Day Five

It is 8:16 a.m. I have already smoked three of my remaining five cigarettes. Ostensibly I’m supposed to save the final two in case I go crazy from cravings. I need to come up with more good reasons to quit because already I can feel myself weakening. It would be so easy to jump into my car, shoot over to the 7-11 and buy another carton. So easy. 

My nose is blocked, permanently. I cough up phlegm regularly (which is really disgusting). I worry about every little thing that goes wrong with my body: heartburn, indigestion, hives, constipation, diarrhea, toothaches, nausea, breathlessness, and minor aches and pains. I worry about things that have not yet happened: lazy eye, bronchitis, smoker’s cough, coughing up blood, cancer, heart attacks, and emphysema. The biggest fear I have is that my secondhand smoke will kill my sister or my parents, as we all live in the same house. 

I want another cigarette; I want it now. 

OK, I have my cigarette. I can continue. 

Why, you may ask yourself, isn’t she using one of the crutches now available on the market? There are nicotine patches, nicotine gum, prescription drugs to ease the cravings, hypnosis, laser treatments, and support groups. 

The gum and patches are out. If I’m going to take nicotine into my body, I want to enjoy it—I want the damned cigarette! Bad attitude, but that’s the way it is. The drugs available to help quit smoking clash with my current psychiatric meds. In fact, my psychiatrist informed me that if I can’t quit while taking my current meds, none of the new drugs will help me to do so. I have no doubt in my mind that hypnosis and laser treatments would fail, simply because I know I want my cigarettes. No one is going to convince me consciously or subconsciously that I don’t want to smoke. And I am certain support groups would do nothing for me. I already have lots of support. I am the only one in this house who smokes. None of my friends smoke. I’m actually getting reverse peer pressure; that is, my friends are always asking me when I’m going to quit smoking.  

And we’ve gone full circle and are back to vanity. I don’t want to look old before my time. My nonsmoking sister is one year older than I, and already I look two years older than she does. That bothers me. Vanity, personal health-related anxiety, and the secondhand smoke issue are the only tools I have that can help me to quit smoking. I wonder if they’re enough.  (I have one cigarette left.) 

I drink 10 cups of coffee a day, minimum. Coffee and cigarettes, my favorite combination. Do I need to cut down on my coffee intake in order to quit smoking? Probably. I’m not what you’d call a social smoker. Going out to a bar or restaurant does not make me smoke more than the usual. But coffee and cigarettes—heaven on earth! 

One left and all I can think is that I want to smoke it now accompanied by a fresh cup of coffee. 

I’m a Virgo. We’re supposed to be the clean living, health conscious types. How did I stray so far from my basic makeup? I’m pretty sure that depression played a major role in my commencing to smoke. Back when I was a teenager, I didn’t really care if I were to die young. Aging changes everything! The older I get, the more I want to live, the more I fear death. 

My aunt is a Virgo. She quit smoking using the cold turkey method. She has succeeded admirably. She has not had so much as a puff of a cigarette since she quit.   

Do I have any quitting strategies in place? I don’t want to replace smoking with some other habit: chewing gum, eating mints, eating too much of anything. I do plan on drinking a lot of water. My main strategy is this book. That last cigarette is gone—I smoked it. 

I am keeping this manuscript in a pink folder, which is no accident. Pink is the color my lungs should be. I’ve been wearing a lot of grey colors this past year to remind myself that grey is the color of my poor, battered lungs. I do have one more strategy: sleep. 

The governor has issued me a reprieve.  (I went and bought another carton of cigarettes. I’m going to try that weaning thing again.)

Day Four & Three-Quarters

I thought I was done for the day, but then I remembered something my dad used to say: “Don’t smoke your cigarettes to the butt. The part near the butt is the worst part for you.”  So I interpreted that as meaning that it is perfectly healthy to smoke as long as you don’t smoke your cigarettes to the butt! No butts about it!  (Aargh, really bad pun.)

I am frugal and that’s putting it mildly. Would I waste two millimeters of a cigarette? Uh-uh. Noooo, I smoke my cigarettes in full. If for some reason I must stop smoking prior to finishing my cigarette, I carefully extinguish the flame and save the rest of the smoke for later, at which time I smoke it to the butt. 

