Mid July 2012 (part 2)

The Quit Date looms. I smoke continually, determined to enjoy each cigarette without the usual concern and guilt.

The weekend passes. The final night. And then the unexpected happens. A blessing in disguise, perhaps. I choke while smoking my last cigarette - if such a thing’s possible. The smoke causes me to gag and cough, and I panic and think I’m about to faint from lack of circulation. Shaken by the experience, I finish the cigarette and go to bed.

The end of an era. The smoking era.


****

I wake with the usual Morning Cough.

I’m early for my appointment at the Medical Centre. I spend a while in a public garden close by, strolling along winding paths, up to tennis courts. I take photos of flowerbeds and trees on my phone as I envisage life as a non-smoker.

How did I begin smoking in the first place, given I’d viewed the habit as disgusting and smelly, a habit that caused old men to cough and splutter and spit on the ground?

Yes, I hated the smell, originally. As a child, I vowed never to smoke, but like a lot of children I felt enough curiosity to take a drag on a cigarette. Twice. Both encounters repelled me. How can one describe the horrific strangling sensation, like inhaling the fumes from a burning rope? A stench like car fumes. My vision dimmed. No thanks. Never. This was madness.

Then, one day, I, too, became a smoker. I had a bad day at school and someone offered me half of their cigarette later that afternoon. After a brief hesitation, I accepted. The acrid stale-ash taste now seemed pleasant. My vision didn’t dim. Nor did the sensation of smoke going down my throat overwhelm me. On the contrary. The smoke tasted pleasant and I wanted more. I was under-age, of course.

At first, I smoked once or twice a week. Just a few cigarettes. I probably wasn’t addicted at that point. The just a few, though, progressed to daily smoking, then a complete pack of ten. A packet of twenty followed. Soon, twenty cigarettes a day no longer seemed enough.

In the meantime, I went through school and three years of Sixth Form before moving to Dartington College of Arts in Totnes, Devon, to begin my degree studies in Music. My first time away from home. Chips, beer and cigarettes.

After a while, I realised I couldn’t afford to smoke cigarettes, so I switched to rolls ups, but even they failed to satisfy my cravings for nicotine. The years passed, and I became increasingly more dependent on cigarettes.

I tried to block out the obvious. The yellow fingers. The stained teeth. The wheezing. The persistent chesty cough.

I smoked and I could not stop. I was hooked. An addict.

And now I’ve decided to quit.


***

At the appointment, I say I want to quit immediately. That I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought during the previous week and have managed not to smoke today. I’m ready.

The Health Practitioner agrees and issues a double prescription: Nicorette Inhalator and Nicorette Patches.

‘Come and see me on Wednesday,’ she says.

Wednesday, two days away. About sixty hours after my final cigarette. In other words, Wednesday’s appointment will fall about halfway through the Third Day of Stopping Smoking - the day countless ex-smokers lapse, thinking that just one cigarette won’t hurt. I know that day only too well, and how easy it is to give in.