Jack’s lung cancer diagnosis in January 2016 confirmed what I’d always feared — it seemed likely he would die before we’d had enough time together. He smoked two packs a day, ate a remarkable amount of cured meat and candy, and got nearly no exercise (although he’d argue the latter point). We regularly debated what would take him to the finish line with bets on cancer, it having killed his dad at age 61. 

Sometimes he’d spend the night at the shop to catch up on work or he’d get tangled in the web of a Netflix show, unable to leave his computer. “You OK?” I’d ask, phoning him at 4 am from a too-empty bed, fearing the worst. 

“Still alive,” he’d respond and laugh. 

I felt guilty to be so obsessed with his impending death. When I think back I realize it was self-preservation. By playing his death out in my mind, I’d be better prepared when it happened. And I was.  

More than guilt, I felt angry he had such little regard for himself and our relationship that he would live so recklessly. The anger has been harder to get over.  

The smoking continued despite the cancer diagnosis and it came close to splitting us up.  The treatment was successful in 2016 and doctors said there was a chance he could be cured - very cautious optimism. Their message was clear though: if he continued to smoke, the cancer would metastasize and eventually kill him. 

It seemed so easy to me: “Quit the fucking cigarettes,” I’d say time and again, sometimes aloud. I didn’t have patience for what just seemed like a complete lack of discipline. Lots of people - including me - had quit smoking. Why wouldn’t he try?  

Jack was torn between two extremes: on one hand, he liked being a bad boy - smoking, drinking, eating salt, eating sugar, not wearing a seat belt, driving much too fast, walking only as far as the truck every day - these were his essence. He sure wasn’t boring! On the other hand, he wanted to hang around to see where our relationship took us, see his kids make their way in the world, see his grandkids grow up, complete the projects on the house, see more of the world, host more parties, and become old together.  He was conscious of the incompatibility of these extremes. 

The conscious Jack though wasn’t in control. Since Jack died in 2018, I’ve worked hard to better appreciate how addiction controlled Jack. It made quitting an insurmountable challenge, especially when coupled with the perfectionism that cursed him.

“I didn’t smoke for four hours today,” he’d report proudly from time to time. 

He’d pause and add, “But then I had one.” 

“That’s great,” I’d reply with mixed emotions. “What made you finally have one?” I’d have to ask.  

“I was scared I’d fail at quitting.” 

Jack was not good at being bad at things and he was a remarkably good smoker. His perfectionism interfered with him trying things. I tried to teach him to play the piano but it was a disaster - he expected too much of himself. The urge to be the best at everything held him back from having bigger career dreams. The only part of his life he ever accepted would be less than perfect was his ability to speak and write English, but to his last day, he worked hard to improve that too. 

I know now quitting smoking wasn’t ever in the cards. Three hours before his medically assisted death on November 19, 2018, his daughter shot a final video of him.  He was at his computer in his robe watching a music video and smoking. With his mental capacity slipping, I had started doling out his cigarettes on demand so we would stay safe. He turned to his daughter filming him and angrily put up two fingers, the message: “Give me two more.”  

That image breaks my heart.