Is there any one reason that I consider a valid reason to quit? Yes, really, there’s only one: vanity. At 38 the lines on my face are getting clearer and clearer, and I find myself obsessing over things like anti-wrinkle creams, skin rejuvenators, ways to hide the fucking lines! We live in a youth-oriented culture, ain’t no doubt about it. And people have assessed my age at as low as 29, but I think they’re being generous. I see the lines and I don’t lie to myself. I have the bathroom from hell to deal with, though. The lighting in my bathroom makes a pore look like a canyon, so you can imagine what a laugh line looks like. Either I quit smoking now or I start a facelift fund. I don’t have children—no college funds to deal with. Yes, a facelift fund. Banks should offer RVFFs, Registered Vanity Facelift Funds, that come complete with tax incentives.  (And when you stop to think about it, to consider the tax dollars the government squeezes out of us, we smokers should get a tax break somewhere along the line!)

I wonder how many people I have upset or offended at this point. Don’t worry. Those niggling health hazards are still buzzing around my brain, and I have but 12 cigarettes remaining in my “last pack.”  Think of this as my requiem for cigarettes. How poetic is that?

Day Four

Day four already! That means I have one pack left from my carton. What to do, what to do? 

As usual, at this point in my decision to quit smoking upon finishing my carton, I end up debating whether or not I shall go out and buy another carton. And it is obvious that to date I have succumbed to the cravings. 

So here’s my thinking. I’ll buy just one more carton, and I shall smoke half a pack a day instead of a full pack. Isn’t that good enough? That’s my thinking. My reality is that if I buy another carton, I will continue to smoke a pack a day and nothing will change. 

Why do I want to quit? Those damned antismoking commercials have gotten to me. I suffer from anxiety attacks that I know are directly related to my bad habit. Lately, I feel winded if I climb stairs or take a long walk. Sometimes I feel as if I’m breathing but not getting any oxygen into my lungs. Also, my resting heart rate is high. One side effect of my medications is an increased heart rate; however, my resting rate has always been dangerously high. Even when I was a teenager, my gym teacher told me to do half of what the rest of my class was doing. Any aerobic exercise rendered my heart rate at over 200 beats per minute, which is smack dab in the heart attack zone. 

Do you remember Dick York? He was the original Darrin on Bewitched. He spent many years in a hospital bed plagued by emphysema. I remember Dick York. I remember and I am scared. Out of all the smoking-related illnesses, emphysema scares me the most. I think anxiety attacks are akin to brief bouts of emphysema. But anxiety attacks end.   

I am a hypochondriac. I go to my GP four or more times a year so he can check my breathing, my throat, any lump or bump. If I get a hive, I think it’s the onset of a cancerous cyst. I am consumed with constant worry that I shall die any minute now as a direct result of my smoking. 

Worry, worry, worry—that’s all I ever do. I am almost a prisoner in my own home because I’m terrified that I’m going to set the house on fire with a careless cigarette. When I do foray out into the world, I have a ritual I must first follow. I empty every trash can and ashtray (first pouring water over all the butts) into a big garbage bag, which I then place outside at a distance far enough away from the house that if a fire were to start within the bag, the house would be safe. Next, I walk around the house over and over and over again looking for smoke. Finally, before I exit the house, I must wait at least 20 minutes from the time I’ve taken out the garbage bag so I’m certain that the bag cannot start a fire. And then I . . . don’t leave. I walk around the house over and over and over again, and then at long last I step outside. Here’s where it gets really nutty: more often than not, I go back inside the house and walk around it once more to make one final check. And for the entire time I am away from the house, I worry that I’m going to return to a pile of ashes. 

I have a beautiful nephew, Jordan, who turned two in June. I hate the idea that he is watching me smoke. I hate the idea that he may one day smoke because of my example. Most of all, I hate the notion that I could die young and miss seeing him grow up. 

Here in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, cartons consisting of 200 cigarettes now cost $69, tax included. So the cost is prohibitive, definitely, yet so far I have managed to swing my usual four cartons a month. Who needs food anyway? And clothing? I have clothes that date back to the ’80s! Cigarettes have always come first. 

