I woke up one morning with my face planted in a couch cushion and my ass pointed to the ceiling. As soon as I gained consciousness I panicked. Unaware of where I was or who I was at the moment. A friend called me almost a second later to remind me to return equipment. Bless his soul, he brought me back to a sobering reality. I had a half hour to return equipment. I tried to move swiftly and that nearly led to a broken glass table and a migraine. I was still a bit dizzy, and then I noticed a grimy, earthy feeling in my mouth. Like I ate a bowl of charcoal for breakfast.

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I rushed to the nearest bathroom and washed my mouth as thoroughly as I could. I noticed an inexplicable stench of cigarettes that followed me everywhere. I noticed that it came from the collar of my jacket; the first time my habit followed me to the morning after. It began to trigger gagging reflexes as I wished to never see a cigarette again.

( Photo source )I finally escaped the smoky apartment and entered a white, wet city of snow and cotton tree branches. Its unexpected quality was mesmerizing. I walked for a bit and noticed a strained and raspiness in my throat and lungs. I coughed and grunted and eventually reduced its severity like usual. But at that moment on the corner of Classon and Dekalb, I considered the possibility of onset lung cancer. An exaggeration of course, but still a possibility. I remembered my relatives that died from lung cancer. Specifically, my grandmother who died in her early 40s leaving a father, three children and my 12-year-old father forever grieving.

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I vividly imagined, still standing at the corner, of a terrifying annual check up. I am called into the doctor's office leaving my smiling mother and brother behind with assurance that I am healthy and sturdy like I always was.The doctor conducts the normal check-up, asking me questions about my social life that I will never admit. Then he draws blood and collects my urine sample and off I go with my family. The next day we get a call from the office suggesting that we come in immediately. I panic with accurate anticipation and fight to hide it from my equally panicking family. They call me into the office alone. A concerned doctor in his bright lab coat enters with a spreadsheet and a sigh. He fixes his glasses and procrastinates until I finally get an answer out of him. Devastation. Crying. The realization that my life will forever be chained to cancer; a life fighting against the falling grains of the hourglass. Then I reveal the news to my family. My mother nearly faints, my eight-year-old brother looks at me with his innocent eyes in confusion and my father grasps me tightly secretly and mistakenly blaming his family genetics. I may never live long enough to win my first Oscar or film festival selection. I may never live long enough to get married and have kids. I may never live long enough to enjoy my parents grow old together and host holiday gatherings like they enjoyed their parents doing.

I finally left the corner after one last vision, one damning thought. My 42-year-old body lowered six feet under as my wife and kids cry over me. My 12-year-old son, with the same face as my father, wondering how he is supposed to be the man of the house. This bad habit of mine is recent and perhaps minor but tobacco and alcohol don't necessarily let you live normally.