I heard it years ago, that faint whisper of suggestion, “Stop smoking.” I had never wanted to quit my closet smoking habit and never thought about it until the whisper. If no one knew I smoked, did it really matter? If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If I didn’t smoke in front of people, was I really a smoker?
My husband (my accomplice) and I vowed never to smoke inside the house, so we relegated our habit to the garage and backyard deck. He, of course, smoked when and wherever he pleased, but I hid, out of shame. When my daughters were young they never saw me smoke. I pretended to be very self-righteous about my hidden vices. In fact, my daughters still laugh, “Mom of course we knew you smoked! We also knew you hid your cigarettes in the kitchen cabinet above the coffee pot.”
“You did?” I genuinely asked. “How did you know?”
“M o t h e r please, we might have been young, but we knew you were being shady.”
All those years of slinking around trying to hide my habit, spraying cologne, and chewing gum were all for naught.
When Boo and I decided we would not smoke in the new house, I was really ok with it. We set up two chairs in the garage with a table and ashtray. I was comfortable until I wasn’t.
I became increasingly irritated by the garage surroundings: dust, clutter, and bugs. Once, while having an early morning puff out in the garage, a raccoon wandered in through the half-opened garage door and scared me half to death. We had a stare-off while I debated how I could defend myself if he were to get closer. Still in my bathrobe before work, I envisioned the raccoon attacking me and me being found hours later near death, in the garage. I gradually reached over to put my cigarette out, and in my fear, I knocked over my last bit of coffee. “Sh!*” I stood up, preparing to bolt toward the door into the house, when the raccoon slowly turned and sauntered out into the dawn. He was probably bored with my commotion or more likely, repelled by the smoke.
“Stop smoking.” whispered to me at surprising times. I would be mid-drag, huddled in the garage on a cold night or a one-hundred-degree summer day, wiping the sweat from my face, and I would hear, “Stop smoking.” And then, two life-changing events altered my universe: my father passed away and my first grandchild was born.
Nursing homes usually don’t have a smoking section for a reason. In 2009, as my father’s heart disease was progressing, I noticed that very few eighty-five-year-olds still smoked. And the ones who hadn’t stopped in time were battling oxygen masks and horrible rattling coughs. Already I was lying on my doctor’s questionnaires where it asked, ‘Have you ever smoked?’ I was lying, sneaking, and in total denial. My father’s life was ending, and I was still smoking, although it was becoming increasingly more difficult to hide.
I frequently drove to Amarillo to visit my dad in the nursing home, and when I did, I stayed in their senior living apartment with my stepmother. Christine, God rest her soul, had a nose like a bloodhound so I had to be extremely cautious about covering up any smoke smell. Plus, I was never alone, so I was definitely not smoking as much as I thought I wanted to.
“Stop Smoking.”
I began to pray, “God, help me to stop smoking.” I prayed for months, all the while continuing my secret habit, sucking on breath mints, and spraying Febreze on my clothing.
Allen Carr wrote a book entitled “The Easy Way To Quit Smoking,” and in it, he refers to nicotine as The Green-eyed Monster. This monster lies to you and tells you he is your best friend. He makes you believe you are cool, social, and in control like you could quit any time you wanted, except the truth is that each time you smoke, you want to smoke more. The Green-eyed Monster has his own whisper, “Just smoke one more.”
The Green-eyed Monster says, “You’re so cool!” But, how often have you seen smokers hiding in back alleyways or standing alone on a corner? Not cool.
I read the book. I prayed and I smoked until June 2009, two months before my father died. I was traveling to visit my dad, maybe for the last time and I wanted to go without my ‘friend.’ I was exhausted by hiding and isolating myself from the scrutiny of the non-smokers. I felt disgusted with myself. I was ready to lay it down, yet I wanted to make sure I had a fresh pack and lighter handy. I was balancing between two worlds.
But, on June 13, 2009, in Amarillo, Texas, without fanfare or even a plan, I suddenly stopped smoking. One day turned into another and another, all smoke-free. I thought I would be shouting it from the rooftops, but as a closet smoker, I really didn’t have that many people to tell. When I got home, back to Austin, I had to change my habits. For a while, I couldn’t go out on the patio with Boo because it was so triggering, but eventually his smoking did not bother me. I was not going back to The Green-eyed Monster.
August 22, two months later, my father passed away, and then on September 21, almost one month to the day, my grandson was born. I knew I never wanted to be a smoking granny, stopping to cough up a lung on the playground. I wanted to be the fun grandma, able to participate in hikes, trips, and parties. I never wanted him to smell smoke on me, only Jergens lotion or freshly baked cookies. With his birth, I saw my future, and it was monster-free.
Days turned into weeks and weeks into years until I realized I had been fourteen years as a non-smoker. Fourteen years, the same age as my grandson. My whisper probably saved my life; I know it has improved my life and brought me peace. My whisper finally drowned out those empty promises from The Green-eyed Monster who skulked away like a wounded animal and will never come back. Never.
Often in life, we do hear a whisper that is trying to tell us something important. It’s our job to be quiet enough to listen, and perhaps heed a warning. I like to think we can whisper back, and it will be heard.
I am grateful, I whisper, I am so incredibly grateful.
Sittin' Ugly Sistahs 