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His father's heart

The excerpt from Steve McKee's book, "My father's heart" in today's Wall St. Journal was riveting. I thought I'd forgotten most of that phase of Dad's life. How different it could have been for our family if he hadn't quit when he started to cough up blood.

On Sept. 30, 1969, 16-year-old Steve McKee watched his father die of a heart attack on the couch in their TV room. A lifelong smoker, John McKee had already been stricken by a heart attack six years earlier. But, unable to quit his three-pack-a-day habit, he made no lifestyle changes that might have prolonged his life. Deeply disappointed by his father's seeming surrender to cardiovascular disease, Mr. McKee -- now an editor at The Wall Street Journal -- set out to find the man who died before his son could know him. With this memoir, he sought to find a measure of understanding for his father, and anyone affected by smoking and heart disease. . . .

My father and my father-in-law both stopped smoking cold turkey as they began to move beyond the line of two packs a day. Dad was probably 36 or 37 when he began to cough blood; my husband's father was older, maybe in his 50s when one night out with his friends he started to open that third pack, he put it down and quit. My dad lived to 89; my husband's dad to 91; my husband's step-father, also a very heavy smoker who didn't quit, to 75; my husband's step-mother, also a smoker, died at 71 of lung cancer. All began smoking in their teens and really enjoyed it.

"My sister Kathy and I woke up every morning to the sounds of the same alarm clock: Dad's cough, his cigarette hack. Breath in. Pause. HACK. (Catch) Cough. They came in stanzas--three, four, five at a time, the second-to-last always the biggest crescendo." writes McKee

Oh, I remember that cough. We children had never known anything else but Dad's coughing. And the blue haze everywhere in the house if he was home. In those days, I didn't find the smell unpleasant like I do now. It was always a mix of after shave, hair cream, cigarettes and fuel oil. But what must my mother have thought? Neither of her parents smoked. Her mother was a health-nut--wouldn't even eat red meat, and she was always airing out the house.

Dad told me 40 years later that he wanted a cigarette for 20 years. When I was younger, I didn't think about that too much. But now I'm in awe of his focus, drive and determination. He was not always a pleasant person to be around when I was growing up. I wonder now if he just wanted a cigarette, if his head hurt, his eyes burned and his skin crawled for nicotine. My parents weren't social like McKee's parents. Dad dealt with people all day, 12 hours a day and a houseful of noisy children at night. And all the while, craving a cigarette, knowing that would take the edge off.

I won't be reading the book, but I'll remember it could have been me.

Link to the review is here.