Dear Mortality

If you've had the bad luck of being told by reputable doctors you may not live to a certain age, then you'll know what I'm mean when I say the actual, physical design of your brain is changed from dealing with the news.

I'm 49 years old, will be 50 in April. Doctors told me in 2013 if I didn't quit smoking there was a alarmingly high-percentage chance I wouldn't live to see my 60s. I'd had a massive heart attack that later required triple-bypass heart surgery in 2017. 

For a month and a half, I was able to stay away from the Marlboros. Then, small step by small step, I started to sneak to smoke. At the time, our budget was tight, so I couldn't spend money on cigarettes or it would be noticeable to our bottom line. I'd eventually have to confess to explain where the money had gone. 

So I found cigarette butts in public places.

Yep, nicotine creates a powerful addiction. The last time I did it was about three days before I finally admitted I had started smoking again. I was on my way to work at about 4:30 AM and passed Walmart.

The parking lot was abandoned, a strange state to find the superpower retailer. I took the next turn and drove to the parking lot and walked to the front doors to find in the ash tray receptacle (don't now what they're actually called) a nearly full cigarette someone must have lit as they were going in and tossed out soon afterwards. I picked that thing up and smoked it, cherishing every fine second, giving no thought at all to what kind of sickness I could be exposing myself to whatsoever.

I'm still that addicted, and my last cigarette has to be before midnight on April 22.