Sometimes I wish I smoked. A terrible habit, to be sure, but it just looks so peaceful, relaxing. God knows I could use some of that. Seems like it’s just the thing to take a bit of pressure off. A physical time-out. I often imagine that I could do it. A big inhale and a looonnnggg exhale, letting out all the worries of my mind.
I’ll never do it of course. You don’t grow up with two parents who smoked – in the house, in the car, everywhere, and think smoking is cool. At least I didn’t. I hated it. I would wave my hands dramatically in front of my face and act like I was dying of secondhand smoke inhalation. Every time one of my parents lit up I would move a bit further away. I couldn’t stand the smoke, the smell – the way it lingered on clothes and breath. My eyes watered, my throat closed up.
No matter how I tried I could never convince them to give it up. Mom tried – she tried a LOT. But it never took long for her to pick up one, then two, then multiple cigarettes a day. Alzheimer’s is the only thing that worked, ironic as that is – she forgot she was addicted. She forgot the pleasure, the sensation of holding something in her hand, the nicotine rush. She forgot the relief it gave her.
Dad told me how Mom used to drive around Austin, a lost soul, huge sunglasses hiding her pain, smoking in her yellow mustang. Her own Dad had died and she didn’t get on with her Mom. She was aimless and heartbroken. I can see her now… I identify with the person she was then. I can see how smoking would take some of the pain away. Austin was, of course, a different city back then. Women smoked and wore things on their heads while driving. Bizarre, but true. Part of me wonders what it would have been like to live back then. Getting lost in your car, instead of on your smartphone.
Almost 15 years ago they finally decided they would no longer smoke in the house. Due to the birth of their first grandchild they vowed to make the house smoke free. They kept their word, and only smoked out on the porch or in the garage. They painted the entire house, ceilings as well, and the hazy, yellowed ceilings and walls came to life again. The garage was always fuggy with smoke and I could never understand how they stood it. My brother would go out there to ruminate with Dad, but I never could. I’d open the door a half inch just for them to be able to hear me, then wait for them to come in.
We’d be playing dominoes and there would be smoke breaks. Get a beer breaks. Bathroom breaks. Get dessert breaks. I always leaned more towards the dessert breaks than anything else. Mom was famous for providing whatever food my brother and I desired on these visits. Chocolate pie, cheese balls and fritos, cheesecake, chocolate cake, peach cobbler, you name it she had it. Anyway, I digress into memories….
Anytime I am stressed – which is the majority of each day – I think about how they smoked. I think about my Dad’s last years. The last of which he did not smoke again. He was forced to give it up due to his failing health. But he never stopped hankering for one. He never got over the mentality of it. I donated his last box of cigarettes to the homeless shelter at the Episcopal church in Denton. I still wonder what they thought when they saw that box of ciggies in with all the clothes. I wonder if they actually handed them out. I wouldn’t normally be the person to perpetuate a terrible habit but I couldn’t help but think how grateful they’d be….
Stress is a terrible condition. When Baby Girl gets to me and pushes all my buttons I just want to take a smoke break. I want to say HEY GIVE ME A MINUTE. Smoking isn’t the answer of course, neither is wine – I’ve tried. But I completely understand the concept. A few of Mom’s caregivers smoke and I often wonder if she enjoys the smell lingering on their clothes, if it makes her feel comfortable and takes her to “back when.” She doesn’t seem to mind it, certainly. I told one the other day they should let her have a drag – I wondered if she’d remember how. Of course we didn’t do it, but I knew Mom was thinking about it too.
I’ll never smoke, of course. But couldn’t I just have a little smoke break every now and again?
When I told your mom I quit she said OhNo. She knew it would make smoking harder for them when we visited. I thought I would never have a rest break again.