Just now I recalled telling a former employer that I would quit smoking when the cost of a carton exceeded $20. I don’t even remember when the cost exceeded $20, but I’m sure it must have been in the late ’80s. Of course, when the twenty-dollar mark was attained, I swore I would quit at $40 per carton. Next, I swore that I would quit at the current price. Promises, promises . . . 

So why haven’t I quit? What is it about cigarettes that keeps me coming back for more? Deep down, I think it’s the rebellious nature of smoking that appeals to me. I do what I do! I like being a rebel (or playing at being a rebel). Freedom, that’s it. In smoking, I exercise my freedom. Smoking is one of the few things I do that gives me a true feeling of being free. I realize equating cigarettes with freedom is not smart or wise or politically correct, but that’s me. That’s how I feel. 

Is it possible to be both free and addicted at the same time? Being me, I would say that I am freely addicted to smoking. Make of it what you will. 

I’ve got 16 cigarettes remaining in my last pack. I am smoking one right now, and it occurs to me that I’m letting my precious little joy stick burn out in the ashtray! Screw that! Cigarette now dangling between my lips as I smoke, I can continue. 

About a month ago, I noticed a small lump along the lower, bottom, inside gum of my first molar. Paranoid, ever paranoid, I immediately went to see my dentist. He examined the lump, x-rayed the tooth and pronounced it (paraphrasing here), “Nothing, a natural occurrence of no consequence.”  So naturally I check my gum line daily to see if the lump is still present, and it is. This benign lump is what scared me into thinking about quitting to begin with. But now I know that even if I continue to smoke, the lump will still be there, so why quit? 

I feel as if I’m on death row. Sixteen cigarettes left. What to do, what to do. I know! Pace them. Meter them out at one per hour so I’ll  have at least one left for tomorrow morning, because the thought of waking up to nothing—to no cigarette—is the very thought that keeps me smoking. Oh, the terror! How can I quit smoking as long as I love my cigarettes? And how can I love my cigarettes knowing they’re bad for me? And how many excuses can I find to refute the evils of smoking so that I can continue to smoke in peace? “Janet, you’re too smart to smoke.”

I honestly believe that nicotine has fostered my creativity. I smoke while I write, while I play guitar and sing, while I’m doing something, while I’m doing nothing. Writer’s block? Just light up a smoke, reflect on what you’ve accomplished, and a new idea is sure to spring forth. The more manic, the more cigarettes—they go hand in hand like peanut butter and jam, like cigarettes and . . . anything.

Day Three

I didn’t get very far with this project yesterday. My sister came over to take me out for a birthday lunch, which was nice. We’re now limited to where we can dine because of the new smoking laws. Most restaurants are now nonsmoking. Translation:  most restaurants are out. Believe me, we smokers will find the places in which we can smoke. We will not patronize those places in which our habit is forbidden. And the restauranteurs know this. Accordingly, there are now lounges in virtually every restaurant in the city. You see, lounges are the loophole; it is still permissible to smoke in a lounge—and the bars and lounges are always filled to capacity . . . with diners. 

When I started smoking in the ’70s, I could light up a cigarette in most stores and smoke while shopping. Ashtrays were conveniently placed throughout these establishments; smokers were welcome. Now it is forbidden to smoke in stores and malls. It is also against the law to smoke on airplanes. Translation: I no longer window shop, I no longer fly. The lawmakers are even trying to ban smoking outdoors and smoking in your own home if children are present. And this rant leads me to one major question: why the hell is tobacco still a legal substance? 

Money, money, money. The government will not ban tobacco as long as it is a good source of income. So the government’s official stance is that although it is antismoking, it still wants the tax dollars from the sale of tobacco. Were the government truly antismoking, it would enact a law that forbids the sale of tobacco to neophyte smokers; that is, tobacco would be available only to those people who started smoking prior to the enactment of this law. We smokers would have special cards that we would have to present when purchasing our cigarettes. Although this type of law would feel like a further infringement on my freedom, I would welcome it wholeheartedly! There is no doubt in my mind that tobacco is harmful to many and should be an illegal substance. There is no doubt in my mind that the government has failed our nation, particularly our youth. The law I have suggested makes perfect sense. So where is this law? Whoops! For a minute there, I thought the government was logical, sensible. Where was my head? 

