Multiple Identities

When I was five, Mother drove by the house with a work-related friend and thought she’d stop in and show off her “favorite little gal,” as I was often called in her column. When she got close to the house, however, she saw me in the yard with wildly crooked pigtails, one green sock and one blue sock, my turquoise suede cowgirl skirt with jiggly fringe and a red top. I was going through my Pippi Longstocking phase. Mother drove past the house–without stopping.

The year I was 12, I was Scarlett O’Hara from “Gone with the Wind,” the ultimate southern belle, accent thick as (m) ‘lasses. After reading the book, I knew I was born to be Scarlett. I wore green to accent my green eyes–just like Scarlett’s. And I fretted about not having a corset, though I was tall and skinny and really had no need of such garments.

On and off throughout my childhood, I was Nancy Drew, girl sleuth. I had a red convertible, ate steak and salad at country inns and was invincible at solving mysteries. I had the complete set of Nancy Drew mysteries and reread them constantly.

As Nancy Drew, I became adept and finding, and creating, hiding places. This skill served me well when I started smoking.

Under Cover

I wrapped the first pack of cigarettes I bought (with babysitting earnings) in two layers of Saran Wrap and sealed it tight with scotch tape. The cigarettes were then hidden under a log in the woods behind our house, with leaves artfully strewn over them. I swept my footprints clean with an evergreen bough as I left the forest.

Tired of tromping through the woods all the time, I devised another solution. I got one of Mother’s old Reader’s Digest Condensed Books from the basement and, using an Xacto Knife, carved a niche in the center of the book for cigarettes. Placed on the bookshelf in my bedroom, no one was the wiser.

As I grew older, I became more daring. One day, my friend, Debbie Kegelman, and I were smoking in my bedroom when we heard Mother’s footsteps on the stairs. Coming down the hall. Outside the door.

Debbie and I looked at each other, jammed the still-lit cigarettes in my tiny makeshift ashtray, shoved it in one of my desk drawers and slammed the drawer shut–just as Mother knocked, then opened the door. Smiling innocently, Debbie and I stood side-by-side in front of the desk, blocking it from Mother’s view and praying we weren’t starting a fire. We didn’t.

When you’re my age, people look at you funny when you become a character from a book. So, I’ve given up the practice.

As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again!

Warning–in case you want to avoid this topic, just as I have for many years–I’m going to bring up cancers caused by smoking. I hope you’ll stick with me on this.

In 1985, I spent many hours with at the bedside of Ruth, my former mother-in-law, as she died of lung cancer. We watched her waste away to nothing and struggle for air. I remember holding her fragile hands and talking to her even when I wasn’t sure if she could hear me.

Ruth’s parents had immigrated from Sweden to Chicago with its Nordic-like winters in the early 1900s. Shortly after Ruth’s birth in Evanston, her father died. Grandma raised Ruth on her own and lived with the family after Ruth married and had her own children.

Grandma and her cardamom coffee cake were beloved by the family and she introduced other Swedish foods and traditions that today remain important to her grand children and great-grandchildren.

Ruth was smart, dignified, a reliable volunteer in the community and a mean bridge player. She was also a heavy smoker. While recovering from a fall that broke her hip, Ruth was diagnosed with lung cancer. She died a just a few months after the diagnosis. My two younger children have no memory of this grandmother.

Did I Learn from Experience?

After Ruth’s death, her physicians talked with her sons about their elevated risk of getting lung cancer. They didn’t stop smoking. I watched her sad demise. I didn’t stop smoking. In fact, I’ve worked hard through the years to block that entire experience.

I was at the side of my brother, John, when he died from esophageal cancer. (John never smoked.) An uncle who had smoked for many years died from esophageal cancer last spring. I didn’t stop smoking.

Though there’s obviously a strong genetic component, I am, nonetheless, at elevated risk of getting this kind of cancer because I’ve been puffing away. I didn’t stop smoking. Several years ago, I was diagnosed with a related precancerous condition. I didn’t stop smoking.

What took me so blasted long?? Why did I finally quit (for five weeks and going strong)? I truly don’t know.

