And you may tell yourself, "My God! What have I done?"
Talking Heads

How many times have I asked myself that question? How many times have I wanted to slap my forehead against a brick wall for being so stupid? You see, after a four-year (and then some) quit, I started smoking again.

It all started so innocently. One cigarette. Just one. Just to calm me down. . . so I don't wrap my hands around his throat and strangle him. That's all. Just one. I'll be fine.

But I wasn't fine. I was once again a smoker. And, before I knew what was happening, I was buying them by the carton.

My God! What have I done?

Who "he" was doesn't matter. Why I wanted to strangle him doesn't, either. The only thing that matters is that I fooled myself into thinking I could smoke one cigarette without putting my quit at risk. Bzzzzt! Wrong answer, but thank you for playing. Carol has some lovely parting gifts for you back stage. Next thing you know, I'm starting my day off with a smoke (or three or four) and a cup of coffee.

The thing is, I knew I'd messed up. But, as it has been for so many others, so it was for me: Once I tripped on that first step, I fell all the way to the bottom. It was a circle that refused to stop turning . . . a downward spiral that wouldn't stop spinning. Until I was right back where I'd started more than four years ago. Puffing away like the chimney of a factory running at full speed.

It's been a year since that first slip. Over the months, I've thought many times of quitting again. I've told my friends I knew I needed to do it again. I promised my lady that I'd get my quit back together. And I really meant it. Each and every time. I'd creep up to the starting line but, for one reason or another, I'd step back. The reasons don't matter. Because they were all lies. It all came to down to the same thing: fear. You see, I have a deep-seated fear of failure. It's been with me since childhood and, although I'm aware of it, I'm not always able to master it.

Hiding in a dark cave behind each and every reason lay a deep fear that I couldn't muster the strength to do it again, that I would fail. A deep, unrelenting fear that gnawed at my guts and cracked the bones of my resolve . . . a predator deep in its lair, leisurely cleaning the carcass of its last kill while its eyes shined in the dark as it peered confidently out at its world, master of all it surveyed. Every time I tried to sneak past the entrance of the cave, my fear would growl at me. And I would back away, knowing that my fear was larger than myself.

So, how did I overcome the fear this time? Simple. I became afraid of something far more dangerous than the possibility of failure. I became deathly afraid of cancer, if you'll pardon the pun. I'll tell you what happened, but first, a little back story:

If you've read my other essays on quitting, you know that my father died of cancer. What you may not know is that his first brush with the Big C came in the form of bladder and prostate cancer more than twenty years before he lost the final battle. OK, on we go . . .

On my way home from a long trip at the end of January, I fell ill. It seemed to be a flu, and it was a bad one. Sweats, chills, nausea, diarrhea, cramps. Blech. It took more than a week to be rid of it. Everything was fine until the beginning of March, when the cramps returned. I had no other symptoms at all, and the cramps got worse over the following week. They got so bad that I spent most of each day curled up in the fetal position, tears in my eyes, wishing someone would just remove the last foot or two of my colon. After two days of that, I gave up and called the clinic.

The first thing they did at my appointment the next day was to take a urine sample. Then they did all the normal stuff: take my temperature, my weight and height, check my pulse and blood pressure. After the basics, I was led into the examination room. A few minutes later, the doctor (well, not really a doctor; she was a Physician's Assistant, but that's close enough for me) came in. And the first thing out of her mouth was, "you've got quite a bit of blood in your urine. That means you've got a bladder infection." And suddenly, like a boulder flattening Wile E. Coyote, it hit me. My father was just about my age when they found that first cancer. And they found it in much the same way. Right then and there, I knew I was going to die.

Seeing the look of dread on my face, the PA inquired as to the reason. Haltingly and in a shaky voice, I explained about Dad. And I could tell by the look on her face when I finished that now she was worried, too. I'll give her credit, though. She hid it pretty well. But I've seen that look before and I know what it means. It's the look of dread that comes to a doctor's eyes when they realize they just might have to tell this patient they've come to the end of the road.

My God! What have I done?