“Janet, you’re too smart to smoke.”  I haven’t forgotten that line from yesterday. Do you know that every time the news reports on a story that is pro-tobacco, I mentally take note of the information? Being a smart girl, I have to justify my habit; therefore, whenever I can glean any information that favors smoking, I do. I’ll give you an example. Years ago I heard a news report regarding smoking and singers.  (I sing and play the guitar.)  The report, from Harvard University no less, stated that smokers who sing have stronger lungs than nonsmokers who do not sing. I smoke, I sing, I am therefore off the hook. I recently heard a report that stated that smokers are far less likely to develop Alzheimer’s disease than are nonsmokers. Yeah! Another point for our side. And just this week I received a pamphlet from the Schizophrenia Society of Alberta that contained a smoking-related article. This report stated that schizophrenics who smoke have better basic cognitive functions than those who do not partake of the weed. I could go on . . . but you get the gist. 

I am 38 years old and still single—never married. I am looking for a man who is not afraid to stare death in the face on a half-hourly basis; I am looking for a man who smokes. I once met a guy who was quite handsome, had a good job and to whom I was definitely attracted. Except, he was a nonsmoker. I remember I totally blew his mind with the following question: “Why don’t you smoke?” He laughed and said no one had ever asked him that question.   

I’m a rebel.  ’Tis true, ’tis true.

I have two packs left from my carton. That means I have two days remaining in which I can smoke. Terrified! 

Why am I quitting smoking? My mind blank as I read and reread that question, I know I have to answer it. I have to answer it in a way that can prove to me that I should and must quit. 

I’m really good at arguing in defense of smoking. How many times have you read or heard about people who have reached the ripe old age of 100 and who have done so smoking and drinking throughout their lives. Believe me, I always pay attention to these people. I read an article that stated people living in Georgia, Russia, outlive those of us residing elsewhere. And virtually everyone in Georgia, Russia, smokes . . . and drinks. 

Ah yes, the link between cigarettes and alcohol, or cigarettes and coffee in my case, must be discussed. Eventually.

Day Two

I am smoking my seventh cigarette of the day. That’s seven cigarettes in two hours. That’s way too much. 

I thought I would wean myself off cigarettes by lowering the number of cigarettes I smoke in a day. That has not worked—at all.  I have three packs left from my carton. I am supposed to quit once and for all when these three packs are gone. The idea of running out of cigarettes, of not having another one, scares the hell out of me. They say it is more difficult to quit smoking than it is to quit heroin. Notably, Keith Richards has quit the heroin . . . but he always has a cigarette on the go. 

The first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is light up. I don’t wait until my coffee is made.  Indeed, I don’t even wait for morning! I wake up in the middle of the night to smoke and have done so for at least seven years now. There are countless holes burnt into my mattress to attest to my late night cravings. Once I started a mini-fire and I doused the flames with my bare hands.  I can’t afford to keep up with the cost of replacing my bed sheets. They’re all full of holes now.  The last time I bought new sheets I promised myself I would not smoke in bed anymore. That promise was broken within three days, the first burn hole soon to follow. And the first hole made, I could now relax and smoke in bed anew. 

Why did a girl who earned straight A’s in school—who skipped two grades of high school and started university at age 15—take up smoking? People said it then and still say it now: “Janet, you’re too smart to smoke.”

Day One

Happy Birthday to me. Today is my 38th birthday. That’s 24 in smoking years. Just give me a second.  I’ll start writing this thing as soon as I finish my cigarette . . .

OK. I’m ready. I started smoking on or about my 14th birthday, September 18th. Why?  I’m thinking and my mind is blank. Why?! 

Throughout my early childhood years I was inundated with information about how bad smoking is for one’s health. I remember two TV public service announcements in particular. One featured John Wayne, the Duke, pleading with people to quit smoking. He informed the world that he was dying of lung cancer as a direct result of his longtime smoking habit. The second featured Yul Brynner who told a similar story. 

