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.