What Smoking Can Do to People Like You and Me

I’m going to give you the URLs for web sites with photos and stories about people who got cancer because they weren’t able to kick their nicotine habits. For you or someone you care about, they might just provide the big kick in the backside needed to buck the habit.

These sites are very difficult to see and read. I, for one, think all young people, ages 12 and older, should see them. In some countries they do, but we Americans tend to shy away from things that might frighten or offend.

Click on a topic below to reach the web site.

• Tragic and Heartbreaking Personal Stories and Photos
• Cancerous Lungs
• Oral Cancers

The spotlight is once again on air travel, driven by the news out of Heathrow Airport. I hope the excitement–and hassles–settle a bit before we fly to Europe in three weeks.

For smokers, of course, air travel has been traumatic for years. Not very long ago, if you traveled a lot, you got to know which airports had smoking lounges or bars where you grab an urgent smoke.

In the days when I traveled a lot for work, I became one of the regular smokers at a nearly secret exit to a parking ramp at the Minneapolis Airport. (Yes, it does have security.)

You know what it’s like, pushing airline time limits while you puff away outside airport entrances. A few years ago, I almost missed a flight home from British Columbia because I was puffing away outside the airport. Kind people I was traveling with ran back to grab me. (I bet they were thrilled.)

Last year I found out the hard way that smoking had recently been banned in all parts of Paris’ Charles De Gaulle Airport–unlike the year before. Minutes before our flight departed, I left Jeff at in the security line of the departure gate and took one last desperate look for a place to smoke. No luck.

I raced back up the long, empty stairway to the gate. Then I noticed cigarette butts strewed along the steps. So…maybe they didn’t enforce the smoking ban too seriously. But…I didn’t want any trouble. (I do respect non-smoking areas.) But the transatlantic flight was going to be so, so long.

I got nearly to the top of the stairs and could see people were still maneuvering through security. Then I edged backward, far enough down the stairs that I couldn’t be seen, and looked around to make sure I was alone. I paused. I listened for footsteps. Then I grabbed a cigarette and lighter from my bag and lit up. Four or five puffs later, I added my cigarette butt to the others–with guilt, I always pick my cigarette butts up–and ran to the gate.

Retelling this, it sounds so much like junkie behavior. It will be grand traveling next month without the mad searches for a place to smoke. I think Jeff will enjoy it even more than me.

I still can’t believe I ate those cream puffs Wednesday night.

I did two stupid things last night:

1. I ate four mini cream puffs in a row. (O.K. FIVE. They are small, you know.)
2. I had one puff of a cigarette.

Last night I was hungry, I hadn’t had much in the way of dinner. I was tired and distracted from spending hours obsessing about details of our upcoming trip, including making hotel reservations via the Internet in French and German. I know a bit of French. I have no knowledge of German. (I’m afraid I may have bought the hotel. I couldn’t believe how many German words have multiple meanings.)

Why do we give in to impulses–at times? When giving in to urges are extreme, like compulsive gambling or pyromania, it becomes an “Impulse Control Disorder.” I don’t fall into that category–perhaps when I was smoking. Sure, I’ll buy gum or tape from the unavoidable impulse rack at the grocery store.

But why did I eat those blasted cream puffs, followed by a nicotine puff?

I considered the following:

• No one else was eating cream puffs or smoking around me, so I guess I wasn’t influenced by peer pressure or suggestion.
• Although I hadn’t really eaten, I wasn’t overwhelmingly hungry.
• I wasn’t particularly anxious, though I was tired and frazzled.
• I don’t think I associate cream puffs and cigarette puffs with youth or wealth or intelligence.
• I hadn’t been fantasizing about cream puffs. Maybe cigarettes a bit, but that’s normal these days.
• I don’t associate cream puffs with my mother or father. Though Mother was a heavy smoker.
• Stuffing my mouth didn’t make me feel like a rebel–only frustrated with myself.

I think I need an evil twin.

My mother’s grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Williamson, had a big old white house in the hills of southern Indiana. If you crossed the small creek behind the house, you’d come upon a row of small cabins that my great grandparents rented out.

