When I quit smoking four years ago, I never in a million years thought I'd ever be counting the years since my last cigarette. And yet, here I am celebrating four years of Smobriety®. (For those of you who don't know, I quit after promising my father that I would, as he lay in bed, dying of cancer. Read Why I Quit Smoking.)

In the beginning, I thought quitting was tough. I was wrong. There are many things far tougher than quitting. Since I quit, I've gone through some serious stuff, and never needed to smoke:

• My favorite dog of all time died, my closest friend. I didn't smoke.
• I relocated to West Virginia. I didn't smoke.
• My wife of almost nine years demanded a divorce the day after Christmas. I
  almost killed myself twice (and, yes, that was weak) but I didn't smoke.
• I discovered my wife had been cheating on me for months. I didn't smoke.
• I relocated to a remote town in Colorado, knowing exactly three people there
  and having no job to look forward to. I didn't smoke.
• I met the most wonderful woman in the world. She doesn't smoke, and neither
  do I. I can't be with her right away, but I still won't smoke.

There were many other occurrences, but these are the lowlights -- and one
major highlight. The point is, you can learn how to survive darn near anything without smoking.

Can you do this? Of course you can. I'm no superhero . . . although My Sweet
Baby tells me I'm her hero. I'm just an ordinary schmuck doing his best to be a true human being - and often falling short. But now I'm a schmuck that doesn't smoke at the drop of a hat. You can be, too. All it takes is commitment and a determination to honor your commitment.

Be all you can be. Be a non-smoking Army of One. For a while, be a complete ass, a belligerent jerk, a Brain-Fogged idiot. But be a non-smoker fercryinoutloud. Look, it ain't all that hard. Yeah, I had some tough times, and maybe you're going through a tough time, too. Suck it up, instead of sucking up a bunch a cancer-causing chemicals. Stick it out, instead of sticking a smoke in your mouth. Because what you're going through isn't really all that tough when you think about it. You want tough? Let me tell you tough:

Tough is dying from cancer. Tough is knowing that if you don't make the doctors pull the plugs, you're going to be a drooling, unconscious, clueless piece of meat until the life support machines can't keep you alive - knowing that, as you lie there in bed, a veritable vegetable, your family will be tearing itself apart from the grief, the misery, the pain of watching you die in the most undignified manner the medical profession can heap upon you, while your savings are merrily drained away, leaving nothing to support your wife after you're gone.

Even tougher is finding the courage to tell the doctors to pull the plugs, and then meeting death head-on, with a smile on your face and a twinkle in your eye, telling jokes to keep your family from crying, singing songs to your wife so she won't cry, asking your son to look after your soul-mate of decades, even though you've never asked for anyone's help for any reason your entire life, because you won't be around to do your job any longer. Tough is consoling your youngest daughter when she's upset that her children will never really know their grandfather when you're the one dying dammit!

You want to talk tough? There's tough. And writing this to you is tough, because I'm crying my eyes out thinking about my father - a true everyday hero - and missing him more than I can convey. I miss his wisdom, his friendship, his proud smile when I get something right, really get it. I can't see the keyboard or the screen because I'm bawling like a baby at the ripe old age of 48. Watching my mom slowly fade away in quiet desperation and misery because the anchor of her life is gone, that's tough. I know there's nothing I can do to help her, and, because of that, I feel like I've broken a promise to dying man - that's tough. Happy Freaking Birthday to me. I'm 48 and DDOF. Yippee.

So, go ahead. Tell me how you're having problems with certain parts of your
quit. I'll be there to help you. Ask for advice and I'll give it. Ask for tips to trick the Nico-Demon. I've got a bunch to share and am happy to do so.

But don't you dare tell me it's too tough for you to quit. Because I know what tough is. And quitting doesn't even come close.

If I can quit after more than 30 years of smoking at least two packs a day, you can quit, too. If you put your heart into it. If you have just a little bit of courage. If you commit yourself to it. If you remember that there are other things in this life that are far tougher than this.

Yes, you can quit, too. And it isn't all that tough when you compare it to other things that could come your way as easily as falling off a log.

Yeah...I know tough. I pray that you never have to meet it. Not like I have.

No, Quitting Smoking Isn't Tough. But dying from smoking sure is.

Now, I've got to call My Sweet Baby and finish this cry. Then I'm going to eat a pound of chocolate and anydamnthing else I feel like. I'm going to have myself a nice, slow celebration dance with the most important woman in my world.

Don't worry about me; I'll be fine tomorrow. And I definitely won't smoke. You better not either . . .

© 2004 by Lane Baldwin

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