A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out one of my bookshelves and I found one of the many journals I have started – and stopped – over the years. This one was from 2002 – it contained two entries for the year. One babbled on about some guy I had gone out with a few times, the other was my usual self-scolding about how much I suck a journaling and a short recap of the year to date. One of the dates was August 17 – the day I quit smoking.
I actually remember the catalyst that made me quit those many years ago. My friend MJ and I met in Chicago where we wandered about the city, roller bladed along LakeShore, and ate our weight in Greek food. After dinner we were both feeling bloated and very, very full and not sure which one of us decided it would be a good idea to walk the stairs in the hotel to work some of it off.
We were staying on the 22nd floor.
After a bit of groaning, we changed into our workout clothes (22 flights in heels and sandals just isn’t really wise) and down we went. We reached the ground floor and turned around to begin the ascent back to our room.
Now, short aside, while our hotel was lovely, the stairwells remain rather utilitarian. Just beige walls, metal handrails, boring signs telling you how far you have gone. Not the most exciting route, but hey, you make due with what’s around you sometimes, right?
The first ten or so floors weren’t so bad. But there were so many left to go. While my current level of fitness was giving me some victory over the abuse a pack a day habit inflicted on my lungs and body, it could only do so much. I was really starting to huff.
MJ was encouraging and we smack talked one another as we conquered each floor. Sadly, there was no denying that I was falling behind. It was around the 18th or 19th floor that I finally sat on the landing, gasping and miserable. MJ stopped and said “If you make it to the 20th, you can catch the elevator the rest of the way if you need to.”
Oh HELL no.
Elevator indeed.
I gave my friend the side-eye and made it up the last few flights where I promptly fell on the bed and spent the next 15 or so minutes trying to talk my lungs down from the ledge.
It was time to make a change.
A bit of an aside here – I had never been one of those smokers who had tried and tried to quit. I knew that if I really wanted to quit, then I would. Just like most things in my life, when I make up my mind to do it, then I do it. Now, sometimes reaching that point takes a while but I get there eventually. So even after years of knowing how awful smoking is for your health and how much money it costs and how bad it smells, I still didn’t really want to quit. Until that particular moment.
So MJ and I concluded our fun weekend in Chicago and I headed back to St. Louis. Once I was back home, I threw out whatever packs I had left, though I kept one with a few in it. I had decided to stop cold-turkey.
I made a list of all the big triggers: waking up, driving, cocktails, boredom, after dinner, etc.. I then consciously thought about not smoking and changing my habits, finding alternative things to do rather than light up. I utilized anything my brain could come up with to stay on course.
One of them something a man I had dated a few times said. We had been talking about a friend of his and that friend was having some issues with his AA progress and a few other battles he was fighting. This man said, “I don’t really have an addictive personality type, so it’s hard for me to understand sometimes.”
This made me think.
Did I have an addictive personality? I thought back to most things I do and realized I don’t. Sure, I might focus on something for a little while and become “addicted” to it, but it usually lasts a few days or weeks and almost always involves a new hobby of some sort. Then I see something sparkly and move on.
Whether this is an accurate assessment, I’ve no idea, but telling myself “I am not an addictive personality” helped.
I made it through three days before I caved and grabbed one of the “emergency” cigarettes. I was cranky and tired from the changes my body was already going through expelling nicotine and coming down off the constant stimulant that cigarettes provided. Taking a seat out on my patio, I lit up and inhaled deeply, just as I had done for so many years.
Almost instantly, I felt my heart begin to race and pound in my chest. My head started spinning (err… not literally, this wasn’t something out of the Exorcist) and I got scared.
I snubbed out the Marlboro and sat there for a bit hoping my heart would calm down and wondering if I should call an ambulance.
That was it for me. The one last drag that made my heart go crazy was a dramatic goodbye to my evil, dysfunctional companion.
Now, while my mind was firmly made up that I was through, my body was not as decided. For the next couple months I was exhausted. My hands would get fidgety when I was out with friends and I didn’t have my usual activity to fall back on. To compensate, I took a few more naps and started new projects. I crocheted and sewed, I rode my bike on longer rides, and went to movies. I even spent more time with non-smoking friends in places I couldn’t light up.
I was winning the battle.
By very consciously repeating my little mantra from above and developing new coping mechanisms, I was succeeding. Reminding myself about the reaction I had when I had taken that last drag was also extremely effective. It was the closest I had come to calling an ambulance for myself in my life.
As a reward for my efforts, my body began to give me gifts. My sense of smell was improving. I’d be on a bike ride and find myself inhaling deeply, noticing many more scents along the river than I’d noticed before. Even the less pleasant smells were intriguing. I was riding in places I’d been going to for months and experiencing brand new facets of mother nature.
My tastebuds woke up. Some who know me will argue this turned me into more of a pain in the butt since it made me realize how so many fast food places and processed meals tasted either bland or of chemicals, it also gave me the gift of finding a depth of flavor in foods that had been missing. So while I now snarled at frozen dinners and most chains, it brought me so much delight in sampling new spices and world cuisines.
It goes without saying that I felt better overall now that my lungs weren’t fighting all that nasty stuff I’d been inhaling.
Why am I going into all this? Because it IS a cause for celebration. I also hope that if someone is making their own decision to quit, they will know they are not alone and they CAN do this. The effort, the mental battles, and the physical transition from being a smoker to a non-smoker ARE WORTH IT.
Some stats (based on my pack-a-day habit at $2.50 a pack cost – this is around what I paid when I quit)
I’ve NOT smoked 109,580 cigarettes
I’ve saved $13,700
This doesn’t even take into account the health benefits
Some resources if you’re ready to make a change:
I want to take a moment to thank MJ for that weekend, that man for unknowingly giving me my mantra, and my friends for their support and encouragement.
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