When my father was diagnosed with end-stage esophageal cancer, I'll never forget what a (very) distant acquaintance who lived in the same apartment building said to me. I ran into her in the hallway and she said that she had heard about my dad's illness and she was very sorry. Thank you, I said, so am I. Then she asked the question.

"Did he smoke?" Thud went my heart, as it sank.

I believe there is a difference between policy and people. As a nation we should do all that we can from a public health perspective to reduce the risk of cancer, including encouraging and offering incentives to people to improve their health through lifestyle changes, including quitting smoking.

However, when it comes down to the individual level, to a real-life person, does it really matter if someone who is afflicted with cancer puffed away or ate crummy food or drank themselves silly? Do we still not hope and pray for their recovery? Do we not mourn them if they die?

Back to the question. The one stopped me in my tracks as I acted my way through my day in the fog of anticipatory grief.

"Did he smoke?"

Looking back, maybe she was just curious.

Or maybe she was seeking reassurance.

Reassurance that the monster that is cancer wouldn't happen to her, wouldn't kill someone she loved.

That I couldn't give her, regardless of my answer.