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Most smokers try it at a very early age, mainly
because they’re not supposed to.
They sneak a cigarette and cough their heads off.
Peer pressure brings it on in the teens and-before you know
it—nicotine becomes an addiction. Writing with a cigarette in the ashtray became a
pattern in my newspaper days. Whenever
I sat down at the typewriter, out came the pack of cigarettes and the
old faithful Zippo. There
were many Zippos and a few Ronsons in the days before disposal lighters.
There were many cigarette brands over the years, from Salems to
Pall Malls. The menthol
brands or the unfiltered kind gave more kick for the money.
There were times when I smoked as many as four packs in a day.
As recently as ten or 20 years ago, smoking was fashionable.
Now it’s in disfavor and even against the law many places. First cigarette price I noticed was eleven cents
a pack. In service, you
could buy a carton for $1. When
I became accustomed to buying them for 25 cents a pack, I began outraged
when the clerk at a Little General store wanted 35 cents a pack.
Outrageous price, I thought then.. Look at the price now. It wasn’t the price that bothered me about
nicotine. If a person is
addicted to something, they will buy it regardless of the price.
It was a matter of health and survival that made me decide to
quit nearly three years ago.
My breath was so short I could hardly walk up a flight of steps
without gasping for air. It
was like suffocating. It
was difficult to talk without coughing.
And heaven help me when someone made me laugh.
I would lose my breath and fight to get it back. Food had little taste or interest for me.
My taste buds were coated with nicotine.
My weight was down. My
friend and doctor Doc Bill Findley never pushed me to quit.
He only gently suggested he hoped he wouldn’t see me coming to
his office one day in a wheel chair with an oxygen tank. Anybody who knew me would have bet my life would
end with a Pall Mall in my mouth. Many times I lay awake at night coughing,
praying for the strength to quit. The
addiction was too strong. Once
I got to the point where I could go all day without a cigarette, even
avoiding one with that morning coffee.
But, come sundown, I would fire up “just one” and smoke a
pack before I went to bed. One Sunday I was trying to work at my computer
and couldn’t stop coughing. A
half smoked cigarette was in the ashtray.
I put it out and shoved my half empty pack aside.
No more, I told myself. Quitting
wasn’t easy. I knew I had
no choice. The damage to my lungs was done.
I’ll never be able to run track again as I did in college.
Recovery has been slow but I feel better, have put on weight.
Food tastes good now. The
cough is gone. Problem is family and friends still smoke.
Having enjoyed and suffered with the addiction for most of my
life, I understand. To
smoke or not to smoke is an individual choice. When my wife had a serious operation two years
ago, she was in the recovery room and asked for pencil and paper.
The tubes in her nose and mouth prevented her from talking.
She scribbled on the paper, “No more cigarettes.” For a few weeks after she came home from the
hospital with an oxygen tank, she walked around the house trailed by the
long plastic line that tied her to the green tank of oxygen. Refills sat in the corner.
They picked up the oxygen equipment when she became better. One day she became angry with me because I
mistakenly unplugged a crock-pot where she was cooking.
When I smelled the cigarette smoke, I knew she had started again.
Later she said if it hadn’t been that excuse she would have
found another. Back up to two packs a day, she needed to check
into the hospital for a few days recently, but couldn’t. The hospital had no smoking rules and she could not go even a
few days without a cigarette. When I helped in Zach Wamp’s 1994
congressional campaign, Barbara Porter rode with me in my old station
wagon for a “Wamp around the District.”
I knew Barbara didn’t smoke and out of consideration I
didn’t. I even cracked
the windows for fresh air. But
she became ill and had to ride with someone else.
My car had so much nicotine in the interior she was stifled by
it. I smoked so much I
couldn’t smell anything. I can now.
It’s in a heavy smokers breath, in the clothes. Fortunately, my wife and I have a large old
house. Most of my time is
spent in the rear with my computer and books.
My wife and her cigarettes are in the front where she watches TV
in the living room. I use
the rear door mainly because the nicotine is too heavy in the front. Except for Bill Carman and Bob Blair, most of
the smokers at VFW 4848 still smoke.
I enjoy their company and in a large room I can handle the smoke,
unless someone leaves a cigarette in an ashtray under my nose. Some reports say second hand smoke is worse than
actually smoking. Those who
do smoke say the study is not conclusive.
I don’t know and can only judge that I feel better with less
smoke of any kind. It’s not for me to say everyone has to quit
smoking because I had to. I
don’t expect the world to accommodate my needs or wishes.
It was my choice to smoke or not smoke.
It is my choice to be around second hand smoke. Tough choice though.
Be with the people I want to be with and their smoke.
Be without them and without smoke. If it gets bad enough, maybe I’ll just get a
small oxygen tank. Better
than being alone.
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