Sometimes when we were splashing in the creek, hunting for crawdads, we’d see the little man who lived in one of the cabins–and run as fast as we could back into the house. He had Kyphosis–a curvature of the spine that gave him a hunched back. We were too young to understand.

Grandpa Jim and Grandma Iona “Ona” Williamson are on the right.

Everyone entered Grandma and Grandpa’s house through the kitchen door in the back.The big, light kitchen overlooked the creek and woods and was always full of relatives (they had 11 children) and wonderful cooking smells.

Guests were immediately seated at the big kitchen table and a cup of coffee was placed in front of them. Children got a piece of pie.

The rest of the house was dark and scary to me. I remember yellowing photos of young men in military uniforms on the stairway walls. And I remember Grandpa Williamson sitting in his big chair in the dark living room.

A coffee can was always on the floor next to the chair for him to spit his chaw in. Similar cans were placed strategically throughout the house. One afternoon, with trepidation, I snuck a peek in the bottom of one. It looked like sewer sludge.

Grandpa was tidy and discreet about spitting, but whenever I’d walk past Grandpa’s chair, I’d veer extra wide around that can.

I’m not a car person, but I like my little red CRV. It gets pretty good gas mileage. The tire on the back door looks sporty and the picnic table under the rear mat is way cool. I can’t say I’ve ever had a reason to use it, but I like that it’s there.

Unfortunately, my little red CRV still smells like cigarettes. Oh, it’s much better after a month of no tobacco smoke. (Yes! One month ago tonight, at 10 p.m., I smoked my last three cigarettes–in a row.) But it would never pass muster with someone sensitive to smoke.

I had the basic cleaning done at the car wash, but I need do something about the smell and have the car’s upholstery cleaned. I also found some ideas on the Internet. If you saw my car, you’d know I have no skills for cleaning a car, so I can’t vouch for the safety or efficacy of these tips.

• If you like to do it yourself, use a odor-removing detergent to clean your upholstery and carpets. A lot of people seem to like detergents that are used for kid and pet stains and odors. Wipe surfaces thoroughly with a sponge dipped in the detergent. You may want to use a soft brush on the carpet. Then wipe clean with fresh water.
• Use a vinyl or leather cleaners on the appropriate surfaces.
• I guess they call the fabric on the roof of your car’s interior a “headliner.” Yuck! I hate to admit the color of my headliner. It used to be light gray. You can use the same detergent you have for the carpet and upholstery on the headliner. You also are supposed to be able to have headliners replaced. I don’t know if you have to hock the house to do it.
• Here’s a nifty tip–after the just-cleaned carpet in your car has dried for at least 24 hours, sprinkle it with baking soda. Rub the soda in really good with your hands and let it sit for a week before vacuuming it up.
• Thoroughly clean your windows, dashboard and other hard surfaces. A vinegar and water mixture works just fine for this. I sure won’t miss that brown residue crudding up the interior of my car windows.
• Put activated charcoal, kitty litter or baking soda in what used to be your ash trays. They’re good at absorbing odor.
• Some people swear by putting a fabric softener sheet under the seats. Others recommend leaving a shallow pan of vinegar in the car overnight.
• Have the “cabin filters”–the filters on your air conditioning and heating systems–replaced.
• If odor belches out of your ventilation system, take it to an auto detailer. They can use a fogger, steamer or ozone machine to clear out cigarette smells.

I think there’s hope for my CRV. Let me know if you find success with any of these tips or have other methods of clearing out cigarette smoke.

It’s been 24 days since I had a cigarette. I feel like I’m announcing a miracle!

I find that I want to tell people I know who likely think of me as a heavy smoker that I’m smoke-free. But I’m not sure they’d understand how momentous this is. With time out for pregnancies, I’ve been smoking since I was 16 years old. That’s one heck of a long time.

Tips

Now that I’m approaching a month out, I have a few observations that you might find useful.

