I hate cigarettes

Sharing a story I recently wrote for a 'story slam' because someone asked me if I had a copy.

I hate cigarettes. They’ve ruined my life, even though I’ve never smoked a single one. The smell to this day triggers both nostalgia and a strong urge to vomit. Cigarettes are my worst enemy and at the same time a reminder of everything my parents went through to give our family a better life—one they never got to fully enjoy themselves.

Growing up in Chicago, where winters are unforgivingly cold, I’d leave my bedroom window slightly open each night—even with sub-zero temperatures—just to keep the smoke from my dad’s cigarettes away. I’d wear multiple layers of clothes and shiver under my blankets, desperate to mask the smell. Before I even learned in school that secondhand smoke was dangerous, it made me nauseous. As I learned more about the risks, my anger at my dad grew. Still, each night he’d light another cigarette, and another. For over fifty years, he smoked at least a pack a day.

Back then, I thought he was selfish. I resented him for exposing our family to something I believed would eventually kill him—or maybe all of us. I was also mad at my mom for tolerating it. College or really any career wasn’t on my radar at the time; in my neighborhood, many kids didn’t even finish high school. My parents (not citizens at the time) didn’t speak English or have a formal education—my dad hadn’t even finished high school. He worked any job he could find—construction, plumbing—while my mom worked (and still works) as a maid. I chalked up his smoking to a lack of scientific understanding, which ironically fueled my own interest in biology and science.

Before starting high school, I applied to be a golf caddie—(Illinois allows 13+ year olds to caddie). My original motive was to earn money and save, thinking it might help me leave home sooner.

But being a caddie meant arriving at the golf course before 5 a.m., so you’d get picked for a round before more experienced caddies claimed all the spots

To my surprise, my dad offered to drive me—even though he usually left at 6 a.m. for his own work. He started waking up earlier for me, and then put in a 16-hour day himself, never once complaining.

It was then I realized that maybe I was the one who had been selfish after all. I saw how cigarettes were his way of coping with the stress of daily life—waking up before sunrise, working late into the night. All I focused on before was my own discomfort. I used to think I had to parent him, but I never really saw his perspective.

I worked as a caddie for several summers before heading to college. During that time, my dad’s health declined. He was too weak to work and still refused to see a doctor, fearing deportation because he wasn’t a U.S. citizen. I had basically given up begging him to quit smoking, but seeing him so frail made me try one last time. This time, he listened.

The moment I had longed for turned out to be heartbreaking—he looked defeated, and it wasn’t satisfying at all.

Eventually, I left Chicago for college at Cornell —a dream I hadn’t even envisioned a few years earlier. Soon after, my dad got worse. His heart was failing, his lungs filled with fluid. I suspected lung cancer, but because he had no insurance or medical history, doctors prioritized his heart issues. They placed a stent, which helped briefly, but in 2020 he had a stroke. That’s when they found cancer had spread throughout his body—originating in his lungs, just as I’d feared.

I remember standing with him in the hospital, hearing the doctor say he was dying. After I translated the news to him, he looked at me and simply said “papierosy,” which is Polish for cigarettes. We both started laugh-crying, acknowledging how tragic yet inevitable it was.

I’m not sharing this story for pity— I genuinely love my life and wouldn’t change it. But I also know that many people go through a similar journey, feeling like they have to babysit or parent their own parents. It can be a lonely, confusing experience. I’ve learned how important it is to talk about these hard things, both the heartbreak and the inspiration they can bring. If it weren’t for my dad, I might not have pushed myself academically, discovered my love for science, or found my current path in life.

Sharing stories doesn’t erase the pain, but it helps us realize we’re not alone.

Especially with the uncertainty in the world today it’s important to realize we’re all human and going through many different experiences — it’s really easy to lose perspective.