The Time My Dad Quit Smoking

Making Sacrifices

The Story

I was about ten years old and fresh out of the D.A.R.E. program at school— that 80s/90s program where police officers scared the crap out of kids to keep them from smoking, drinking, and doing drugs. While the D.A.R.E. program is now known to have been a total failure on a large scale, it worked on me. I was, as they say, “scared straight—” completely terrified of any addictive substance.

It was summer, and I was in the passenger’s seat of my dad’s car— the little white Honda that would one day be mine. Bored, I started opening compartments, including a small one under the radio that I’d never noticed before. When I pushed it in, it released, revealing a hidden cache of cigarette butts.

“You smoke?” I said to my dad. I had never seen him smoke anything, although my Grandpa smoked a pipe.

“Very occasionally,” he said, with a casual air, as though imparting some incidental information. “Just at faculty parties, or things like that. I used to smoke in college, but now I only do it, oh, ten times a year.”

This should’ve bathed my body in relief, but instead, I felt myself tensing up further. He smoked TEN TIMES A YEAR? I pictured the slide the police officer had shown us, of a pair of lungs scarred black. It would never go away, the officer had said. Smoking did permanent damage.

I began to yell at my dad. “You shouldn’t smoke at all,” I scolded him. “You could get lung cancer. You could die.”

My dad dying was the absolute worst thing I could contemplate. At ten, my dad was my partner, my soulmate, my person. He was the one I trusted most in the world. I refused to consider a world in which a bunch of cigarette butts could take down my hero.

Upset, I folded into myself in the passenger’s seat, alternately seething with anger at my dad and breaking out into a cold sweat of cigarette-induced terror. When we got home, my dad had to tell my mother why I was in such a state, while I fled to my room.

A few hours later, my dad called me into the living room. “Leanne,” he said. “I didn’t think that smoking so infrequently was a problem, but since it is a big deal to you, then it’s a big deal to me. I promise that I will never, ever let another cigarette touch my lips, but you also have to promise that you’ll never, ever smoke a cigarette.”

“Deal,” I said, as relief finally coursed through my body. I hugged him. We celebrated with ice cream.

We kept our promises. At 42, I’ve never smoked. As far as I know, neither has my dad. It was a sacrifice he made, and keeps making, for his beloved daughter. And that means even more than the health of his lungs.

It’s Father’s Day this weekend. I hope you have a father or father figure to celebrate.

My dad

Stuff You Might Like To Know

I’m currently reading THE MOTHER ACT by Heidi Reimer (novel). It’s excellent!

I’m listening to Harry Potter and the Sacred Text again— I was a fan several years ago, but stopped during the pandemic. Now I’m picking up from Book 1, Chapter 1 again. I appreciate how they handle the problem of J. K. Rowling’s transphobia, while still treating the books as vehicles for vital life lessons. (The podcast also gives me ideas for Good Character!)

I’m loving early morning runs before work, when the sky is clear and it’s a little cool. It’s so calm and beautiful. I’m not a fast runner, but I love doing it, and it’s great for both my physical and mental health.

Here’s to us, in all of our imperfect, striving goodness.

Keep hoping. Keep caring. Keep trying.