L.S.M.F.T.
I sit in a smoke-filled room, engulfed in second-hand smoke that my wife Mary will surely notice tonight, while 74-year old Dorothy wheezes and strains with each breath. Cigarettes are killing her, but she would rather die than not smoke, Edith confides.
Dorothy’s labored breathing sounds like an iron lung (I saw these when young–polio) that needs ball-bearings replaced. A short talk (“I love to talk” she says) exhausts her. She slips away, her eyes mostly closed while she struggles for oxygen.
I sit and look at her thinking of Susan Sarandon’s character in the movie “Shall We Dance”, explaining how we are here to witness each other's lives. I witness Dorothy, witness conversations about her, her life and her children– “three ducks lined-up along the west coast; San Diego, San Francisco and Seattle”.
What work it is for her to breath. The will to breath, to live, centers in her throat, contracting, pulling in air, chest rising up. Then the end of the intake, and silence fills the room for one brief “milli-moment” until the next breath.
I wonder why she continues to will to breath. What does she hang on to? Could it be her 48-year old daughter’s cancer and the planned trip to Denmark for an alternative cure?
Could it be for the next cigarette? Dorthy, just a slave to her master, a killer robbing her of life, killing for the sake of killing?
I can’t help but remember–I was young and heard it constantly–LSMFT: Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.
Dorothy’s labored breathing sounds like an iron lung (I saw these when young–polio) that needs ball-bearings replaced. A short talk (“I love to talk” she says) exhausts her. She slips away, her eyes mostly closed while she struggles for oxygen.
I sit and look at her thinking of Susan Sarandon’s character in the movie “Shall We Dance”, explaining how we are here to witness each other's lives. I witness Dorothy, witness conversations about her, her life and her children– “three ducks lined-up along the west coast; San Diego, San Francisco and Seattle”.
What work it is for her to breath. The will to breath, to live, centers in her throat, contracting, pulling in air, chest rising up. Then the end of the intake, and silence fills the room for one brief “milli-moment” until the next breath.
I wonder why she continues to will to breath. What does she hang on to? Could it be her 48-year old daughter’s cancer and the planned trip to Denmark for an alternative cure?
Could it be for the next cigarette? Dorthy, just a slave to her master, a killer robbing her of life, killing for the sake of killing?
I can’t help but remember–I was young and heard it constantly–LSMFT: Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.
Two days later...The duty nurse from hospice called about 8am this morning to tell me Dorothy died at 5am. I said “Thank God”.
