First let's get this out of the way...

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3m 3:02 Smoke-Free.
3,687 cigarettes NOT smoked.
$737.40 Money saved. 1w 5d 19:15 Life saved..

Wow...look at that. Looking back, I can't believe I've made it this far. I damn near sprained my arm patting myself on the back this morning.

Seriously, though. Has it been difficult? Yes it has...especially in the beginning. But is it worth it? Absolutely!!!!! For years, I had wanted to quit. I was ashamed of my smoking and yet was unable to summon the resolve required to commit to a new course of action. I would talk about it. I might even say that I was going to do it. But I never did.

Then my father died.

Dad had quit smoking several years ago, but unfortunately, the damage was done. The good news is that by quitting when he did, he added many years to his life. The bad news is that they weren't enough. As he lay in the hospital a few days before we said good-bye, he told me that there were still so many things he wanted to do. He had (finally!) made plans to retire within a year and was looking forward to taking his wife of 50-some years to Alaska to see the whales and do some birding. They were going to take a Caribbean cruise, go back to England, visit the continent again, and watch their grandchildren grow up.

Not anymore...now he is in the next world and his family is alone. His wife wanders through the rooms of the house they had shared since the mid-60's, often half-expecting to find him in one corner or another. Every room holds a thousand memories. Every day is an anniversary of one occasion or another.

In the mornings, she sometimes forgets and still makes breakfast for two before lowering her head in her hands and sobbing for all she's worth. Only half a person now, she limps along as best she can. In the morning, she puts on her brave face along with her make-up and tells us she's fine. But we know better. We miss him, too. And our own pain is a constant reminder of how she feels. Our loss is a shallow puddle compared to the depths of her ocean of misery.

Standing at my father's grave the day before his Birthday last month, we spoke - he and I. His spirit asks if I had kept my word. Yes, Dad, I have. I have not smoked since my Birthday. I could feel his smile as it warmed my heart like the afternoon sun. I tell him how life has been since the 1st of February when we had said good-bye. I apologize for taking so long to come visit the first time. He tells me it's OK...he still isn't really comfortable with this new existence either. It makes me laugh through my tears...just like now.

I tell him I am honored to share my anniversary with him. (Valentine's Day is the day he was interred, as well as the day Eva and I married.) He tells me the same. And he asks for my promise to look after Mom, to comfort her and watch over her. After our talk, I spread my offering and sing my song for him. I pray to the Great Mystery on his behalf, as well as my mother's. Wiping the tears away as best I can - and leaving my heart with him once again, I turn away.

And there stands my mother. A diminutive woman, she appears at this moment to be near to caving in on herself. Think of the Zen master disappearing into his belly button. But she is nearing no Nirvana. I can see the pain and sadness in her eyes. Like a lightning bolt, her loss slams into me and I can feel the empty chasm within her breast. No Nirvana this...she is crushed under the weight of her grief.

Like a small child, confused and afraid, she stands gazing at the ground that holds her lifelong love. I can see that she's remembering some time or another...reliving a cherished moment. A small spark lights her eye through the welling tears for a brief minute...and then it's gone.

Tentatively, she approaches the grave. She moves a dead leaf, then another. Placing the flowers at the headstone, she touches the marker with her right hand. After a few seconds that stretch like eons, she says - so softly that I can barely hear her - "I miss you." Then, in quiet dignity - honoring my father the only way she knows how - she stands and blinks the tears away. She smiles wanly and says 'I'm fine. Really. I'm all right." Sure...I can see that...

Yes, we're all fine. A pillar of strength has been ripped from our lives, but we're OK. The man that taught us the meaning of dignity, of courage, of living a life aligned with your highest goals, gone but certainly not forgotten. But we're fine dammit! It's all right, just give me a minute.

But we're not fine...none of us are. We still hurt daily. We still feel the loss and miss his wise example of what it means to truly live in this world. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of him. I still have so many questions to ask, so many stories to hear. And though I sit at my ceremony table and offer my prayers and "talk" with Dad, it just isn't the same. Close...but not the same.

It is unfortunate that my father had to die for me to see the damage I was doing to myself. But I am thankful that I finally opened my eyes to it. By quitting, I have given myself a happier, healthier, *longer* life to spend with those I love. And while there's still time, I'm going to take my mom to Alaska. Take my wife back to England and to visit the continent. Take a Caribbean cruise. Watch my daughter and her children grow. Take the time to enjoy every second of my life.

I have three full months under my belt. And I am grateful for every minute. I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world...anything. My heartfelt thanks to all of you that have helped me make it through this. Your support and humor have helped me more than you can know. Having read this, I hope that I have helped to strengthen your resolve.

Now, I am going to go dry my eyes and compose myself. And when I come
back...

Let the celebration begin!

Lane, QOF

© 2000 by Lane Baldwin

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