04 06 00

why i quit

Well, it's my last night as a smoker.

Reasons to Smoke

I know it's stupid. Every time I light up, I'm taking my life in my hands. But I love the feeling that nicotine gives me, that very slight rush. But more importantly, it gives me something to do - something to do with my hands and my mouth. It keeps them busy, and it keeps me from fidgeting. I'm a fidgeter at heart.

I love sitting in a bar with my friends, a drink, and a pack of smokes. I love watching the smoke curl out of my mouth. I've never quite mastered smoke rings, but smoke looks neat when it's curling its way through a sunbeam.

It's so ingrained, sitting at my computer and smoking. There are ashes everywhere, and every once in a while I vacuum them up. Reading newsgroups, writing, chatting; it all requires a cigarette. If I go too long without one, I start to fidget. I hate it when I fidget. But look at the side of my monitor... It's all brown. Just the one side. The side where the ashtray is.

That shit on my monitor is going into my lungs.

Reasons to Quit

That shit on my monitor case is Reason Numero Uno.

Reason two is hidden beneath my shirt and beneath my bra. Underneath the scar that I've always called "the zipper," under the skin and the ribcage, is my heart. It has problems; it always has had problems..

When I was six years old, I had open-heart surgery to correct a congenital heart defect. If I recall correctly, the term for the malformation is pulmonary stenosis. I don't remember which pulmonary valve it is. Before the correction, the pulmonary valve didn't open all the way, so I had very poor circulation. If I ever got chilled, my face would turn blue from lack of oxygen. My lips would turn purple.

So they propped the valve open with a wire. Now, instead of not opening all the way, the valve does not close all the way. My circulation is improved - somewhat. If I get the least bit chilled, my feet and fingers and ears and nose go numb.

I was "cured." But now, thanks to my own stupidity, I may be uncuring myself.

I look back to the time of my operation and I can't remember much; just vague images of my parents looking confident and trying to be strong. But I remember seeing my dad cry for the first time ever when they wheeled me out of his sight, into the operating room. Not sobbing - just one lone tear. I wasn't afraid until that moment when I saw my father's tear. By then it was too late, because the anesthesia was setting in.

Years later, I discovered that my little sister had scrawled crayon all over my "Trip to the Hospital" coloring book. I remembered carefully coloring in all the pictures while waitinf for The Operation. I didn't understand then, but I remembered the coloring book. WHen I found what my sister had done, I felt like she had destroyed a part of my memories. I dealt with her as a big sister should, and then I showed the ruined book to my dad. He hugged me in close.

"It's ok, honey," he whispered to me. "Out of everything they gave us at the hospital, the most important thing we took home was you."

Years after that, I talked to my mom about the operation. I had no idea how frightened my parents were that they might lose me. Their little baby was sick, and they just wanted to make her better. My mother cried when she told me about it.

I didn't know that my parents had stayed at the hospital for almost a week after my operation, watching me while I slept.

It cost them a fortune, even with the meager insurance that they had. Stress and tears had also taken their toll. And now I light up little cylinders of paper and crushed leaves, ignoring everything that they did for me.

You know, if I hadn't had that operation when I was little, I would probably be dead or bed-ridden today, turning blue because my blood lacked oxygen.

When I smoke, my heart beats faster. When I smoke and do something immediately afterwards, my heart pounds. When I climb a flight of stairs, it takes a while for my pulse to settle back to normal. Sometimes, after I've smoked more than usual during the day, I am woken up constantly during the night because I stopped breathing for a moment. It's called sleep apnea, and it never happened to me before I started smoking.

I'm undoing what was done to me. For me. With every cigarette, I reduce the elasticity of that valve. The walls of my artieries harden with each puff. For each delicious smoke, I flip my parents the proverbial bird, making an already stressed heart work harder.

I've never been able to convince myself that I was worth quitting smoking. So I die of a heart attack. Big fucking deal. Who cares? I could never appreciate who I am enough to let myself live.

But my parents cared enough. They thought enough of me to sacrifice and worry, to send their first born into the hands of a surgeon. They wanted to fix me, to make it better. They wanted me to live a long life. They wanted me to be able to swim and run and play with the other kids. They wanted me to grow up strong and healthy.

I can't laugh in their faces anymore. If I can't quit for myself, if I can't find enough worth and meaning in my life, then I can quit for them. I can quit for what they did for me. I can quit for what they think of me. I can quit because they loved me enough to want me to live a normal life. I can quit because I want them to be proud of me, since I've failed them in every other way.

I love you, Mama. I love you, Daddy. I'm quitting.

Quit-o-meter

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