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My mother died of lung cancer when I was 10 years old. Early on, I connected cigarette smoking and cancer (and death). But, being a teenager, I knew it couldn't happen to me, so I started smoking. It was the social thing to do. Since I assumed that I would die young as my mother had regardless of what I did, it didn't seem to matter whether or not I smoked. I'll admit, that thinking was a bit warped.
As
I
got
a
little
older,
I
started
having
moments
of
near
panic
when
I'd
think
about
what
the
cigarettes
must
be
doing
to
my
lungs.
I
had
no
physical
stamina.
I
couldn't
run.
I
couldn't
climb
stairs
without
getting
out
of
breath.
I
had
even
started
to
have
difficulty
breathing
at
times
(which
I
later
discovered
was
more
likely
asthma
than
cigarettes
— though the cigarettes couldn't have been helping).
The first time I quit, I was about 22 years old. One night I was having difficulty falling asleep, worrying about smoking and dying like that. I got up and threw my cigarettes and ashtrays in the garbage. It was a rough next few days. My skin crawled; it was like being the shriek of fingernails on a chalkboard. I wanted to scream. But somehow I made it. The fear of death by cancer kept me from smoking, and I quit.
A few months later, I lost my job. Having too much time on my hands, I took up smoking again. This time, I stuck to very light cigarettes (friends would tear off the filter and claim it was still like sucking air through a straw). If I was going to start smoking again, I would choose a brand that would cause only "ultra-light" cancer. I smoked a pack a day.
When New Year's Eve came around, I planned to quit again. I thought I was clever. I would quit on New Year's Day instead of trying to quit in the middle of the festivities on New Year's Eve. I lasted about half the day before I started looking for a cigarette. I gave up and resigned myself to smoking the light (ultra-light) cigarettes.
A few years later, I made quitting smoking my New Year's resolution (again). But this time I put even less pressure on myself; as long as I quit at some point during that year, I would be true to my resolution. No hurry. No panic. I would spend a few months psyching myself up to cut down and quit. It wasn't until August or September that I finally decided that it was about time to get around to trying to quit.
I
decided
to
cut
in
half
the
number
of
cigarettes
that
I
smoked
— from one pack to a half pack each day. Then I took the approximate number of hours in a day I was awake and figured out how often I would have a cigarette. I'd known too many people who had tried to go from 20 to 10 cigarettes a day who would smoke all 10 before noon and then climb the walls the rest of the day. They'd declare that quitting was too hard and would go back to the pack a day before sundown. By spreading out the 10 cigarettes over the course of the day, I never had to go for very long before I was due for another cigarette. Even though my skin started to crawl about a half hour before the next cigarette, I knew the feeling was only temporary. I had borrowed this idea from a smoking cessation program where a little timer told you when to have a cigarette. I figured I could time things out on my own a bit less expensively, thanks.
That was the first part.
The
second
part
of
my
plan
was:
No
giving
up.
If
I
smoked
more
cigarettes
in
a
day
than
I
had
planned
(which
happened
a
few
times),
I
wouldn't
give
up
on
quitting.
Instead,
I
forgave
myself
and
resumed
my
little
quitting
program
the
next
morning.
It
worked
— I never looked at a little backsliding as failure.
Finally,
I
vowed
I
wouldn't
rush
myself.
I
had
originally
planned
to
go
from
the
10
cigarettes
down
to
5
after
some
number
of
weeks.
But
I
allowed
myself
to
choose
the
time
to
do
that
based
on
how
I
felt.
If
I
felt
positive
and
willful,
I'd
go
to
the
next
step.
If
I
didn't,
I'd
wait
for
a
better
day.
But,
again,
there
was
no
giving
up
on
quitting
— even if it meant I was stuck at a half a pack or a quarter of a pack for a year. The key was to keep at it.
After
a
couple
of
weeks
at
10
cigarettes
a
day,
I
started
forgetting
to
have
a
cigarette
here
or
there.
It
wasn't
until
November
18,
1992
(the
Great
American
Smoke-Out
— at least I think that was the date) that I tried to stop smoking completely. I figured I'd give it a shot for the one day. If I made it, good; if not, I'd try again some other day. I made it. I haven't had a cigarette since. I haven't missed it, for the most part. Now that I've managed somehow to end up with asthma, taking up smoking again is just not going to happen.
So, I know what it's like to quit smoking. I know what it feels like. I also know that, for a while anyway, it was really nice to breathe freely. My Dad kept telling me that food would taste better, but I never noticed that. The breathing I noticed. Now that I know how detrimental second-hand smoke is to the ferrets (see Bob Church's article in Issue #31 of Modern Ferret) and, I'm sure, all little animals, I'm very glad that I quit before we even brought home our first ferret. Maybe you'll think about quitting for your pets, too, if your own health doesn't provide enough incentive.
Good luck.
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