• I’ve spent a lot of time on the computer researching our upcoming vacation and I’ve read a ton. It’s easy for me to get lost in these activities and they have served as great distractions at times when I otherwise would have been wrestling with the urge. Reading’s good, because unlike tv or movies, you don’t have to see people lighting up–a big trigger for me. I think everyone has some activities that they can get totally caught up in. What are yours?
• All kinds of statistics from reputable organizations show that people who use smoking cessation aids are more successful in their effort to quit, yet the greater percentage of people who try to quit don’t take advantage of these tools. I’ve found the nicotine lozenges to be essential. When I get a tough urge to smoke, I pop a lozenge. By the time it’s gone, the urge is gone too.
  
• I’ve avoided situations and settings that tempt me to smoke. I won’t have to do this forever. In fact, I’m already finding that I can be around some smoking without shooting through the roof. So, for a while you skip a few things you normally like to do. This doesn’t seem like such a big sacrifice.
• I’ve benefited tremendously from the support I’ve received–at home, from coworkers and from the Quit Smoking–Your Way! staff. Jeff’s tough love has been very important. Get support when you’re approaching your smoking cessation effort. It will make a big difference.
• Frankly, I’ve avoided people a bit, even my family. It has helped me focus on quitting and necessary distractions.
  
• Even seeing a lighter has caused my cravings to surface. Get rid of ashtrays, lighters and matches at home and in the car.
• I’m starting to taper off the nicotine lozenges–not deliberately, but I just don’t think about them as much. I’d been a little concerned at having to start tapering off at six weeks, but that may not be such a big deal. I’ll keep you posted.

I know I’m not out of the woods yet, but I’ve sure come a long way.

A fireman took his dear little old mother to American Pancake House in Mishawaka, Indiana a couple days ago. Presumably after the meal, the kind son got a yen for a smoke, grabbed a lighter from his mother’s purse, put the cigarette in his mouth and clicked the lighter’s button.

Unfortunately, what he’d grabbed from mama’s bag was a tiny Mace canister. The 20-some patrons and staff had to be evacuated from the restaurant after many became ill from the Mace fumes.

According to a United Press International story, all victims recovered and the restaurant owner declined to press charges.

Weird Details

It seems the American Pancake House is smoke-free. Stranger still, the fireman/perpetrator “has been involved in three Mace-related incidents during his time with the local fire department.”

I hope that fellow finds the blog. I think it’s time he quit smoking. I’m not sure what can be done about his Mace habit.

I have been a nonsmoker for 22 days and counting. I wasn’t at all sure I could quit–figured I might well be shrieking and bouncing off the walls by 10 a.m. on my quit day.

Yes, there have been rough moments, but I truly believe the most difficult obstacle was my fear of the experience of quitting and how thoroughly I might humiliate myself in the process.

The second greatest obstacle was making up my mind and setting the quit date, which is directly related to my fear. Honest! The actual quitting has been far easier to deal with.

The Dentist

Mother worked for the local newspaper. She must have been rather proud of me, because I was a regular figure in a column she wrote.

When I was six, Mother spent months organizing a program in which all first grade students in our town would get a free dental checkup and teeth cleaning. If I remember correctly (which is suspect these days), the program took place in the high school gym.

Of course, Mother’s paper gave wide coverage to the event. A photographer she worked with was there, as were a couple radio reporters. Local officials and school administrators swarmed around, looking important.

And, spiffed up as fine as could be (given my disastrous Toni Home Permanent), I strolled in as the very first student–the FEATURED student–who would receive the service and become a media star.

What no one knew was that I had worked up a mortal fear of the dentist and teeth cleaning. I was so terrified that the night before the big event I threw myself weeping to the ground and gave serious consideration to running away.

Mother escorted me proudly into the gym. Flashbulbs popped and everyone shook her hand and patted the frizz from my Toni Home Permanent.

Then I spotted the row of dentist chairs. The people in white coats. The gleaming dental tools.

I reeled back and screamed until I ran out of air. Then I gasped and screamed more. Every last person in that gym ran in my direction to see what child had lost a limb.

People grabbed at me and I screamed louder, kicking and flailing at them.

The screaming didn’t stop until we left the building.

A private dental appointment was scheduled–no fanfare allowed. I was surprised at how painless the procedure was.

It was months before I appeared in Mother’s column again.