My mother told me a few months after dad's death that he had often been distraught at what he felt was a self-inflicted illness. For me this was such an awful way for my father to approach the end of his life, especially a life which had provided so much joy to so many people. It is hard for me to admit, but I have felt angry with my dad since his death, because in a way he was right; it was self-inflicted. If he hadn't started smoking, or if he had given up in his twenties, thirties or even forties, I'm certain we would still be enjoying his glorious company today and for many years to come. However, it is not as simple as that.