I hate smoking and really don’t care to be around smokers.

I lived with one.

Dad smoked for years and then quit for 15 years before he was diagnosed with cancer. I was engaged when Dad was diagnosed, many years after being divorced with twins from my first marriage.

Dad really liked my future husband and would often comment he wished he could be around to teach him to be a handyman, to help him with tasks around the house and to see him as the support figure as my twins grew up.

We were excited and scared. Would dad still be around for the wedding and would he be healthy enough to attend?

We spent hours in the hospital at his bedside as he waged his battle. There were trips to Erie and trips to this doctor and that, and treatment here and there.

Mornings before I would go to work I would sneak into the hospital and sit by his bed. Sometimes we talked, sometimes I just sat there.

He always knew I was there.

My role was difficult as I was his daughter and not his nurse — I wanted to make this right. I was the medical resource for the family and I was the one who should have had all the answers.

I did not.

I was no longer the fortress but now was on the sidelines waiting for the plays to be called out.

The wedding was changed many times so that we could be married in dad’s presence, and in the end we had our day with a beautiful wedding and honeymoon. The twins stayed with dad and mom.

The disease did not stop but proceeded on. The anguish that mom and dad carried was palpable as neither wanted to talk about what was to come next, and the burden was on me as a middleman.

I lament the time and effort they wasted in keeping up the façade until the day I told dad I was pregnant and he would be a grandfather. He looked at me and said, “I won’t be there.”