This sucks. September 25, 2008

   I started smoking when I was about 14.  The cool girls* at school** smoked, and I wanted to hang out with them.  I knew I would look stupid if I first tried it in front of them, so I stole a pack of my grandmother’s Virginia Slims Menthol 100s when she was visiting, hunkered down in a corner of the back yard with a box of matches while my 6 year old brother watched Power Rangers, and became a smoker.  I loved it instantly.  Sure, I coughed and hacked my way through the first couple, but I was committed, and I loved the taste and the way it felt almost right away.

   I never got in with those girls, but I continued to smoke on occasion, and by the time I got to high school, I was ready to hit the big time.  My crowd turned out to be a bunch of losers who cut class to smoke in the desert (I lived in AZ at the time).  They had purple mohawks and turned me on to Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson, which my mother forbid, and Frank Zappa which she allowed.  I wore lots of black cloths and heavy black eyeliner that I had to apply on the bus.  Mom wouldn’t let me dye my hair an “unnatural” color, so I tried Kool-Aid instead for a subtle pink hue.

   I continued to smoke, various amounts, all through high school.  My preferred brand was Marlboro Reds, and I remember how excited I was on my 18^th birthday when I could finally buy my own.  I smoked all through college, and savored every one, knowing I would have to quit eventually.  I was moving back home and there was no way I could continue to keep my pack-a-day habit a secret.  Obviously, I also knew how bad it was for me, and I didn’t want to be a lifelong smoker; I never had.  So I took the opportunity of a change of location and lifestyle and quit when college was over.  It sucked.  A lot.  But I got through it cold turkey, and haven’t looked back.  It’s now been 5 years since I’ve had a cigarette, and usually when I see people smoking I think about how gross it is.  But every once in a while, I smell it and I want one.  Oh, how I loved to smoke.

  

   But I’ve never been so glad I quit as I am this week.  My maternal grandmother, the one I stole cigarettes from all those years ago, the one who watched her husband, also a smoker, die from stomach cancer 25 years ago, has lung cancer.  They are still doing tests and don’t have a full diagnosis/prognosis yet, but it’s in one lung and has already spread to her lymph nodes and she has a tumor in her brain the size of a naval orange.  I’m grasping at every little bit of news and doing research on possible diagnoses and treatment plans, to get myself prepared.  One word of advice, though: don’t Google “lung brain lymph cancer survival rate.”  I’m just saying.

   I’m off now to the hospital again, to hang out with my Grammy for a couple hours.  God, do I love that woman.  And I miss her already.

 

* I should point out that these weren’t the popular girls, but the ones I thought were cool; blue hair, Nirvana t-shirts, and wallet chains.  

** Eight grade.  Yeah, I know.