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Love, Grief, and Addiction Intertwined

Letting the smoke clear

Hunched over my ironing board and muttering, I estimated that nearly 25 years had passed since I ironed name tags on clothing. Back then, the tags were for my daughter’s camp clothes. This time, it was in preparation for my mom’s move into an assisted living facility.

A few days earlier, I had dragged all of my mom’s clothes out of her closets and displayed them one by one so that she could decide which items to bring to her new home. We uttered oohs and ahhs, admiring each garment as though we were opening gifts. We both had forgotten about her clothes; PJ’s, robes, and slippers had become the mainstay of my mom’s wardrobe since her diagnosis of macular degeneration four years ago.

My weekly visits had become housekeeping and shopping days peppered with doctor’s appointments. I longed to bond with my mom, and I would frequently suggest that we go out to lunch or for a car ride, but she would usually decline, saying that she was “just fine” at home. I was not convinced that either one of us was “just fine”. I began to explore other ways to connect, such as discussing current events and going through dozens of family albums. As each album was placed in front of my mom, she would sit forward to scan each photo using a lighted handheld magnifier. Her memory was sharp, and she talked about being an only child with her mom holding two jobs as the sole support of the family, and the pain of growing up with an alcoholic father who would frequently disappear for weeks or months at a time.

My parents were diagnosed with COPD over two decades ago. I don’t remember how I learned about it, since it was common for them not to discuss their health issues with my sister and me. Cringing at the memory, I recalled my parents jokingly referring to their cigarettes as “coffin nails”. I suppose that their cavalier attitude was because the impacts of smoking hadn’t outwardly interfered with the enjoyment of their life much beyond the smokers’ hack.

Smoking was a tangible part of my parents’ love story. The insidious nature of nicotine addiction had created a powerful hold over their minds and lured them to develop smoking rituals that lasted for decades. The breakfast table and after-dinner coffee conversations with “smokes” were never to be missed, and I believe these rituals helped sustain their marriage when many of their friends wound up divorcing. It was as though the cigarettes were like good friends gathering to provide dopamine highs for support during tough times and heightened pleasure during good times.

At least this was the way I viewed cigarettes when I was an addicted teen struggling in high school. My addiction lasted for five years, and quitting was an incredibly challenging test of endurance.

Fourteen years ago, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer, and it caught all of our attention like a Mack truck hurtling towards the family. Dad continued to smoke, though, and the way I saw it, every puff was probably his way of saying “screw you” to cancer. The only thing my dad quit was the chemo and radiation treatments he received for two years; he could no longer tolerate vomiting and being bed-bound for days at a time after each treatment. Soon thereafter, Dad was put on hospice care, and he continued to defy the cancer for 14 months, a remarkable feat in which he actually put on weight!

It was odd how our family used his hospital bed as seating at the dining table during celebrations. For our family, the elephant in the room had become a hospital bed.

My father’s anger was understandable in the last month of his life when Kofi, an aide from Ghana, moved in to help. The cancer had taken such a toll on his body that he was physically unable to move, let alone lift a cigarette to his mouth. One day, Dad asked me to light a cigarette for him. Ignoring all my instincts, I hesitantly brought the cigarette to his mouth and watched as he sputtered, struggling to take a deep drag on the smoke.

Suddenly, Kofi appeared, scolding me as he took the cigarette out of my hand. I felt awful.

A few weeks later, alone with my father in the early morning, I witnessed the sporadic eruption of choking snorts that preceded his last breath. It was startling, even though Kofi had warned me to expect the guttural sounds. My first breaths after my father’s last were audible too, as immense tension left my body like water rushing from a dam break. I didn’t cry; my tears had already been shed over and over again during the last four years. I sat still for some time, holding Dad’s hand as the early spring sun rose. Within hours, his body and bed were taken away, leaving no trace of the months of hell.

I practiced my father’s eulogy ad nauseam so that I could deliver the emotional script unfalteringly, fully aware that one break in the “dam” would be a release in front of a room of mourners. I managed to express to the crowded room my honor in being the daughter of a great man, who taught me the values of honesty, integrity, friendship, and a strong work ethic. While I spoke the truth about my father’s admirable qualities, I concealed another painful truth. If I had revealed this truth, everyone would have witnessed my fists raised, wailing and cursing the “coffin nails” that contributed to the appalling indignity of his death.

It wasn’t long after Dad’s passing that Mom’s addiction and declining health became our primary focus. I was outraged that Mom didn’t quit smoking, and there were times that I had difficulty loving her without bitterness.

Last summer, I worked at a farm stand alongside the 87-year-old matriarch farmer who was seven years older than my mom. I admired her energy and zest for her life’s work, and we easily developed a friendship. One day, her daughter stopped by and swept her off for an afternoon out to lunch and shopping. I stared after them silently, my mouth ajar. I realized it had been many years since I enjoyed a fun afternoon with my mom, and an emptiness overcame me.

Mom’s most recent hospital stay had my sister and me reeling with the tasks surrounding her mounting health care needs. The new oxygen machine hummed loudly enough to rival the TV volume that was always set too high. We needed to hire a live-in aide, and my mom, lamenting the impending invasion of privacy, told us that she wished she would just die in her sleep. My face flushed and I said, “Yeah, Mom, you and about eight billion other people on this planet want to die peacefully in their sleep.”

Even though I instantly regretted the snarky retort, I continued to list my complaints to my sister afterwards like a prosecutor presenting evidence to a jury. My parents were on trial in my mind for the addiction that betrayed them and our family.

Emotionally exhausted by my spiraling thoughts and harsh judgments, I desperately sought relief. I began searching the internet for guidance.

The American Lung Association’s website outlines significant milestones in tobacco regulation, which have been riddled with numerous lawsuits. The first Surgeon General’s report linking smoking to lung cancer was released in 1964, at a time when approximately 42.4% of American adults, including my parents, smoked. Since then, 27 Surgeon General reports have been released, and notable progress has been made.

The most recent data from 2022 indicates that smoking rates have sharply declined to 11.6% among adults. (1) Yet the battle is far from over. As of January 2025, the Food and Drug Administration proposed a rule that would require tobacco companies to reduce nicotine to non-addictive levels in cigarettes and most cigars. (2) I started to see my parents and millions of other people as targeted victims of the tobacco industry.

I reflected on my current self-care practices. With a sigh, I felt my body relax as I acknowledged that I had already made a significant step toward improved health last winter when I quit drinking alcohol. At that time, I was frustrated with relying on alcohol as a coping mechanism to “blow off steam.”

I thought about the years of intermittent psychotherapy that helped me navigate several rough spots in my life, and I decided that it was time to apply some of the strategies that I have learned intentionally. For example, the practice of compartmentalizing my thoughts would allow the prioritization of loving memories and gratitude for my parents. And now, with my mom moving into assisted living, I could consciously create a separate “compartment” to contain the distress associated with her chronic health problems.

The words, “living with intention,” reverberated in my brain. In that moment, I decided to commit more time to having fun and trying new activities. To begin, I would prioritize practicing yoga regularly and attending writing and mixed media art workshops. I even planned to designate a space for crafting in my garage.

As my ironing task was nearing completion, I recognized that I needed to accept that the nature of addiction degrades human life by altering brain chemistry and hijacking the mind of the addict. Acceptance would mean that I stop fighting circumstances over which I have no control and start living more peacefully. Though I knew that some days would present setbacks, I promised to redirect myself with kindness and patience.

After all the labels were adhered, I meticulously folded each clothing item, putting far more effort into making the folds neat than I had ever done so before. Even though my mom could never see the perfect folds, I did it all the same with great love and care.