Cheated out of a dad
Was my dad's five-year struggle with cancer penance enough for his choice to smoke? Absolutely. Do I still resent him for that choice? I do, and never so much as when I'm placing a birthday cake in front of one of his grandchildren and he's not there to take his signature out-of-focus photos. When my third baby was born last spring, one of my first thoughts in those early exhilarating minutes of her life was, Look what you missed — which surprised me. Hadn't I already cycled through the stages of grief? How did such a joyous moment land me smack-dab in the middle of mourning him once again?

There are other times when my feelings of being cheated out of a dad border on rage: when I coax a fire into burning without the help of a Duraflame log; both times the Red Sox won the World Series; and whenever Sue Grafton publishes a new book and I have nobody to give it to. Sure, I'm angry with my father. If he hadn't smoked, he'd still be here. When a friend is diagnosed with cancer, I tell this father of three about my dad's positive experience at the same hospital where he's starting treatment.

Of course, he asks how my dad is doing. "Actually, he died," I say, wishing I hadn't gone down this road. "But he smoked," I add. "What did he expect?"

My father was the least judgmental person I've ever met — truly, ever — so when I think someone is judging him (especially when that person is me), I feel both ashamed and bereft. When my own children ask me why their grandfather died — always at some inopportune moment, such as when I'm placing a large order at Starbucks — I don't sugarcoat the answer: "Because he smoked." But then, impatient barista be damned, I remind my daughter, Louisa — at 7, the oldest of my brood and the family's inaugural grandchild — how she used to love following her grandfather around his garden, drenching the plants with her own little watering can until they were flat on the ground. I want all my children to understand that smoking is not the sum total of anyone's life, especially my dad's.

I recently moved to a new town, where I'm slowly making friends. When one of them comments on the riot of impatiens on my patio, I mention that all my flowers are planted in my dad's old potting soil. These bags of dirt, lugged from their semifinal resting place behind my old tricycle into the trunk of my new minivan, are an unlikely legacy from what we called the Garden of Egan.

"So your dad died?" my friend asks. I say he died of throat cancer. Then I launch into my spiel — anything to forestall the Question. "He was sick for a long time; he died at home in his favorite chair a few hours after the series finale of "Sex and the City"; my mom is doing well; she's the belle of her church choir, thanks for asking."

But smoking never comes up, which is how I know this friend is a keeper. Instead, she asks, "What was your dad like?" Why can't everyone ask this question? Answering it is a joy; it's the next best thing to having him back again.