He didn’t realize that while his lungs might be fine, I was suffering from the effects of secondhand smoke. Just a month ago, I was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer, but I kept it from him to avoid causing him worry. Every time I coughed in his presence, he dismissed it as me being overly dramatic. Tonight, I reached my breaking point. I flung open the door and yelled at him, “Smoking, smoking, smoking—why don’t you just smoke yourself to death? If you want to smoke, go outside!”
I grabbed the table lamp from the bedside and threw it at him before slamming the bedroom door shut. As I collapsed onto the bed, I heard him cursing and slamming the door before storming out. Tears continued to fall, mingling with the harsh coughing fits. I pulled out a tissue to cover my mouth and, with shaking hands, turned on the light. When I looked at the tissue, it was stained with blood.