Am I a quitter?

Many, many years ago, after my mother’s first heart attack, back in the days when there were still smoking rooms in hospital, during one of my visits to her (in said smoking room) I suggested to her that she might want to try to quit smoking. She just looked at me and said, “It’s all I have.” Well, she also had me, of course, but I knew what she meant. Yes, I saw her frequently, but on a daily basis cigarettes were her most regular companion. I did not press the matter.

When Mike and I first got together, because he was quite asthmatic, someone who, if they accidentally breathed in some cigarette smoke, would be hacking for a long time, I decided to try to quit smoking. I used patches and it went reasonably well. I went without a cigarette for several months. (Okay, I did occasionally break down in the pub with mates and have a few puffs.) Unfortunately, eventually things with Mike got so bad that I reached a point where I either had to end the relationship or I had to start smoking again, because I could not continue the former without the latter. (The smart money probably would have been on ending the relationship, but I didn’t. That took several more years.)

I have not considered attempting to quit smoking since. Like my mother before me, it’s part of who I am. (Says so right in the tagline: “Writer, thinker, smoker, drinker.”)

During a rehearsal break a few years ago, when I was outside having a fag, one of the actors (also a mate) said, “Those things will kill you, you know.” I looked at him and replied, “God, I hope so.” He laughed. I was only half (or perhaps less) joking. Truth be told, I have somewhat been relying on smoking killing me before I become so decrepit I can no longer wipe my own ass.

And then last summer I met someone. A man with whom I have more fun and laugh more than I have in I don’t know how long. And it hit me: I wouldn’t actually mind being around for as long as I can be. And, for the first time in three decades the thought crossed my mind that I might consider attempting to give up cigarettes. With the exception of those several months those decades ago, I have been smoking for half a century. This is a fucking big deal. Although he doesn’t really mind me smoking, he was quite happy when I told him what I was contemplating.

First step (not that it was necessarily a deal breaker) was to attempt to find out how much damage I’d done. Arranged with my doctor to have a chest x-ray done. I was completely gobsmacked when the results came back: “Everything’s fine, nothing to worry about.” Seriously? Well, that was something. The doctor, hardly surprisingly, was pleased to hear I was considering trying to quit. She informed me that here in British Columbia, the government funds a quit smoking assistance plan that provides 12 weeks of nicotine replacement therapy – patches, gum and lozenges. Well, that’s interesting. (Some research revealed it’s patches, gum or lozenges – not all three.)

I tried an experiment on Monday. When I went over to his place I did not take any cigarettes with me. We played a couple of games of darts, then we had dinner. Pavlov’s dog time. What do you do when you finish a meal? What does your body tell you that you should do? Well, have a cigarette, of course. Instead I did the dishes with him. After that he asked if I fancied watching a film. “No,” I said. The urge was still there and I knew watching a film wouldn’t quieten it. “Let’s have another game of darts.” I needed something that required my full concentration. It worked. (And I actually won that game.!) In the mornings, when I stay over, he gets up and goes to the kitchen to make me a cappuccino to bring to me in bed. Pavlov’s dog starts barking. Morning + coffee = cigarette. No problem here, because I can have that cigarette in bed. Not there. So I get up, go downstairs, take the cappuccino outside, have a cigarette then take the coffee back to bed. I did not do that Tuesday morning. I stayed where I was and the cappuccino came to me. And it didn’t really bother me. Score two points for me. (Of course, as soon as I got home I did light up, but come on, give me a break.)

This is going to be the hardest thing, I suspect. And by “this” I mean sitting here at a keyboard stringing sentences together. I’ve already had at least three cigarettes whilst writing these words.

So, I’ve got the form to pick up my nicotine replacement therapy. (But which one? Patches are fine, but might not popping a lozenge in when I have a craving be better? Will ask pharmacist.) I’ve got the inclination. And motivation. (Never mind living longer – think how much more spending money I will have in France!) But do I have the will power? I guess we’ll find out.

Back in the early nineties, when things got too tough with Mike to be with him without cigarettes, my friend Pauline somewhat unhelpfully commented that at least I knew I could quit smoking. “No, Pauline,” I said, “you’re missing the point. Now I know I can start again.”

Watch this space.