The End of a Smoker’s Life

Quitting smoking was my biggest achievement in the exercise of self-control. I got hooked on it at age 13 and by the time I stopped, I had been smoking myself to death for a good 21 years. It was my father who unwittingly introduced me to the habit and, the irony of it all, he was also the reason why I abandoned it. He was the alpha and the omega of my own Marlboro story.


It all began 25 years ago when my father would have me light his cigarettes if he was caught up doing more important things. I did not have to learn how to smoke the proper adult way. All the inhaling and exhaling that came with it I did with a coolness and naturalness that surprised me. Those childish coughing spells that other kids had to go through while trying their first few sticks did not happen to me. There were born dancers, born actors and so on and so forth. I was a born smoker.


I was crazy about smoking and everything about it—to suck in my breath for a major nicotine rush, hold it for as long as I could then release it for that much anticipated high. How I loved to watch the smoke coming from my mouth. And when I closed my eyes, I forgot about the rest of the world. There was just me and my Marlboro and nothing could come between us.


By age 14, my gums had turned from an innocent red into an ugly brownish color while my voice had that raspy quality uncommon for my age. By college, my gums were already a vile dirty brown and I had developed what my friends called my bedroom voice.
It was also during that time of new found freedom that I became a heavy smoker. I carefully budgeted my allowance so that a pack could be accommodated on a daily basis. I smoked anywhere in campus whenever I could. I was the proverbial yosi girl, always with a cigarette in hand, blowing smoke in every direction.

From what started out as a teen addiction was born a life of dependency. Getting out of bed was a drag without my nicotine fix. A headline at work was impossible to write without a puff or two. Lunch was hard to enjoy without the assurance of a leisurely smoke afterwards. Nights out were incomplete without my regular two packs. Sleep was elusive without my bedtime dose of Winston Lights (I changed brands when I worked in an ad agency that had Fortune Tobacco as its key account). Hell, I couldn't even move my bowels without a stupid stick.
In short, I couldn't function as a normal human being without something as inane as a roll of tobacco wrapped in white paper with a useless filter at the end.


Nothing changed for many years. Until the day my father was diagnosed with lung cancer. I was devastated. And while moving heaven and earth to have him cured, I knew I had to let go of the vice that caused the illness that was threatening to kill my father. But I couldn't, not just yet. For how could I have survived that low moment in my family life without my dear old Winston Lights? When the tragedy appeared to pass, I knew it was time.


I decided to do it slowly, painfully. From 20 sticks on day 1, I cut down to 15, to 12, to 10, to 7, to 5, to 3, to 1 and finally down to 0 on the thirtieth day.

I was free.

oooOooo

I gave birth to my first and only daughter 9 months after. My father succumbed to cancer 2 years later.