, then me. As if on cue, my father awoke from his coma
within an hour of his youngest child’s arrival. We held each
other, prayed softly and often, realizing Dad had a very short
memory. Showing pictures helped him get his bearings, but he
often reverted back to an earlier time and place that was
happiest for him. Nevertheless, we cherished every moment
together, taking turns sleeping at the hospital.
For about five days Dad’s breathing and memory slowly
improved, so he was placed in a “step-down” unit and taken