Save your lungs, save your life…If you can’t stop smoking, cancer will…anti-smoking campaigns and slogans are ever-abundant. We go to school to learn about the ill-effects it has on our bodies and on our pockets.

But trying to convince a smoker to quit is impossible, or very close to it. There are, I believe, two types of smokers in the world. The first repeatedly ‘attempts’ to give up, but always end up giving IN until the next time around. The second are of the opinion that it’s their body, they enjoy it, and something has to kill them eventually anyway.

I don’t know which is worse, but I live with both. Sigh. Mum is a classic example of Smoker Type #1. Her boyfriend, Darryl, an exemplary #2. Whenever Miss #1 tries to give up, Mister #2 offers no support WHATSOEVER, going so far as to offer her one. Meanwhile, I beat my head against a wall in the corner because he sees absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Since about Year 1, when we received our first lecture on the ills of smoking, my brother and I had tried to convince our parents to give up. No such luck. They just laughed and shrugged it off, and agreed that they probably should, and don’t you two ever start.

Well, guess what? I don’t want this to turn into some sob story, but when I was eight Dad was admitted to hospital for the first time in his life, at the age of 45. They didn’t know why, but after running around between various doctors and specialists and hospitals and even cities, we got the diagnosis: lung cancer. Surprise, surprise.

So we rushed back to our hometown for treatment. Chemo, radiotherapy…the works. For six months I watched my own father slowly decline. He couldn’t eat much at all. We lived off casseroles. They gave him countless medicines, and their names made it into my spelling lists. His legs grew weaker and he was confined to the couch in the lounge room, where he once burned a hole in the rug smoking a cigarette because yes, he was still smoking. He could only see with one eye and wore sunglasses with one lens covered over. He had to inject chemicals into himself every night. He was the first in our city to receive a stent, and had to add blood thinners to his list of medicines. Mum had to keep a Word document full of his various treatments so that we didn’t lose track of them.

In June 2004, he was admitted to hospital. My brother and I were at our grandparents’ house when we received the call. It turned out, upon further examination, that he was bleeding internally. He could only just breathe. It was a matter of days before we were told that there was nothing we could do. A week passed, and at an ungodly hour of the morning on June 23, he stopped breathing.

I awoke that morning at 4am. The phone was ringing, I could hear hushed voices in the next room and I knew what was happening. I didn’t move, only laid there until a car pulled into the driveway and my grandfather came into my room to tell me it was over, that we should get ready to go down to the hospital.

The next week was filled with hugs and tears and well-meaning relatives and far too much casserole and lasagne. And do you know what I found out? When my Dad was dying, he asked the nurses to take him out onto the balcony so he could have a cigarette. They did. And I love him with all my heart, but I don’t think I can ever fully forgive him for that.

Mum still smokes. Her new boyfriend does too. But I described that already. I don’t want pity, or sympathy. I’ve had enough of that, and I’ve dealt with it. So I guess the reason for this post was to get a message out there, in the hopes that it might provide motivation or a much-needed wake up call for someone.

There is more to it than the anti-smoking ads you see on television. There are real people involved. If you want to smoke, then go ahead. But only if there is absolutely no one in this world who would miss you, who would be upset to see you gone. It’s not fair on them.