During my childhood
and adolescence my dad was a heavy smoker. And as anyone and everyone in our
generation is well aware, inhaling tobacco smoke
…isn’t especially good for a living organism.
…isn’t especially good for a living organism.
Well before
the Surgeon General of the United States issued his warning against cigarette
smoke, I was already all too aware that wispy white fog which emanated from the
end of that nasty brown weed had the wherewithal to kill the person who was
stupid enough to suck on the stuff. (Not unlike the infantile habit of sucking a
pacifier. At least, that childish habit isn’t hazardous to one’s health).
I mean, all
it took for me to understand the foregoing cold hard fact was my father’s daily
response to the crap with which he was filling his lungs.
He coughed.
A lot.
As a matter
of fact, after having smoked one or two cigarettes first thing in the morning,
he would summarily visit the “throne room” and my mother, siblings and I would
be entertained with several minutes of the grossest audio of spitting and
spewing and gagging emanating from behind that closed door that you can even
imagine. And then the sound of a toilet flushing. (And then, God forbid,
sometimes the cycle would repeat itself).
I never
noticed any particular personal respiratory inhibition, as a teen and young
man, but since that time, and as I have reached the grand old age of 2/3 of a
century, I have experienced a decidedly unpleasant sensation in my lungs.
Granted, I’m still among the land of the living, but a doctor once told me he
detected some congestion there, and I have found myself
Coughing and
gagging and spitting and spewing, (and generally not having a very good time)
for the
space of several moments in order to clear the mucus from my throat and lungs.
Sounds a lot
like what my dad used to do; half a century hence.
Second hand
smoke.
Thanks Dad,
I needed this.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 16. Copyright pending.
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