I loved smoking - loved it - and was happily doing my part to ensure the measly 6% of Americans with post-graduate educations who smoked cigarettes stayed on the map. Yet at the same time, I felt increasingly shameful about it, which is a rare emotion for me to feel. Ultimately, neither shame nor embarrassment were my impetus to quit. I also cannot take false noble credit that my decision was a spur of the moment burst of willpower and desire to avoid lung cancer and emphysema - almost certain eventual consequences of my continued actions, and the latter of the two on display daily for me, exemplified by my grandmother's suffering from her past smoking habits, accompanied by her pleas that I not follow her path - yet still somehow too abstract for me to comprehend. And even though I vowed to quit smoking on principle (one of my strongest motivators) once the cigarettes began to cater to the lowest common Darwin-denominator and became Fire Safe, thus changing their property and taste entirely, I still danced with the nicotine devil until I underwent a surgery to avoid loss of use of my extremities, and was told my surgery outcome success rate was something like 40% less likely if I continued to smoke. I had personally experienced the beginning of life with physical limitations for only a few days prior to surgery, and it was terrifying to the point where I decided that enough had finally become enough. I quit immediately.
Well, that's a lie. I was an addict, after all. With my surgery scheduled for three days out, I asked my neurosurgeon how much it would impact my healing process if I quit right then, or waited a day or two. I was told that my smoking damage had already been done, but as long as I absolutely did not smoke one more cigarette ever again beginning approximately twelve hours before the surgery commenced, I would be in a much better place for recovery. You better believe I timed that down to the minute, gazing wistfully at the burning cherry as I took my last drag. It was a bittersweet goodbye. Cigarettes had been my one friend who was always there to comfort me and had never let me down. In all honesty, I don't know that I could have ever abandoned them without the in-your-face ultimatum of choosing right then: either a full physical life, or the other option, a limited physical life, losing independence and freedom, which to someone like me can seem worse than death anyway. It needed to be done, and there wasn't even a choice in my mind. The cigarettes had to go, and there would be no turning back.
I made sure my brain was crystal clear that this wasn't a choice. There would be no desire to smoke, dillydallying back and forth, will I or won't I relapse and take another puff, forcing my willpower to say no. No, there would be none of that. Not smoking was the only way to live. And I wanted to live. I have many things to do in my life, all of which involve the use of both arms and legs, and I will most likely accomplish these things alone and unaided. Not smoking would not be a choice. It was simply my new reality, and one I had wanted for quite some time, yet it always resided slightly beyond my reach. Now, the universe had again conspired to give me what I truly wanted - in a roundabout way, per usual.
To aid in breaking the cigarette curse, I studied the health benefits of quitting. What happened to my body twenty minutes after my last cigarette, one hour, three hours, seven hours, two days, one week, five years, fifteen years. I am an accomplishment-driven individual, and noting those milestones, however small or large, were my way of rewarding myself for a job well done, and provided enough motivation for me to make it through the next tobacco-free minute. Like a child, I proudly stuck a brightly colored sticker on a printed calendar as I went to bed each night, visually celebrating abstaining from tobacco for another day. After a while, smoking wasn't at the forefront of my mind every second of every minute of every hour of every day. I was over the worst of it. But then something else happened.
Everything changed. My sense of smell seemed to increase by the billions. My favorite chapstick of three years was pungently fruity and headache-inducing. The miracle hand lotion I smeared into my dry winter skin each morning hit me like a Mack truck, stinging my nostrils and watering my eyes with its incredibly medicinal scent. No food tasted the same. I had just gotten back into the habit of drinking spinach-fruit-veggie-yogurt smoothies each morning, and was now gagging from the overpowering stench of the super healthy greek yogurt. I fear the day I encounter sauerkraut and polish sausage, the smell of which I had been unable to stomach without the possibility of vomiting even at the height of my smoking, and therefore, most deadened of senses.
On the flip side, I am able to pare back on tea leaves per cup and conserve my beloved Super Long Jing Chinese green tea flown in from Hong Kong, no longer needing more than a pinch for the perfect aroma and taste. Sugary, carbonated beverages are quickly becoming a thing of the past, my palette now far too sensitive to endure the burning acidity and excessive sweetness. And pizza, among others, but most importantly - PIZZA - tastes better, which I didn't even know was possible.
So there have been some unanticipated side effects to quitting, good and bad, but I am happy that I am no longer ingesting 4000 chemicals - 69 of which are known to cause cancer - each time I would take a drag. Soon enough, I'll regain that decade smoking had been chipping away from my life expectancy. And when I move, the price of cigarettes jumps from my home state of Missouri's average of $6 per pack to NYC's $14 per pack - a would-be serious budget adjustment. But most importantly, not smoking should help my spine heal, and reduce my chances of contracting smoking-related diseases. Because all I really want is to live.
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