Light Me Up

I clearly remember being in junior high, and walking across the street to the high school to take Industrial Arts (a mandatory class; I don't have a secret passion for welding or rebuilding car engines). On our walk we would pass by the Smokers Bridge, which was really just a culvert in a ditch that someone put a railing on. Oh the glamour!  Anyway I would usually make a big scene, coughing and hacking loudly as we passed by, to let those poor degenerates know what was in store for them, someday.

Then, while getting ready for my bestie's birthday party in May last year I was frantically putting together the contents of my purse for the night when her boyfriend help up a single Vogue super-slim cigarette. "Is this yours?" he asked me. "No! I don't smoke." I said. "Hmm. Well take it anyway, you might want one." And it landed innocently in my handbag.

So began my spiral. One smoke turned into a pack that sat in a drawer in my room, then eventually in my purse, and my friends were all quite disgusted with me. The funny thing was, walking down the street on my way to work in the morning, if I smelled smoke or saw someone smoking, I would feel sick. No cravings at all. But as soon as I was done drinking one beer or glass of wine, I was itching to light up. I rarely ever had any desire to smoke if I wasn't drinking, and I hated the way I smelled afterwards. I would be very careful when coming in from the smokers' pit to go wash my hands, tousle my hair under the hand drier, spray on some perfume, rinse out my mouth and pop in a mint. Like it never happened.

A new friend joined our mishmash group of partiers, and he was a committed and concrete smoker. Finally I had someone to go out with, though I did enjoy the incredibly random conversations I would have with strangers while asking for a light. We would take a break from the madness of the dance floor to suck in some smoke, discussing anything and everything, sometimes chatting with others, sometimes just the two of us. There is a very social aspect of smoking, as it's an activity that is much more frowned upon than it used to be. Those who do it seem to want to band together, to find common ground. I have talked intimately with VP's of oil companies, girls in full burlesque costumes, dreadlocked travellers, beautiful gay boys and everyone in between while enjoying the slight rush of nicotine.

I started to have cravings during the day, and I knew it was a bad sign. I tried to quit. I threw out half-full packs, only to go out, get drunk and purchase a new one. I decided it was too expensive to try to quit before I was "ready", and I may as well just resign myself to being a casual smoker. But eventually my body started to reject my tiny vice. I smoked less and less, until the last time I tried to have a few puffs (quite a few glasses of wine in) and I had an overwhelming wave of nausea. 'Brittany, don't be such a pansy. What is your problem?' I told myself. I inhaled, and again I felt like spewing. Well that was that. I was officially a nonsmoker. After all, what's the point of doing something if you don't enjoy it?

A few weeks ago I got a phone call from my doctor's office; I had an appointment at the colposcopy clinic. For those of you who are unaware (as I was until I Googled it immediately after hanging up), this is where you go when you have irregular results from a pap test, so they can take a sample of cervix tissue and come up with more conclusive results. I sat in the clinic, trying to keep my anxiety under control (I've never been good in hospitals and the like) until my name was called. A very nice nurse took me to a small room and sat me down to go over the procedure and why we were doing this. Essentially, abnormal cells = possible cancer. This procedure was step 1 in preventative measures. They don't know why these cells can be normal for years and then suddenly abnormal. There can be many possibilities,but one they are certain of is - surprise! - smoking.

I laid there after the test, which really didn't hurt that much, and tried in vain to choke back tears as my thoughts raced. My deepest fears battled each other for the main spotlight in my mind. The C word, infertility, being 'sick', people pitying me. I knew it was a common procedure. I knew that I might be fine, that freaking out now would be no help. I knew that if I did have abnormalities, it was a fairly easy (though very uncomfortable and invasive) fix. But I couldn't rationalize my panic, and broke down. The worst part was I couldn't lay there and wonder why. I couldn't ask what I had done to deserve this? I knew the answer.

Every time I lit up a cigarette, every time I felt glamorous, romantic, worldly, rebellious, etc. I was poisoning myself. I didn't care at the time, thinking about how young I was and how healthy I am in other areas of my life, how the universe unfolds as it should and if I'm meant to suffer I will one way or another. Well, turns out I was a fucking idiot. I'm still in limbo, waiting for the test results, and I know that it's out of my hands for now, so I try not to worry. But from now on I will do everything I possibly can to keep myself healthy and well, and I will never touch another cigarette. Something that starts so slowly, slips into your life so quietly, can have a massive, devastating impact.

I know I can't run around snapping people's cigarettes in half and throwing them on the ground shouting "IT'S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD!" but it kills me to see people I care about smoking. It even bothers me to see strangers smoking. But I remember how I felt the first time, only inhaling half of the smoke into my almost-virgin lungs, standing outside in the crisp night air, seeing someone I recognize in the crowd and they come over and say "Hey. I didn't know you smoked...you look cool. It suits you." And I realize so painfully now that I looked just as foolish as those 16 year-olds from my high school, self destructive and defiant, just standing in a ditch, waiting for something to happen. Well, something has happened and I can say with conviction, it certainly wasn't worth it.