Often the subject of,
or original source of, many of my QOTW replies, my dad was a heavy smoker for 40+ years.

Just like smokers (or any drug-user, really) think, I too thought 'nothing bad will happen to MY dad'. To my shame, I even brought him rolling tobacco back from Spain, reasoning 'well, at least I know it's the real deal and not some fake crap swept up off a factory floor'. And 'at least it's saving him money'.

Back in August '07 he turned 65, and was well for it. Or so we thought. I'll never, ever forget him phoning me that day in November telling me he'd gone blind in one eye. I was at home, 20 miles from him, it was 10pm. I can't drive, and I panicked. He refused to call 999, didn't want to bother them. I begged him to call NHS Direct and he agreed. He rang me back ten minutes later saying a nurse would call him 'in the next two hours'. I said I'd get off the line.

An hour later, I was still very worried, so I called him. No reply. I started to panic at this point. 'If he doesn't answer in five minutes', I said to my fiance, 'I'm calling an ambulance'. (My dad's brother lives over the road, so he might have been over there).

I called a few minutes later and the phone (he only has a mobile) answered. 'Dad', I was shouting. 'DAD'. All I could hear were awful, sad groaning sounds. I was in shock at this point, I could hear the paramedics and a beeping machine, and then my aunt picked up the phone. 'We've found him on the floor', she said. 'He can't talk. Get to Pontefract A&E'.

I started to become hysterical. My fiance helped me get dressed and called a friend to go to the hospital, some 25 miles away.

That ride, in the dark, was and will continue to be the single worst moment of my life. I had no idea if my dad was alive or dead.

We got to the hospital and I was shown to a small room. My dad was inside, alone, stripped to the waist, covered in pads and wires and a breathing mask. I was, of course, overwhelmed to find he was alive, and awake, but he couldn't speak, could barely see, just made terrible, sad groaning sounds.

For the next ten days I was at his side in that hospital, losing two stone in weight and aging five years. He'd had a stroke, the years of smoking had narrowed a major artery in his neck, causing a clot to move to his brain.

My dad, once this infallible, brick wall of a man, lay in the hospital bed, unable to visit the loo, feed himself, speak or read. I cried in the hospital toilets, over and over, especially when he couldn't say my name. For weeks, communication was via a series of yes/no questions followed by grunts. It seemed unlikely he'd ever be able to live alone again, and I researched giving up my job to care for him full-time.

That was nearly six months ago. Now, he is back to 90% of his speech on a good day. He does get things mixed up (a common side-effect of a stroke), like the cooker and the fridge. (Edited to add - only when talking about them! He doesn't put chips in the freezer to cook!) He occasionally gets my name wrong, or wonky, but we laugh about that now. He walks with a stick, but is pretty independent. He can speak on the phone and go to the shops. He's blind in one eye, but as he says 'I've got the other'.

My dad will never be the same again, but I'm so happy he's the way he is, if that's all we get, we'll take it. He never said 'I'll never smoke again', because he couldn't speak. He simply got home, threw away anything remotely smoking-related, and washed out his glass ashtray. He now keeps mints in it.

I can't make people stop smoking and this story isn't a 'scare tactic' or anything. It was my dad's choice to smoke, and back then, it was promoted as making you strong and healthy. When people talk about smoking, I just can't understand why they do it - it's smelly, it's addictive, and it's bloody expensive. But each to their own. I'm just so fucking glad my dad is here.
(Northern Lovely, Thu 20 Mar 2008, 13:48, Reply)