Smoked Out

Picking up a kicked habit.

The urologist is between my legs doing what he does. A nurse is down there as well and a resident. We have enough for bridge. I’m draped with a sheet whose pretense annoys me, the centre a hole. Antiseptic is applied. A numbing gel. A scope. And now he wants to talk. Do you smoke, he asks. At least he chooses a topic I can warm to, one I’ve given some thought, and, at this moment, one that will keep my head above indignity’s submerging clutch. I dabble, I say, I’m trying to get back into it. The doctor wants only to quantify it. A pack a day, he asks. Good God no, I say, It won’t be a pack a year at the rate I’m going, Smoking is harder to get back into than you’d think.

I enjoyed smoking when I was a full-time smoker even though never more than half a pack a day at my fullest, my body seeming to know its limits if not how to abstain entirely. When I finally quit I told myself I’d take it up again when older and closer to dead so long as it wasn’t lung disease that was killing me. I figured at that point smoking wouldn't have time to affect me or, if it did, it wouldn’t be for long. I likened it to when I’m about to leave a foreign country and I try to use up all the bills and coins in my pocket that will soon be worthless, smoking would use up some of my Euros. It’s the thing to do if you’re the waste-not-want-not type, leave nothing on the table. And it would be smoking as I’d always dreamed of. Guilt-free.

When I finally quit smoking for real instead of fake-quitting, stopping and starting again, I was on the Gulf of Mexico, the Alabama shore, for a workshop on governance in education. All circumstances strained at credulity, Alabama not noted for its contributions to education or its coastline or, for me, as a place I might go to give up something I loved. 

I’d had a cold before going and, as always when sick, continued to smoke one or two cigarettes a day just to keep my hand in, my contribution to not losing my touch, or, more likely, the long and hideous arm of a deep-seated habit that had me by the balls and wouldn’t let go. My health returned but my enjoyment of smoking did not. I kept at it but it was a slog. Not to worry, I thought, I’ll be in Alabama soon and that will make everything all right, smoking the perfect travel companion.

Alabama was hot and sunny and the hotel backed on to the Gulf and had a terrace where I could smoke and drink simultaneously. Heaven. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smoked in comfort. I was in a nurturing, smoke-positive place. Except I still wasn’t enjoying it. Day after day I’d create the conditions: coffee in the morning, a mid-morning break, a meal, a glass of wine, a piece of chewing gum to mask the taste. But nothing worked. I couldn’t find my smoking groove. I grew frustrated, tried harder, disliked it even more. This is ridiculous, I thought, time is passing, I’ll be going home soon, I’ll have missed my opportunity. And then it struck me, the opportunity might not be about finding my smoking self but about abandoning it, saying goodbye to it once and for all. I could quit. Here. Now. My heart might not be into it but everything else was; it would never be easier, withdrawal replaced by chagrin and sadness. And so I quit. It was over. I was done. I left Alabama a non-smoker and it stuck.

I comforted myself with the promise that I’d get back to it someday, I’d give it another try, and now I have. As luck would have it my daughter has taken up smoking; she’s a lightweight but at least she’s trying. Gimme a smoke, I say, bossy, knowing I’ll have to elbow my way past her objections. Not on your life, she says. We tussle, she scolds, I cajole. She relents. I promise her my death won’t be on her head. Yah right, she says. 

The first couple times I like it. It works fine. I’m back in the saddle. Same when I do it with a friend, all good. Two thumbs up. But it turns out that’s just re-beginner’s luck. As if waking to an enemy intrusion my lungs say Whoa whoa, Hold up, What’s going on, I thought we’d settled this. They revolt. It’s Alabama all over again. I take a drag and they kick and fuss, dig their heels in. I force myself through a cigarette, they’re beside themselves with indignation. After all I’ve done for you, each of us seems to say, each of us brought down by the other’s ingratitude. 

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. What’s to like? Maybe I should poke sharp objects in my ears and spray bear mace in my face as well. Maybe I should subject myself to all manner of things inherently objectionable and force myself to like them. It was only ever because I’d beaten my lungs into submission to begin with that they endured smoking. There’s nothing inherently pleasant about the act of denying yourself oxygen, not after the first drag. I’m sure I’d see that if someone had their hands around my throat or a plastic bag over my head. But still. I miss it and I’ll always love the smell of it and I’ll always park myself downwind of someone who’s doing it. Thank you, smokers, long may you exhale.