By
August 16, 2007 6:00 AM
I so enjoyed smoking (note, dear reader, use of the past tense). The dragging-in, holding, blowing out. The something to do with your hands, the time killeron long, and short, drives. The intimacy of sitting down with a smoking friend and sharing thoughts whilst lazy trails envelop you. Goodbye my trusty anxiety quasher.
By my count, I have attempted to quit tobacco five times. Anecdotally, I am in good company. Almost any anti-smoking publication or Web site offers a range of average attempts to quit, but they all differ and none offers actual data. I did dig up a nationwide study conducted in 2002 by state health departments and analyzed by the Centers for Disease Control, showing that 52 percent of respondents attempted once in the prior year to quit. No word on how many succeeded.
Some fun habit, eh? More than half of us try to squirm away on a regular basis. I think this time, though, I have a chance. To wit; I am entering the world of NRT (nicotine replacement therapy). Nicorette, Commit, etc, are all nicotine replacement systems, made to tame the jones in a nicely titrated fashion. They never worked well for me, though, and they taste disgusting. Enter Chantix, a tiny little doctor-prescribed pill I take twice-daily because its chemical composition has nicotine shaped keys to fit the many nicotine shaped locks on the billions of neurons in my brain. Those little dopaminergic whiners, collectively my petit la belle dame sans merci.
Several weeks ago, after one of those weeks life hands you every, oh, five years or so, accompanied by wretched amounts of over smoking, I landed in front of my local pharmacist to buy said NRT and was told about Chantix. So, I called my lovely PCP and laid out my large portion of the cash (nope, not covered by my insurance, which is pretty decent usually) and began taking the pill.
Although I marched in vowing to never take another puff, the pills distributor suggest smoking for seven more days while participating in an online behavior and cognitive modification program. Yowza, I got to smoke for seven more days, it was a long swan song, love letter, au revoir and goodbye to an old friend who had become, in truth, just a monkey. A dangerous monkey at that.
But the strangest thing began to happen during those seven days. I began to actually forget about smoking. For hours at a time. I would suddenly go, oh! Time for a cigarette, but it was a uniquely cerebral action. It did not come from the middle of my chest in the form of my friend the black hole, popping out to propel me toward the pack on a regular basis. It came from the middle of my head. Because I still could, I would then light up, sit down and e n j o y . Ahhhh.
Although there were no outright cravings, I found myself reaching automatically in some situations; while taking a phone call, while driving, while seeing certain people. Sort of like going into the kitchen and flipping on the light; even when the power is out and you know it, your arm still does its job as you pass by that switch.
When my quit day came, I made it all the way through day one. I had one actual craving while home but it was only about a three on a logorhythmic scale, and it passed. I even went out to hear a band. I planned for it like a military strategic maneuver. I did not go early, so I wouldn't be there too long. I rode my bike so I could skedaddle if it got too hard; I "came out" about it to my friends and acquaintances. I found myself at a table overlooking the deck, the place where you can go outside and smoke 'em if you got 'em. Moments after, I found myself looking longingly out at the group gathered there, wispy trails around their shoulders, an easy camaraderie, a scene almost taking on airbrushed qualities of wistful loveliness. I quickly recognized it and shut the curtains to block my view, and instead directed my energy into dancing.
Later, I marveled at the absence of actual craving in this social situation. Craving's contenders for the title of most-likely-to-get-her-to-smoke were nonetheless formidable; desire, wouldn't it be nice, howdy ho I'd sure like to be out there. Absent craving, though, they were just loud bullies and nothing more.
Sure, I miss the little buggers, but I am more hopeful than I have ever been that I will become a non-smoker.
Suzanne Danforth recalls smoking her first cigarette in woods that are now The Woodlands development in Elwyn Park. She can be reached at suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.
