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BY bernadette noll
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ON TRIPOD
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To Vegas on Camel Miles
Interview with Richard Kluger: Author of Ashes to Ashes
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WEB RESOURCES
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QuitNet: Links, help, and information on quitting smoking.
Quit Smoking: Information, anecdotes, and plenty of resources.
The No Smoke Cafe: Chat and support in a non-smoking online environment.
NicNet: The nicotine and tobacco network. For an extra dose of fun, try the Tobacco User Death Count.
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RELATED POD
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Women's Issues
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Meet the women, surf the pages, and join the conversation, in the X-Squared Pod.
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I first considered separating myself from my sacred smokes when a friend's fifty-year-old mom lay dying from emphysema. Maybe I wouldn't be the one to defy all odds and smoke my way to age ninety.
The next time I considered quitting was prior to a visit to my sister. Knowing my brand of smokes was hard to find in Wisconsin, I stocked up on a two-week supply. My stomach Women's Zoneenched as the salesclerk announced the total of my purchase. Spending this same amount in bits and pieces slipped right by me; spending it all at once seemed positively decadent.
During this same visit I caught my two-year old niece eying me through the kitchen window as I stood outside in the gray drizzle, sucking down a cigarette. Her face lit up with interest and intrigue.
On my return to Texas I went out for a few beers with some friends. Conversation turned to aging and mortality. One of my friends made
mention of his mom, a die-hard smoker. "She's only fifty-eight but she looks eighty," he said. He attributed it to her forty-odd years of smoking. If the tales of emphysema didn't get me, the idea of looking twenty years older than my age did.
The final straw was on the day after my thirty-first birthday. This otherwise unmomentous year marked the time when I had been a smoker longer than I had been a non-smoker.
The night before I quit, I didn't know it was to be the night before I quit. Heading out for a beer, my husband and I stopped at the store to stock up on smokes. They were out of our brand. Surely we could have
a beer without having a cigarette. I had never done it before but figured it would be good practice for when I did quit. After a beer, we headed to a party. We stopped at another store, and they too were out of our brand. But they were NEVER out of our brand! Our stay at the party was short-lived. We walked home, but the stores were all closed. The decision was made. I would go to bed without my usual bedtime smoke, and the next morning I would try to quit.
Day one: I couldn't get out of bed. That I had decided the night before. I would have my coffee and newspaper in bed instead of at the
kitchen table. Sitting at the kitchen table would be too difficult — every morning since I moved into this house had begun with a cigarette at that table in the corner. Every visitor was seated there with a beverage in hand and an ashtray nearby. It might be several weeks before I could face it again.
The morning was what most concerned me and I made it through with much less difficulty that I anticipated. Every time I craved a smoke I popped a vitamin C. By noon I had chewed over 5000 milligrams of C. I heard
somewhere that it helps. Hyperventilating also helps. A series of many deep breaths caused the same lightheadedness that got me started in the first place. And water. By midday I had ingested over three gallons of water.
But my biggest concern was the mental craving. How was I going to go about my days as a non-smoker? How would I proofread without retreating to the kitchen table, essay and cigarette in hand? How would
I reward myself for a job well done? How would I spend the minutes I
was put on hold? How would I know my break was over without the
cigarette gauge? How would I get those seven minutes of inactivity?
In the service industry I smoked heavily — not often, but heavily. Breaks were not scheduled but tolerated — for smokers
only. Those that didn't smoke got no time out. What were they going
to do on a break? Stand outside for seven minutes doing nothing? Perhaps this is why so many in this business are hooked.
Day two: Already I felt the courage to drink my coffee at the kitchen table. This was something I thought would take weeks to
accomplish and here I was at it just thirty hours later. At my request the ashtrays had been left around the house. I didn't want to quit with a false sense of security. I wanted to do it because I was strong, not because all possibility of smoking had been taken out of my hands.
My husband took to smoking on the back porch. I insisted that he smoke when and where he wanted, but he didn't and I was glad. The
occasional whiffs I did get, I enjoyed. I still loved the smell of a good cigarette.
As day two went on, I found it harder by far than the first. I was more tense and incredibly restless. I had to leave the house. I
walked and walked and walked — for several hours actually. While I
walked, my mind raced. All thoughts went off on a million tangents. All tangents lead to the thought of a cigarette in my hand. I walked to the pool and swam a couple of laps. I don't know if it was real or imagined, but my breathing did seem easier.
The ultimate test came that night. We went to a bar. Bad idea. My fear was not the bar but the beer. The first pint surprised me. I was fine. I sipped and conversed and sat and felt super. If I could drink a few beers and not want a cigarette, surely I must be okay. Women's Zoneong. I was okay for the first beer, but as the night went on and I had a few more, all sense and reason went out the window. Suddenly I felt out of control and oh-so-calmly (ha-ha) told my husband if we didn't leave I was going to smoke. He was quite accommodating and escorted me outside. As soon as we got home I went to bed, afraid that the longer I stayed awake the more likely it was I would smoke.
Day three: By this day, I felt I should be rounding some sort of bend. I had read somewhere that the third day should be the end of
the physical craving. I began to think it was just something they tell you to get you to quit. The odd thing about today was the way I found myself sitting down for a cigarette. It wasn't the intense desire or craving to smoke that had me foraging for my pack, but a very matter of fact settling into the smoking position. Then I remembered I was a non-smoker. The thought of NEVER
SMOKING AGAIN bummed me out. Perhaps sometime in the future, I could set aside a day every so often on which I would allow myself to smoke just one
cigarette. I saw this in a movie once. The lead guy smoked one cigarette at the completion of each of his novels. Perhaps I could do it on my birthday instead. Waiting for a novel seemed like a tall order.
The restlessness of day three was overwhelming. Where was the burst of energy I'd heard of? Perhaps that's what this feeling was
that I called restlessness. I'd sit down to work and minutes later be up to the kitchen for a glass of water. Forgetting all hopes of working I'd attempt to tackle something more menial, such as bills or dishes. By the time I got out all the papers or filled the sink with suds, I was overcome by an immediate desire to wash my face or straighten the stack of newspapers. Again, the only thing I could do was walk, walk, walk, for miles on end.
Many months later, I have lost track of the days. The physical addiction was, as promised, short-lived. The mental one continues.
For a couple months I found myself justifying just one drag. But a few drags left me wanting just one more. "Aahhhh," said my brain, feeling the buzz. My body remembered the initial attraction. After several weeks of this the physical addiction was back, much quicker than it had left.
I am now smoke-free but forever leery. I have had to come to terms with the fact that there will probably never be a time when I can have just one cigarette. Maybe I'll get started on that novel anyway.
Bernadette Noll is a freelance writer based in Austin, Texas. On being a full-time writer, she says, "My life is forever colored by ten years in the restaurant business. It's always in the back of my mind that there is only one letter difference between writer and waiter."
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