Last updated on March 10, 2025
I began smoking cigarettes at the tender age of 13. I made no attempt to hide this inconvenient truth from my parents. My step father had smoked for as long as I could remember, and I secretly always thought it was edgy, sexy, and cool. My attitude regarding smoking was likely additionally spurred on by the alluring Cowboy themed advertising images that filled my mind as a youth. My mother never smoked, and upon hearing my somewhat guilty smokers confession simply said “Dad and I will not be buying any cigarettes for you.” I continued smoking with great abandon for the next 17 years. My wife had smoked as well for a brief period during her college years. The fact that I was a smoker made for a convenient excuse for my wife to take up smoking again when we met. We would often smoke cigarettes together, and enjoyed this time and activity. It wasn’t until the birth of my second child, a daughter, that I summoned the iron will to finally quit smoking. My young children never saw me or my wife smoke while growing up, and smoking was rarely ever discussed in our home. I would occasionally partake in smoking while away from home during my children’s formative years, but I was never tempted to smoke more than one cigarette on such rare occasions.
I must now confess freely, and with great irony, that both my wife and I are once again smoking cigarettes together
In my defense I must say it wasn’t until I landed myself in a hospital for the first time in my life due to double pneumonia that I even considered taking this smelly socially taboo activity back up. Surely you must hear my sarcasm and irony in recounting my reengagement with this potentially lethal activity, right!? Let me explain.
You see I was a victim of circumstances. Several years ago I feel into a deep depression. So deep, in fact that neither my wife nor I recognized what it actually was. I was tired, unengaged, and lethargic for most of my days during this dark period, often retreating to my bed and sleep at the slightest provocation. My caring wife and family did their very best during these times to shield me from stressful stimulus, and allowed me to rest as much as I required hoping I would make a quick and full recovery. The inconvenient truth of the time is that I simply did not get better. In fact my depression deepened and there was no hope of any end in sight. I had never experienced anything like this in my then 50 year life. No one, myself including knew what to do to help me get better. We slowly became more desperate. Most of us were functioning merely in survival mode as a family during my time in this black pit of depression, and all hope of a return to normalcy seemed lost. Then a solution showed up in the form of a sensational *new virus* supposedly cooked up in some Wuhan, China laboratory: COVID-19. My chronic mental anguish was no longer my sole focus. I was now about to fight for my very life. As a result of contracting the COVID-19 virus I developed double pneumonia and had to be hospitalized. I required constant oxygen infusion in order to breathe. I was preparing myself for my impending visit with death. I didn’t want to die you see, but due to my mental and physical injuries, I had finally come to accept my bittersweet reality. I finally felt calm and completely at peace with this potential fate. I was ready to go if this was my time. Fortunately for all involved it was not. My body began to heal rapidly and I was discharged from the hospital after a 4 day stay. I remained on oxygen at home for several weeks while continued to recover. It was a slow but consistent period of physical recovery. Once my body has healed sufficiently it was time to address the elephant in our home: my mental health.
I have never been one to go to visit doctors. This fact has caused my loving wife great discomfort over our many years together. My convenient support for this argument is simple: I rarely, if ever, got sick. I would remind my wife of this fact every time she encouraged me to go for a checkup. My conviction in this age old argument was now waning due to my recent mental and physical challenges. I decided to capitulate. To finally address both my mental physical health challenges by scheduling visits with multiple doctors.
My new doctor prescribed I begin smoking again. Apparently there was a lot of new research that indicated this activity wasn’t nearly as dangerous as previously understood, and could actually be good for our health. I jest of course! The story a just recounted about my doctor, and the studies this doctor supposedly cited are completely fictional, well at least as far as I know.
The actual facts regarding how I started smoking again after over 20 years will unfortunately have to wait for part 2 of this gripping story.
I hope you are intrigued and will continue with me to our conclusion of this story.
More to come soon.