Right away, the PA ordered a whole battery of blood tests for everything from cancer to bad breath, and a 24-hour urine capture to test for bladder or kidney stones. Then we scheduled a full physical for the following week. I left the office with prescriptions for an antibiotic for the infection, and Wellbutrin and The Patch to help me quit smoking - these last two at my request before she even broached the subject. Maybe it's a case of "too little, too late," but who knows? I mean Dad survived more than twenty years after his first battle with cancer. There's still time, right? Right!? Dammit. . .

I walked to my van on rubbery, drunken-sailor legs. Climbing into the driver's seat, I sat there for a few minutes, first yelling at the top of my lungs - a primal scream of fear and frustration - then letting the tears come. Let's just get all this out of the way right now, I thought. So I cried. And I beat the steering wheel until my hands hurt. And I screamed some more. I got it all out of my system and then cleaned myself up, wiping the tears from my eyes and the snot out of my nose. When it was done, I drove away and went on with my life. Scared as a child who just knows theres a monster under the bed.

For the next week, I was a basket case. Between living with the continuing pain and the fear, I was pretty much useless. I could barely focus on my work and slept very little. I beat myself up for relapsing. I remembered my promise to my father and berated myself as a failure and a liar. I put myself through a self-made hell like no other. And several times a day, I asked myself the same question:

My God! What have I done?

Finally, the day I'd been waiting for and dreading at the same time arrived - my follow-up and full physical. I sat in the examination room, fidgeting and fretting like a boy meeting his new girlfriend's father for the first time. Finally, the PA came in and, in a demonstration of total empathy, immediately said, "It's not cancer."

I thought I'd pass out. How do you spell "relief"? I know how I spell it:

"N-O-T-C-A-N-C-E-R"

I was so stunned, I just sat there, staring at her. Thinking I hadn't heard her, she repeated it. Then, a third time. Finally, I could move. The look on my face as the relief settled in must have been comical, because she laughed a bit and said, "Yeah. You're going to be fine."

She then proceeded to show me the results of the tests, explaining each one in its turn. The only problem the tests turned up was a slight elevation in my cholesterol. Nothing serious; nothing a slight change in diet couldn't handle. We talked about that briefly, she offering advice and me nodding my head and saying "no problem" and "I can do that" again and again.

When we'd finished going over the test results, she left the room so I could change into a hospital gown for the physical. Normally, I hate those things - they're so humiliating. But that day, I didn't care. I was cancer-free and that was all that mattered. For the first time ever, I couldn't have cared less about all the poking and prodding. I barely felt any of it as I said over and over to myself, I'm cancer-free. I'm going to be OK.

Everything came up roses. I'm a little overweight, and my cholesterol is a tad high. But, for the most part, I'm healthy. The PA did admonish me again, however, that I needed to quit smoking. I promised her I would, that I would set a date and begin taking my meds soon.

And I did. A few days later, I began taking the Wellbutrin. A week later, I quit. The first day, I had one slip. So that one doesn't count. The next day, however, I got through the entire day. Yesterday made it two days in a row, and today is going to make it three. By the end of each day, I was a bit of a wreck, but that's to be expected. So far, I've chewed about four packs of gum, eaten myself silly and drunk more than a gallon of juice and another of water. I've reviewed all the information on my own web site and picked out all the tips and suggestions I'll put into effect to help me through this.

So here I am again: a new quitter. And a humbled one. Falling long and hard off the wagon has taught me that "just one" is one too many. That I'll never be able to smoke again. And this cancer scare has made me realize that I'm not getting any younger, and that if I don't stick to this quit, smoking will probably kill me long before my time has come.

If you're a quitter whose quit is still intact, stay with it. Learn from my mistake, OK? You don't need to make the same one; you can learn from others and keep your quit strong.

If you're like me, and have fallen off the wagon, get back on. Get up, dust yourself off, learn from your mistake, and get right back to quitting. The sooner you do, the better it will be. Don't let your fear of failure, or some misguided sense of defeat keep you from getting right back into quitting. Because I can promise you, there are things far more frightening than a possible failure.

There's always cancer. And, one way or another, it will make you quit.

Won't it?

© 2006 by Lane Baldwin

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