And I remember one other TV personality from my childhood. He wasn’t world famous. He hosted a local movie show in which he would introduce today’s movie and talk about the stars featured. Joe Van. That was his name. Matinee with Joe Van. I watched this show Monday through Friday. I watched as Joe disclosed to all of us viewers that he had been diagnosed with cancer. And I watched as the disease slowly manifested itself within him. Slowly but steadily, the disease ravaged this once healthy man until he became bone thin, frail, barely able to make it through his brief appearances. Joe Van.

I put out my cigarette no more than 10 minutes ago, and already the craving for the next one has hit me. I’m debating whether to satisfy that craving right now or to try and fight it off, at least for a little while. Insidious. Damned insidious! If I were stranded in a desert with nothing but the clothes on my back, and I was offered the choice of having either a smoke or a glass of water, my answer . . . would not be immediate. The fact that I would pause, even if only for a second, freaks me out. Yet I know that I would take some time to think it over. Cigarette? Water?  Cigarette . . .

I already satisfied that craving I was talking about. No willpower.

Why did I start smoking? Again I pause, and again my mind is blank. I can tell you one thing, though. I thoroughly enjoyed my first cigarette. I loved the taste of it, the feel of it. I loved it so much that I smoked my second cigarette within minutes of finishing the first. Next, I walked to the corner grocery store and bought my very first pack of cigarettes: Matinee king size. Joe had his matinee; now I had mine. I asked the store owner for a couple of packs of matches, which were free in those days. The owner never questioned my age. I’m not even sure if there were any laws in effect at that time regarding smoking and minors. If there were, they were extremely lax.  It was the ’70s, the freedom era.

Yeah, so I smoked a good month before I told anybody about my new habit. I smoked for and by myself. All of my close friends at the time were nonsmokers, so I didn’t start because of peer pressure. In fact, if anything, I was ostracized by my friends because of my nasty habit. I was alone with my cigarettes and, honestly, I didn’t give a damn. I loved smoking!

I just used the past tense. Does this mean that subconsciously, I no longer love smoking?  Hmmmm.

Back to why: Because I loved cigarettes! I loved everything about them. The packaging, the flavor, the feel, the motion, the sexy swirl of the smoke as it exited my mouth—I loved all of it.

Again with the past tense. Those reasons I just cited are no longer as prominent in my thoughts as they once were. These days I seldom pause to appreciate the flavor; I seldom ponder the images formed by the exhaled smoke. I smoke because I crave the cigarettes. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, not often enough, I do think about the taste of my cigarette—and savor it; but most of the time the smoking is just a habitual ritual and I am oblivious as to whether I am actually enjoying my cigarette. Oblivious! When I really stop to think about it, to think about the cigarette between my lips right now, I often find that I’m not even noticing its taste. Sometimes—too often—my cigarettes taste bad.

OK, my parents smoked; that is, they used to smoke. They both quit in their early 40s and haven’t looked back. They have reminded me more than once that I was the one who begged them to quit way back when, back in the days when the Duke was a constant reminder that smoking can kill you. Yeah, I noticed it too. I used the word “can” as opposed to “will.” I am not entirely convinced that smoking is a death sentence. I mean, life is a death sentence. We’re all going to die of something someday. I constantly joke that I would hate to quit smoking and then get killed by some drunk driver as I was crossing the street. The idea that I could die while craving a cigarette that I have denied myself truly bothers me. Loopy, yes. Twisted, definitely.

I did not start smoking because of my parents’ example. Nor did I start due to peer pressure. I tasted that first cigarette and saw that it was good. “Let there be light!” I cried as I struck up my match, the wind gnawing at the flame, threatening to quell its essence entirely before I had sufficient time to ignite my cigarette. Yes, let there be light . . . and lighters.

Welcome

This blog consists of my journal on smoking and the quitting thereof. More accurately, it chronicles my many attempts to quit smoking cigarettes over the years and my thoughts along the way. I in no way wish to endorse my habit; I do, however, justify it . . . a lot. The outcome, as yet, is undecided.