My dad was, quite simply, the definition of a chain-smoker. And he was a doctor, which made his addiction an unforgivable hypocrisy in my mind as a child. As I grew older, I realized things weren’t so black and white — however, my breaking point came when he became so ill that he needed to be in the hospital, needed a wheelchair and an oxygen tank, and still insisted on being wheeled downstairs for a smoke. One time, he lit up in his hospital room, inviting a visit from the hospital manager and a security guard. I still blush when I think of it.