How a Cancer Survivor Enjoys a Good Cigar
Am I living a contradiction?
Many moons ago, I was at a bar in my hometown shooting pool with some buddies. This place had a real Road House vibe. The beer was cheap, the owner was a drunk, and the fights were frequent — you know the place. I lined up on the cue ball and puffed on my cigar. Tommy, a guy we’d gone to high school with years before, materialized through the haze and asked me what the hell I was doing.
I hadn’t seen this guy in years and I had no idea what he was talking about. He said he’d watched me suffer through chemotherapy when we were teenagers, and that me wasting away, going pale as a ghost, and losing my hair had made him look at his own life and make some big decisions. According to him, he’d stopped smoking cigarettes and made a lot of other changes after seeing what I’d gone through.
Of course, I had no idea about any of this. Tommy had no problems telling me that watching me survive cancer, only to catch me destroying my health years later by smoking cigars was a huge disappointment to him. I took it. He wasn’t wrong.
What could I say? I didn’t bother comparing cigars to cigarettes. There was no point. For the record, what I do is my own business, and I owe no explanations to anyone. I’ll enjoy my cigars, fruity cocktails, and dance the fucking Lambada…
